Today I spent the hour from three to four, when I would normally be teaching, getting the scoop on everything from sexual references to how to get soccer tickets. When I arrived at Sitra, a company that does construction for Holiday Inn, my students were upstairs in their offices eating. They had three computers stolen earlier that week, so they were unable to learn English today. Ignoring the illogic of their conclusion, I agreed and sat down.
We sat in chairs and on desks, some of us spilling out onto the patio, a smoke cloud from one woman's cigarette rising into the air. I learned all the stuff they don´t tell you in Spanish class. (Well, normal Spanish class, that is. My Spanish teacher is pretty cool and does let us in on street talk sometimes.) They told me that fruit has a lot of sexual insinuations, like that lemons mean small boobs and melons big ones. And that if a man asks you if you want chile--assuming you're not in a restaurant--he probably isn´t talking about food.
I laughed along, as they raised their eyebrows suggestively at me. Naturally, since we were on the topic of lude sexual references, they brought up spring break in Puerta Vallarta and asked me if I'd been. They assumed that all Americans had been there for crazy parties. I told them no, and they were shocked. They asked me if spring break is crazy in the U.S., and I said not as crazy as in Vallarta, and they said it´s the American vacationers that make Vallarta crazy.
We spent the entire hour of class talking and laughing about nothing. The one Mexican woman who stayed to explain their antics told me at one point that even she was not sure what exactly they were talking about, so we found ourselves on the same side of the line, shaking our heads and rolling our eyes at the sporatic uproars. There comes a point when the gap between the sexes wins out over that between cultures.
After class, we all filed out of the room into the spacious hallway overlooking the downstairs. It´s a big new building, not fully furnished, which they just moved into, and has the same clean lines, simple designs, and light colored wood and marble that new U.S. office buildings has, a stark contrast to the buildings I am usually in, which boast an array of colors and designs. At the top of the stairs, I found Hector and Pedro, two big soccer fans, and finally got to the insider´s question I was most interested in: how do I get a hold of some soccer tickets? They told me the sad news that tickets for Sunday's game are usually about 3,000 pesos, about $300, which would be more than a paycheck for me. Pedro is going because he has season tickets. The game is between Americas, the Mexico City team, and the Chivas, which is Guadalajara´s home team. Although Americas is ranked last and Chivas is one of the best, it is a long standing rivalry that always attracts a crowd. Guadalajara used to be the capital, and it lost that standing to Mexico City some time ago. This is one of the many reasons locals tend to tell you that Mexico City is not a good place to work or visit. There is an intense city to city rivalry.
So I´ll have to wait for another game, but my students tell me that time is running out. I can´t purchase tickets in advance either and will have to go to the stadium the week of the game in order buy them. A lot of things we do online or at Costco they do through friends. Take medicine for example. It´s like buying illegal drugs. When I wanted iron for cheaper, I had to wait five extra days for my Mexican housemate´s friend to get the delivery for me. But I saved quite a bit of money. It's all about who you know.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Monday, March 31, 2008
Tequila weekend
The sun pervades now, as we leave March behind, heading back to our jobs after the one to two week spring break called Semana Santa. I just finished my morning classes and am sitting here on the steps of Chapultapec, listening to reggae beats flow out into the streets from a nearby car stereo. As usual, the breaks are squeaking and motors are buzzing and rattling along.
My skin is dry, my mouth is dry. About once an hour, I head to the kitchen in attempt to pour water from the garaphone, a huge plastic barrel that sits in a metal swing, into cups. That barrel is king. We get a new one delivered to the house nearly every day, and when we aren’t home to receive it, we tide ourselves over with hot tea until we can’t take it anymore, and then we splurge on overpriced water from the 7-11, or the pharmacy.
I drank alcohol this weekend instead. My anemia is not so pervasive now, and having spent most of my free time last week sleeping, I'm not so tired. So this weekend I took advantage of the energy that suddenly welled up within. On Friday, my Mexican-American roommate Andrea, my American friend Katie, and I tried our feet at salsa. Andrea takes classes at a place on the main drag of the rumbling, screaming-fast traffic of Vallarta, a few blocks from our house. So after some beers, rice, fish, and guacamole, we headed over and climbed the stairs for classes in the upper room, which has windows that overlook the street. I often watch people dance in those windows all the time, whether it’s areaobics, banda, tango, or salsa. There always seem to be moving bodies in there. They seem to be dancing to the music, taking cues from the words and the notes.
When we started, the one-two-three, one-two-three pattern was easy and natural. I watched the ten of us in the mirror sliding to the side, then back and forth, adding in our little sassy touches of hip swings and shoulder rolls. I was in some sort of fairy tale, getting into that happy state of mind where Mexico seems like Disney Land.
I get this same feeling during Sunday runs down Vallarta, when the street becomes closed to cars and people came out in hoards on their rollerblades, wearing their bright colors, keeping pace with their lovers, their children, and their friends. During these runs, on the sidewalks, double dutchers perform jump-push ups inside the ropes and violinists play Pachelbel's Canon across the street from African drummers, as men and women cart around ice cream and cold drinks. Up a little further, life sized games of chess and checkers commence.
But back in that salsa room on Friday, this dreamlike atmosphere disintregrated when we started the actual moves, leaving me tripping up and re-orienting, tripping up and reorienting. I paired up with an older guy who taught me to spin every which way. He’s no prince charming, but I’m sure he’s gotten his share of love interests with his moves. The dance is a flirtation, he told me. It’s like a courting. So I shouldn’t have been spinning out of control, away from him. I should have been staying close. This brings one question to mind: I wonder what real salsa dancers do when they are a bit repulsed by their dancing partners.
After salsa, we headed to a Mexican rock club which was offering free enterance for the night. There were columns and old, elaborate moldings inside…it felt a little castle-like in architecture, but the lights were blue, orange, red, and there were music videos playing in front. I felt entranced by the videos and the sweet sounding singer coming over the speakers. The first video showed a close-up of a young face, singing with innocent feeling, looking unflinchingly at the camera. And I came to the conclusion, as I have so many times, that we are all the same. American rock, Mexican rock. I couldn’t understand exactly what she was saying in Spanish, but I have a feeling it wasn’t too different from other American rock stars’ songs.
On Saturday morning, the energy I had the night before somehow continued to flow, and I headed to Tequila to see the only place on earth where they make real tequila. It’s made from a blue plant called the agave, each of which produces about 20 liters of tequila. There, I got a tour inside the factory. We had to wear hairnets as our guide led us through the rooms lined with huge vats of tequila and laboratory testing rooms complete with test tubes and chemicals. At the end, we tried a variety of different tequilas, from the white stuff that goes down smooth but is lacking in body, to the darker stuff I prefer for its fuller flavor.
On Sunday, at breakfast, the Mexican mom of my house suggested that we head to her daughter Gina’s house for a meal. So after a run on Vallarta, where it seemed it was puppy day for all the little dogs jaunting along on leashes, I showered, and Andrea drove us over to Gina’s house. We ate clams from a can, mixed them with avocados, fresh lime juice, rock salt and ketchup. We ate them standing up around the kitchen counter, talking about sports and their business, and raving about the mixtures of flavors we were creating. We drank palomas with good quality tequila, with lime squeezed in and salt around the rims. Then we sat down at the table and started on the tacos. I learned that they afford the nice house there in the dry rolling hills, with its spacious rooms and location away from the chaos of the city because Gina's husband works for an American company. For this, he's been to Las Vegas 4 times and Gina none...I kept thinking about how this is what I'd wanted all along, to be around a Mexican family's table, speaking exclusively in Spanish, eating the way they eat. But there I was, and we were eating ketchup, and they had all the same sleek appliances that we have in the U.S. It felt so American. And I wondered whether this is what success always means here--Americanism. Or maybe we are all headed towards the same fate when we modernize. Maybe its always necessary that designs get sleeker, simpler.
When it comes to questions these days, whether they be questions about what I am supposed to do here or in the future, or whether they be questions of the state of society here, I look for signs in my surroundings. As we headed home on the huge avenue, I kept my eyes wide open. There were German factories, huge American stores like Sam's club and Wal Mart. And when we passed a huge sign that read "Mexican Market," there was a Radio Shack and a 7-11 underneath. Mexico's future modernization process seems to depend upon the U.S. As for my own future, it's still unknown. I wish I could write more on that, but it’s hot out here on these steps and I have no more power in my computer, so until next time, if fate should allow it...
My skin is dry, my mouth is dry. About once an hour, I head to the kitchen in attempt to pour water from the garaphone, a huge plastic barrel that sits in a metal swing, into cups. That barrel is king. We get a new one delivered to the house nearly every day, and when we aren’t home to receive it, we tide ourselves over with hot tea until we can’t take it anymore, and then we splurge on overpriced water from the 7-11, or the pharmacy.
I drank alcohol this weekend instead. My anemia is not so pervasive now, and having spent most of my free time last week sleeping, I'm not so tired. So this weekend I took advantage of the energy that suddenly welled up within. On Friday, my Mexican-American roommate Andrea, my American friend Katie, and I tried our feet at salsa. Andrea takes classes at a place on the main drag of the rumbling, screaming-fast traffic of Vallarta, a few blocks from our house. So after some beers, rice, fish, and guacamole, we headed over and climbed the stairs for classes in the upper room, which has windows that overlook the street. I often watch people dance in those windows all the time, whether it’s areaobics, banda, tango, or salsa. There always seem to be moving bodies in there. They seem to be dancing to the music, taking cues from the words and the notes.
When we started, the one-two-three, one-two-three pattern was easy and natural. I watched the ten of us in the mirror sliding to the side, then back and forth, adding in our little sassy touches of hip swings and shoulder rolls. I was in some sort of fairy tale, getting into that happy state of mind where Mexico seems like Disney Land.
I get this same feeling during Sunday runs down Vallarta, when the street becomes closed to cars and people came out in hoards on their rollerblades, wearing their bright colors, keeping pace with their lovers, their children, and their friends. During these runs, on the sidewalks, double dutchers perform jump-push ups inside the ropes and violinists play Pachelbel's Canon across the street from African drummers, as men and women cart around ice cream and cold drinks. Up a little further, life sized games of chess and checkers commence.
But back in that salsa room on Friday, this dreamlike atmosphere disintregrated when we started the actual moves, leaving me tripping up and re-orienting, tripping up and reorienting. I paired up with an older guy who taught me to spin every which way. He’s no prince charming, but I’m sure he’s gotten his share of love interests with his moves. The dance is a flirtation, he told me. It’s like a courting. So I shouldn’t have been spinning out of control, away from him. I should have been staying close. This brings one question to mind: I wonder what real salsa dancers do when they are a bit repulsed by their dancing partners.
After salsa, we headed to a Mexican rock club which was offering free enterance for the night. There were columns and old, elaborate moldings inside…it felt a little castle-like in architecture, but the lights were blue, orange, red, and there were music videos playing in front. I felt entranced by the videos and the sweet sounding singer coming over the speakers. The first video showed a close-up of a young face, singing with innocent feeling, looking unflinchingly at the camera. And I came to the conclusion, as I have so many times, that we are all the same. American rock, Mexican rock. I couldn’t understand exactly what she was saying in Spanish, but I have a feeling it wasn’t too different from other American rock stars’ songs.
On Saturday morning, the energy I had the night before somehow continued to flow, and I headed to Tequila to see the only place on earth where they make real tequila. It’s made from a blue plant called the agave, each of which produces about 20 liters of tequila. There, I got a tour inside the factory. We had to wear hairnets as our guide led us through the rooms lined with huge vats of tequila and laboratory testing rooms complete with test tubes and chemicals. At the end, we tried a variety of different tequilas, from the white stuff that goes down smooth but is lacking in body, to the darker stuff I prefer for its fuller flavor.
On Sunday, at breakfast, the Mexican mom of my house suggested that we head to her daughter Gina’s house for a meal. So after a run on Vallarta, where it seemed it was puppy day for all the little dogs jaunting along on leashes, I showered, and Andrea drove us over to Gina’s house. We ate clams from a can, mixed them with avocados, fresh lime juice, rock salt and ketchup. We ate them standing up around the kitchen counter, talking about sports and their business, and raving about the mixtures of flavors we were creating. We drank palomas with good quality tequila, with lime squeezed in and salt around the rims. Then we sat down at the table and started on the tacos. I learned that they afford the nice house there in the dry rolling hills, with its spacious rooms and location away from the chaos of the city because Gina's husband works for an American company. For this, he's been to Las Vegas 4 times and Gina none...I kept thinking about how this is what I'd wanted all along, to be around a Mexican family's table, speaking exclusively in Spanish, eating the way they eat. But there I was, and we were eating ketchup, and they had all the same sleek appliances that we have in the U.S. It felt so American. And I wondered whether this is what success always means here--Americanism. Or maybe we are all headed towards the same fate when we modernize. Maybe its always necessary that designs get sleeker, simpler.
When it comes to questions these days, whether they be questions about what I am supposed to do here or in the future, or whether they be questions of the state of society here, I look for signs in my surroundings. As we headed home on the huge avenue, I kept my eyes wide open. There were German factories, huge American stores like Sam's club and Wal Mart. And when we passed a huge sign that read "Mexican Market," there was a Radio Shack and a 7-11 underneath. Mexico's future modernization process seems to depend upon the U.S. As for my own future, it's still unknown. I wish I could write more on that, but it’s hot out here on these steps and I have no more power in my computer, so until next time, if fate should allow it...
Sunday, March 23, 2008
A jewel of interest
It was Semana Santa (holy week) this past week, so everyone rushed out of the city to the little surrounding towns, or to the beach to join hoards of drunken American spring breakers. I'd been dreaming of sun and sand, but hadn't made reservations in advance because I am poor, so I wound up sticking around Guadalajara. I spent the first few days with my new roommate Andrea, from California, and we went running and hiking in parks and fields. It was wonderful, and I felt this strange comfortable, elated feeling as I bounded through the trees. Out in the fields of parque primavera, we found ourselves climbing up a trail through the woods, and I remembered running through some similar looking woods in Colorado, and that same feeling of comfort and happiness that I always feel running through trees returned.
Come Thursday morning, I'd been frugal enough to justify a trip, and my curious mind conjured ideas of myself alone, scouting out hidden towns, talking Spanish to everyone I met. I decided to go to Queretaro, so I left my new apartment with a backpack and some money and hopes of discovering an open bed in some hostel.
In Guadalajara, I notice the noise, the crumpled sidewalks, the way the cars scream down the street in their narrow little lanes with seeming death wishes. I notice how, in my new apartment, the walls vibrate at night when the nearby clubs get hopping. I notice the mohawk-style gelled hair on the men and the tacky high heels on the women, and the way their bright blue earrings match their bright blue jumpsuits. I notice how everything is modern but breaking down, and how people are always talking about new music and the way the world is changing. Sometimes it feels like Mexico is a chaotic place where everyone is always trying to catch someone's eye.
But I gained a deeper sense of Mexico in Queretaro, possibly because I was there alone, with one goal only, and that was to understand the place. Lacking distractions, forced to take an interest, I experienced Semana Santa as a Mexican, attending all the various attractions with the hoards of families.
I discovered the procession of silence twice by accident. First on my run that morning. I heard their music before I saw them coming up the cobblestone street, led by a man with a pointy red cap covering his face. The people walked past in reverent seriousness. That night, the procession continued, and I discovered it by accident when I stepped outside my hostel and found myself in the crowd. They were holding their little children above their heads and watching the procession walk past, carrying plastic statues of Jesus with blood all over him. There was Jesus nailed to the cross, his ribs poking out and his back arched painfully, Jesus in his coffin, Jesus looking pensively out over the people. So many statues of Jesus that the people watched in with their families and friends. Everyone was with someone, sharing the moment with someone, and thinking about their lives. There were also those with the shifty eyes, glancing, looking, glancing, looking all around. I started to feel really itchy then for some reason, and I wanted to leave so badly, like a five year old in church, but I was crowd-locked. Strangely, the kids were intent on staying, watching, thinking sweetly about the meaning of easter. I was pretty convinced that this day is legitimately meaningful for them, unless its an entire town of actors.
So the discovery of Mexico continues. There were museums too, and I discovered there that Mexico began as we did, minus the mutilation of the indigenous people, in a nutshell. Their ideals are so alike, and somehow we've constructed this idea of them being so different in their ideas about life. But in reality, they're not.
Until next time...
Come Thursday morning, I'd been frugal enough to justify a trip, and my curious mind conjured ideas of myself alone, scouting out hidden towns, talking Spanish to everyone I met. I decided to go to Queretaro, so I left my new apartment with a backpack and some money and hopes of discovering an open bed in some hostel.
In Guadalajara, I notice the noise, the crumpled sidewalks, the way the cars scream down the street in their narrow little lanes with seeming death wishes. I notice how, in my new apartment, the walls vibrate at night when the nearby clubs get hopping. I notice the mohawk-style gelled hair on the men and the tacky high heels on the women, and the way their bright blue earrings match their bright blue jumpsuits. I notice how everything is modern but breaking down, and how people are always talking about new music and the way the world is changing. Sometimes it feels like Mexico is a chaotic place where everyone is always trying to catch someone's eye.
But I gained a deeper sense of Mexico in Queretaro, possibly because I was there alone, with one goal only, and that was to understand the place. Lacking distractions, forced to take an interest, I experienced Semana Santa as a Mexican, attending all the various attractions with the hoards of families.
I discovered the procession of silence twice by accident. First on my run that morning. I heard their music before I saw them coming up the cobblestone street, led by a man with a pointy red cap covering his face. The people walked past in reverent seriousness. That night, the procession continued, and I discovered it by accident when I stepped outside my hostel and found myself in the crowd. They were holding their little children above their heads and watching the procession walk past, carrying plastic statues of Jesus with blood all over him. There was Jesus nailed to the cross, his ribs poking out and his back arched painfully, Jesus in his coffin, Jesus looking pensively out over the people. So many statues of Jesus that the people watched in with their families and friends. Everyone was with someone, sharing the moment with someone, and thinking about their lives. There were also those with the shifty eyes, glancing, looking, glancing, looking all around. I started to feel really itchy then for some reason, and I wanted to leave so badly, like a five year old in church, but I was crowd-locked. Strangely, the kids were intent on staying, watching, thinking sweetly about the meaning of easter. I was pretty convinced that this day is legitimately meaningful for them, unless its an entire town of actors.
So the discovery of Mexico continues. There were museums too, and I discovered there that Mexico began as we did, minus the mutilation of the indigenous people, in a nutshell. Their ideals are so alike, and somehow we've constructed this idea of them being so different in their ideas about life. But in reality, they're not.
Until next time...
Thursday, March 6, 2008
I went to Morelia last weekend, and it was absolutely wonderful. I met some travelly people to travel with, and thanks to the fact that my school is international, they were from all over the place: Germany, Sweden, England, and Mexico. We all made our way three hours south on our own and met up at a hostel. On Saturday the adventure began when we took a tour from Morelia to Rosario, a smaller town where the butterfly migration happens each year. We hiked up the hill together to see the butterflies. It's funny how you can feel absolutely exhausted sitting down, but yet able to make it to the top of a small mountain for the love of exercise and trees and dirt, which Gudalajara sorely lacks.
At the top, there was a disappointingly small smattering of orange monarchs flitting around the trees. We stood there for a while amidst the deep green cloaked pine trees with the rest of the crowd. I sat down on the grass for a little bit out of some deep urge to soak up all the wilderness that I could before heading back again to the hard cement grounds of Guadalajara. We had to be quiet on the way up and down out of respect for the butterflies. There were makeshift signs saying please be quiet in spanish. They hung from trees and were misspelled and crossed out and respelled in Spanish. I felt content in my own silence, out of reverence, not for the butterflies but for the place.
There were so many careful and skilled artisans who lined the path leading to and from the butterflies. They sold woven things, beaded things, carved things, each of them so carefully and beautifully constructed. They sold things people love, like blackberries and guanayabas, these amazing yellow fruits that are like pears only more satisfying and interesting. My touri group and I were quiet to, contemplating which fruits to buy and marvelling over the novelties they'd spread out on the dead grass or hung from their wooden constructs.
After seeing the butterflies, we ate at one of the many hillside huts, where they were cooking up meat (which I downed gladly like medicine to combat this stupid anemia) and beans, as well as blue corn tortillas filled with cheese. I can't remember what we talked about, although we did exchange words for a while, sitting there in that little hut, watching the caring old women with their long braids and boldly patterned clothes work at the uneven stove. I felt I could stay until nightfall, but we had to embark on the trek down and the long drive back to our hostel in Morelia. It seemed the trip ended just as it had begun, but maybe it won't be our last group trip.
My roomate Lily took me to Wal Mart last weekend, and I bought a bunch of premarinated steak and chicken. Going to Wal Mart in Mexico was like going home for a second, where the vast world of food choices is simultaneously comforting and overwhelming. I can't cook up the stuff today since the stove broke, but that's okay. I am also well stocked with sliced ham. My sickness is getting better.
This week, everything seems to ellicit exhaustion. I've been leaning on telephone poles for support on my way to classes, putting my head on my hand as I teach. I conserve energy by spending a lot of time in bed, walking slowly and carefully down the street, and packing my bag as lightly as possible. In class, the white walls and white tables and white board seem overwhelmingly bright. Like a diseased person, even talking seems a tall order. I've had to explain to my students that I can't talk much because I am sick, and as I do this I am saying to myself, oh, come on, are you kidding? It's hard to believe that talking could actually be a source of exhaustion. But I think it's true, I didn't fabricate this in my imagination, because now the exhaustion is lifting and I'm remembering what it's like to get up out of a chair without wondering if I'll feel light headed or if I'll have to sit down right away again.
On Monday, as I sat in the white classroom with it's white tables and white board, teaching my 7 a.m. class, one of the office women came in and told me that my main class is cancelled for this month. That I can sleep off this sickness after my morning classes for six more hours per week, soaking up all the rest that I'm constantly craving. But it also means 420 less pesos per week (about $42), and that's a pretty significant chunk of my salary. So it looks like there will be no trip to the beach for Semana Santa (the week before easter when everyone takes off for vacations). All I could do when she told me was stare blankly, taking in the meaning of this lifted work. When I asked why the class was cancelled, the office people told me that Wendy, the rich, 21-year old fashionista I teach, was on vacation for the month. Just like that.
I'm not sure if she knew she would be taking this trip. Maybe it was an emergency, the need to relax seizing her and her family suddenly and without warning. Their normal daily activities of eating out, studying a little English, and going to clubs must get a little old after a time, so maybe that is why they left. Oh the rich of Mexico. Her dad trains boxers for fun. He gets his money from this and then some other business venture that he owns. Where this family's money comes from is quite unclear. Her father doesn't exactly work, per say, it sounds like from her descriptions of his daily routines. He "manages" the business, which seems to mean he pays other people to tell other people what to do. Her mother does not work. And she does not work either. I have not met anyone like her in Mexico. Everyone else works, has to work, and can't afford to take a month off. Heck, most people work over eight hours a day during the week, plus a half day on Saturday, to make ends meat. Hence the reputation for a stark divide between the rich and the poor of Mexico.
As tired as the people look, they do not look stressed. There is a soft look on their faces. They are open to new ideas, new opinions. They are wiling to chat, wanting to chat. I have one student whose love for chatting extends into class. Today he went on and on about Mexico and the problems it has. He had so much to say. I kept going to the board to write down English rules, stopping to correct him, but it was of no today. He wanted me, during my time in Mexico, to understand what they are going through. It was like he read my mind, since that is exactly what I am curious about. I felt a twinge of guilt as I let him take over the direction of class. I kept imagining the head teacher, who I just so happen to live with, coming in and discovering me, as I let him slip into Spanish and just chat away. He said that the local government leaders get everything paid for by the government: their cell phones, their houses, everything. He had this really pensive look in his eyes when he told me, like these perks were so beyond belief. I refrained from telling him that these were normal perks for many businesses in the U.S. He said that he wants to see the government pay the teachers, policemen, nurses, and everyone more. These sounded like just echoes of cries I've heard from the poor in the U.S., but the issues are more serious, more pressing, here. Here, a boy recently died after falling in a nearby river that the government had neglected to clean up. He did not drown. He simply swallowed some of the water, and because it was contaminated, he died. Here, the people--educated and non-educated, hard working and lazy--are always dying for money. They're always holding out for payday, which happens twice a month, on the same day for everyone. On th first and the fifteenth, the stores and the banks fill with anxious people. It's tough getting by on the amounts we earn, making it to each payday is a delicate balance, so easily thrown off by little cancellations or unexpected costs.
To improve the economy, the government recently lowered taxes significantly. The idea is to offset the U.S. economic downturn. In an effort to do this, President Felipe Calderon recently cut the corporate income tax, the social security tax, and electricity rates. These cuts are supposed to offset rising costs on some staple products as well as the rising price of fuel.
Regardless of how much the government taxes its citizens, the real issue is what they do with the money, my student Luis said in class today. He wants them to stop lining their own pockets and start offering social security like the U.S. has and fancy educational opportunity programs like Germany. He wants welfare. I smile and nod.
At night, on the weekends, the severely unfortunate make their way out onto the streets. They are the people without legs whose families have abandoned them. They sit, leaning against the buildings, outside of crowded ice cream parlors, with hopeful eyes that gaze up at you. Some of them have deformed faces. I often wonder how they got there. Whoever drops them off is kind enough to do so, but heartless enough to leave them without company as they sit waiting and hoping for fortune.
For some, the waiting and hoping starts at an early age. There is a woman on the street corner, right by my school, that I pass four times a day. She has two children with her who prance around with chicklets as she slices the skins of papayas, cucumbers, oranges, jicama, and mangoes. She also chops the off the hard outsides of watermelons and pineapples. The potpouri of fruit smells perfumes the street as I walk past, and watching her top off the tall cups of fruit with sprinklings of chili and salt and squirts of lime. Always intensely concerned over something, she doesn't smile or look up much. As for her children, they often wear these concerned, desperate looks as they hold out their chicklets for you to buy. Other days, they prance around, like it's their favorite corner to play on. And other days, the five year old boy sits on the ledge by the fruit stand, leaning back on his hands and tossing his voice to the sky in hopeful, happy song.
At the top, there was a disappointingly small smattering of orange monarchs flitting around the trees. We stood there for a while amidst the deep green cloaked pine trees with the rest of the crowd. I sat down on the grass for a little bit out of some deep urge to soak up all the wilderness that I could before heading back again to the hard cement grounds of Guadalajara. We had to be quiet on the way up and down out of respect for the butterflies. There were makeshift signs saying please be quiet in spanish. They hung from trees and were misspelled and crossed out and respelled in Spanish. I felt content in my own silence, out of reverence, not for the butterflies but for the place.
There were so many careful and skilled artisans who lined the path leading to and from the butterflies. They sold woven things, beaded things, carved things, each of them so carefully and beautifully constructed. They sold things people love, like blackberries and guanayabas, these amazing yellow fruits that are like pears only more satisfying and interesting. My touri group and I were quiet to, contemplating which fruits to buy and marvelling over the novelties they'd spread out on the dead grass or hung from their wooden constructs.
After seeing the butterflies, we ate at one of the many hillside huts, where they were cooking up meat (which I downed gladly like medicine to combat this stupid anemia) and beans, as well as blue corn tortillas filled with cheese. I can't remember what we talked about, although we did exchange words for a while, sitting there in that little hut, watching the caring old women with their long braids and boldly patterned clothes work at the uneven stove. I felt I could stay until nightfall, but we had to embark on the trek down and the long drive back to our hostel in Morelia. It seemed the trip ended just as it had begun, but maybe it won't be our last group trip.
My roomate Lily took me to Wal Mart last weekend, and I bought a bunch of premarinated steak and chicken. Going to Wal Mart in Mexico was like going home for a second, where the vast world of food choices is simultaneously comforting and overwhelming. I can't cook up the stuff today since the stove broke, but that's okay. I am also well stocked with sliced ham. My sickness is getting better.
This week, everything seems to ellicit exhaustion. I've been leaning on telephone poles for support on my way to classes, putting my head on my hand as I teach. I conserve energy by spending a lot of time in bed, walking slowly and carefully down the street, and packing my bag as lightly as possible. In class, the white walls and white tables and white board seem overwhelmingly bright. Like a diseased person, even talking seems a tall order. I've had to explain to my students that I can't talk much because I am sick, and as I do this I am saying to myself, oh, come on, are you kidding? It's hard to believe that talking could actually be a source of exhaustion. But I think it's true, I didn't fabricate this in my imagination, because now the exhaustion is lifting and I'm remembering what it's like to get up out of a chair without wondering if I'll feel light headed or if I'll have to sit down right away again.
On Monday, as I sat in the white classroom with it's white tables and white board, teaching my 7 a.m. class, one of the office women came in and told me that my main class is cancelled for this month. That I can sleep off this sickness after my morning classes for six more hours per week, soaking up all the rest that I'm constantly craving. But it also means 420 less pesos per week (about $42), and that's a pretty significant chunk of my salary. So it looks like there will be no trip to the beach for Semana Santa (the week before easter when everyone takes off for vacations). All I could do when she told me was stare blankly, taking in the meaning of this lifted work. When I asked why the class was cancelled, the office people told me that Wendy, the rich, 21-year old fashionista I teach, was on vacation for the month. Just like that.
I'm not sure if she knew she would be taking this trip. Maybe it was an emergency, the need to relax seizing her and her family suddenly and without warning. Their normal daily activities of eating out, studying a little English, and going to clubs must get a little old after a time, so maybe that is why they left. Oh the rich of Mexico. Her dad trains boxers for fun. He gets his money from this and then some other business venture that he owns. Where this family's money comes from is quite unclear. Her father doesn't exactly work, per say, it sounds like from her descriptions of his daily routines. He "manages" the business, which seems to mean he pays other people to tell other people what to do. Her mother does not work. And she does not work either. I have not met anyone like her in Mexico. Everyone else works, has to work, and can't afford to take a month off. Heck, most people work over eight hours a day during the week, plus a half day on Saturday, to make ends meat. Hence the reputation for a stark divide between the rich and the poor of Mexico.
As tired as the people look, they do not look stressed. There is a soft look on their faces. They are open to new ideas, new opinions. They are wiling to chat, wanting to chat. I have one student whose love for chatting extends into class. Today he went on and on about Mexico and the problems it has. He had so much to say. I kept going to the board to write down English rules, stopping to correct him, but it was of no today. He wanted me, during my time in Mexico, to understand what they are going through. It was like he read my mind, since that is exactly what I am curious about. I felt a twinge of guilt as I let him take over the direction of class. I kept imagining the head teacher, who I just so happen to live with, coming in and discovering me, as I let him slip into Spanish and just chat away. He said that the local government leaders get everything paid for by the government: their cell phones, their houses, everything. He had this really pensive look in his eyes when he told me, like these perks were so beyond belief. I refrained from telling him that these were normal perks for many businesses in the U.S. He said that he wants to see the government pay the teachers, policemen, nurses, and everyone more. These sounded like just echoes of cries I've heard from the poor in the U.S., but the issues are more serious, more pressing, here. Here, a boy recently died after falling in a nearby river that the government had neglected to clean up. He did not drown. He simply swallowed some of the water, and because it was contaminated, he died. Here, the people--educated and non-educated, hard working and lazy--are always dying for money. They're always holding out for payday, which happens twice a month, on the same day for everyone. On th first and the fifteenth, the stores and the banks fill with anxious people. It's tough getting by on the amounts we earn, making it to each payday is a delicate balance, so easily thrown off by little cancellations or unexpected costs.
To improve the economy, the government recently lowered taxes significantly. The idea is to offset the U.S. economic downturn. In an effort to do this, President Felipe Calderon recently cut the corporate income tax, the social security tax, and electricity rates. These cuts are supposed to offset rising costs on some staple products as well as the rising price of fuel.
Regardless of how much the government taxes its citizens, the real issue is what they do with the money, my student Luis said in class today. He wants them to stop lining their own pockets and start offering social security like the U.S. has and fancy educational opportunity programs like Germany. He wants welfare. I smile and nod.
At night, on the weekends, the severely unfortunate make their way out onto the streets. They are the people without legs whose families have abandoned them. They sit, leaning against the buildings, outside of crowded ice cream parlors, with hopeful eyes that gaze up at you. Some of them have deformed faces. I often wonder how they got there. Whoever drops them off is kind enough to do so, but heartless enough to leave them without company as they sit waiting and hoping for fortune.
For some, the waiting and hoping starts at an early age. There is a woman on the street corner, right by my school, that I pass four times a day. She has two children with her who prance around with chicklets as she slices the skins of papayas, cucumbers, oranges, jicama, and mangoes. She also chops the off the hard outsides of watermelons and pineapples. The potpouri of fruit smells perfumes the street as I walk past, and watching her top off the tall cups of fruit with sprinklings of chili and salt and squirts of lime. Always intensely concerned over something, she doesn't smile or look up much. As for her children, they often wear these concerned, desperate looks as they hold out their chicklets for you to buy. Other days, they prance around, like it's their favorite corner to play on. And other days, the five year old boy sits on the ledge by the fruit stand, leaning back on his hands and tossing his voice to the sky in hopeful, happy song.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
I don't recommend eating in the streets here
Parasites and amoebas are swimming inside my stomach, Dr. Perla told me today. I found out about her through one of my students, this nice family guy who is really anxious to learn English. I called him desperate for the medical hook up on Monday, when the stomach pains from whatever I caught on Thursday continued to persist. He gave me the number and said I had 40 minutes to get there, or I could wait until another day, so I dropped my teaching planning and hobbled over with my parasites. (These days there always seems to be some reason to drop my teaching planning...or just plain never to get to it. Luckily my students seem pretty happy with the way things are going, but I have a feeling my style is not exactly textbook.) I was pretty relieved to have gotten a recommendation, and not just wound up in any old doctor's chair, especially when they were sticking me with a needle and prescribing me with medication. All in all, if I had to describe the experience in two words, those words would be almost spiritual. The office, on a quiet street, was like an oasis. It had natural looking walls, and the reception desk had a ceaselessly content little lady smiling underneath a huge painting of a red flower. I felt calmer, more comforted, than I'd been in a while. The room was long but spacious, with high ceilings that let strong rectangular streams of light cut in from above. I felt I could sit in the waiting room as long as they wanted, just breathing in and out, knowing they would soon rid me of the waves of stomach pain, and maybe the other symptoms too. It all started last Wednesday, and I'm not exactly sure what it was I ate that triggered it. It started with chills, then a day of a fever, then the stomach issues and everything else that goes with Moctezuma's revenge. During all of this, my roommates decided to give me lectures about dishes that weren't mine and to ask me to clean the entire bathroom. They're not exactly the warmest people you'll meet.
The truth is, you really never know who a person really is until you've known them for a while. Many of my students are beginning to become friends, which I did not anticipate happening. I think they like it when I call them outside of class and they get to hear me stumble through my Spanish, instead of them having to wade through their the strange new sounds and flaky rules of English. I realize when I try to talk to strangers that while the sentence structure makes sense to me at this point, there are still a lot of words I don't know. I've got to get some more vocab!!! It's tough, though. I am still struggling to make it to my classes with prepared lessons. There is always something that comes up that takes up more time than expected---a broken copy machine, a long wait for a bus, the need to write...oops, I guess that last one could be helped. Maybe I'm not cut out for teaching. It's pretty ridiculous when the teacher is the one who just can't stop yawning.
But according to Dr. Perla, I have am not fabricating my chronic tiredness out of my imagination as some sort of sorry excuse for poor teaching, as I had suspected. I actually do have anemia. I couldn't help but laugh in her office today as she dished out the list of sicknesses I had. All I could think was well, good. Great. I'm not crazy. I thought I was going crazy, or that the elements were just overwhelming me or something. I had been refraining from running, conserving my energy, even before the amoebas and parasites invaded. I kept thinking it was the sound of the rumbling buses or the pollution or maybe the need for more water. But no, I'm actually physically hindered right now. So I've got new medicine, and am scheduled for another consultation about the anemia. I wish I had more to report about Mexico, but I've really just been surviving lately. I'm going to be eating more red meat, and not in the streets. Those are my plans for the next few weeks. And well, if all goes okay, I'll be going to see the butterfly migration in Morelia this weekend.
I hope all is well in the grand 'ole U.S. of A!!!
Until next time...
The truth is, you really never know who a person really is until you've known them for a while. Many of my students are beginning to become friends, which I did not anticipate happening. I think they like it when I call them outside of class and they get to hear me stumble through my Spanish, instead of them having to wade through their the strange new sounds and flaky rules of English. I realize when I try to talk to strangers that while the sentence structure makes sense to me at this point, there are still a lot of words I don't know. I've got to get some more vocab!!! It's tough, though. I am still struggling to make it to my classes with prepared lessons. There is always something that comes up that takes up more time than expected---a broken copy machine, a long wait for a bus, the need to write...oops, I guess that last one could be helped. Maybe I'm not cut out for teaching. It's pretty ridiculous when the teacher is the one who just can't stop yawning.
But according to Dr. Perla, I have am not fabricating my chronic tiredness out of my imagination as some sort of sorry excuse for poor teaching, as I had suspected. I actually do have anemia. I couldn't help but laugh in her office today as she dished out the list of sicknesses I had. All I could think was well, good. Great. I'm not crazy. I thought I was going crazy, or that the elements were just overwhelming me or something. I had been refraining from running, conserving my energy, even before the amoebas and parasites invaded. I kept thinking it was the sound of the rumbling buses or the pollution or maybe the need for more water. But no, I'm actually physically hindered right now. So I've got new medicine, and am scheduled for another consultation about the anemia. I wish I had more to report about Mexico, but I've really just been surviving lately. I'm going to be eating more red meat, and not in the streets. Those are my plans for the next few weeks. And well, if all goes okay, I'll be going to see the butterfly migration in Morelia this weekend.
I hope all is well in the grand 'ole U.S. of A!!!
Until next time...
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Feliz San Valentino
Here in Mexico, it seems Valentine's day is a little less commercial than it is in the U.S. (Surprise surprise.) People do celebrate, though. There are special balloons and little gifts that they give, (Yay for chocolate!) but the stores aren't completely tranformed into red and pink havens. In fact, I'm in Starbucks right now, the one place that you would think would go all out, and I don't see any signs of Valentine's day, besides a few pink drinks.
Valentine's day aside, life in the classroom continues. Lately I remember my teachers from high school a lot. Their frustrations have become my own. I remember them scribbling things on the board that were unreadable and wondering why they wouldn't just slow down enough to make things legible. Now I understand. Sometimes, you are just dying to get a sentence down on the board and move on to the next part. Sometimes, lessons drag on and on and on, and you are just dying for them to start understanding so that you can get to the next part. I'll be sitting down with a student, and they will make the same mistake over and over and over again, as I try to explain the correct way over and over and over again. For my beginning students, this happens a lot. There are so many words that they don't know, and it's to the point where I find myself trying to explain things with words they don't know. Pictures are key. So is playing little games of charades here and there. But how do you explain a word like do? Or the word else? Become? There are some words that are a little more abstract, a little more tough to get your head around, unless, of course, you already know. There is always the option of translating into Spanish, but we've been forbidden to do that. It's not exactly realistic to never use Spanish, so I do use it sometimes.
I have this one student who takes classes at 7 a.m. every morning. He comes in late every day lately. I've been really trying to correct his mistakes by correcting him as he talks, but that doesn't work to well because he's already really down on himself about how quickly he is learning. He's always ducking and apologizing, ducking and apologizing. So now I try not to correct to much and to say good as much as possible. But at the same time, it's so frustrating to hear him continue to make the exact same mistakes, after I've corrected him time and again. The most frustrating thing, of course, is when I give an entire lesson on when to use am working, and then, the next day, to hear him use it incorrectly. In the end, it's not a big concern of mine, though. In the end, I am doing my job, and he can either take it in or not.
I found a place to run. There is a train station just one block from mine, and it goes straight to Unidad Deportiva, this park with a bunch of dirt soccer fields and a track. I ran there on Sunday, around and around and around. As boring as it was, it was really nice to be running without stopping at intersections and breathing in exhaust. It's also nice not to be stopped by people who try to strike up conversations as you're running by. I mean, it's nice and all, but it really breaks up the workout. It's so strange how few people go to this park. I'm wondering what it's going to be like to run in the race on the 24th, as I'm planning, because I don't see where the runners are going to come from. I hear some will come from Kenya. Maybe they'll be shipping in all the competition from outside... :)
In any case, they won't have to ship in the interesting spectators. I'm guessing there will be supporters. If there's one thing the people I see on the streets are good at, it's support. Well, support and self expression.
The little things they do
When I went running at Parque Metropolitana on Sunday, I left my bag underneath a tree and smiled at the family picnicking under the tree when I left. A nice looking lady smiled back. When I came back for a brief check on the bag and to get my bearings, the family was leaving, and they told me to take my bag. They said it was not safe to leave it. I told them I had my money and my key on me, and maybe the bag would be okay. I kind of looked at them with a hopeful look, like I hoped they would let me leave it, but like any good mother, the mother shook her head no. She would not let me be that irresponsible.
At Parque Metropolitana, about twenty girls put on a Bring-It-On style show for all the many park goers. As pairs of people wheeled past on their strange pedal-car contraptions (kind of like the Flinstones, only with pedaling power) these girls danced in perfect unison to some great American pop song. They wore these uniforms with short red skirts and red shoes, and white shirts, all of them skinny, with their black hair in ponytails. It’s fun to be a part of a cartoon every now and then.
So often, in the afternoons, when everyone on the bus is incredibly tired, these musicians come on and play. They play guitars and sing. The other day, there were these two bigger ladies with long black hair, and their voices were so strong and smooth. The bus-musicians seem to have a solid amount of talent, enough to be employed by a bar, and people recognize that. At the end of the song, they go around and collect money, and the passengers give it gladly.
Today on the bus an old lady came on, and as the bus lurched forward, she nearly fell, and had to grab onto the seat quickly in order to get her balance. I tried to help steady her, but she was okay by the time I reached out. I felt compelled to do this because it had been done for me. Once when I almost fell on the bus, even though I was holding onto the bar above, a lady in the seat next to me reached both arms out behind me, to catch me if I fell. She looked up at me with a relieved expression and then a smile. I laughed and said “Gracias!”
There is a girl that gets on the bus about the same time I do every day, and she is always dressed in perfect Mexican fashion. I think she’s about 19 and seems a good gauge of what a typical perfect Mexican girl should be. Today she wore shiny silver pointy flats with perfectly tight jeans, the grain of the material running lengthwise. Her Sweatshirt was striped Light and dark purple, and she wore big round purple earrings to match. To match her shoes, she carried a shiny silver purse.
Valentine's day aside, life in the classroom continues. Lately I remember my teachers from high school a lot. Their frustrations have become my own. I remember them scribbling things on the board that were unreadable and wondering why they wouldn't just slow down enough to make things legible. Now I understand. Sometimes, you are just dying to get a sentence down on the board and move on to the next part. Sometimes, lessons drag on and on and on, and you are just dying for them to start understanding so that you can get to the next part. I'll be sitting down with a student, and they will make the same mistake over and over and over again, as I try to explain the correct way over and over and over again. For my beginning students, this happens a lot. There are so many words that they don't know, and it's to the point where I find myself trying to explain things with words they don't know. Pictures are key. So is playing little games of charades here and there. But how do you explain a word like do? Or the word else? Become? There are some words that are a little more abstract, a little more tough to get your head around, unless, of course, you already know. There is always the option of translating into Spanish, but we've been forbidden to do that. It's not exactly realistic to never use Spanish, so I do use it sometimes.
I have this one student who takes classes at 7 a.m. every morning. He comes in late every day lately. I've been really trying to correct his mistakes by correcting him as he talks, but that doesn't work to well because he's already really down on himself about how quickly he is learning. He's always ducking and apologizing, ducking and apologizing. So now I try not to correct to much and to say good as much as possible. But at the same time, it's so frustrating to hear him continue to make the exact same mistakes, after I've corrected him time and again. The most frustrating thing, of course, is when I give an entire lesson on when to use am working, and then, the next day, to hear him use it incorrectly. In the end, it's not a big concern of mine, though. In the end, I am doing my job, and he can either take it in or not.
I found a place to run. There is a train station just one block from mine, and it goes straight to Unidad Deportiva, this park with a bunch of dirt soccer fields and a track. I ran there on Sunday, around and around and around. As boring as it was, it was really nice to be running without stopping at intersections and breathing in exhaust. It's also nice not to be stopped by people who try to strike up conversations as you're running by. I mean, it's nice and all, but it really breaks up the workout. It's so strange how few people go to this park. I'm wondering what it's going to be like to run in the race on the 24th, as I'm planning, because I don't see where the runners are going to come from. I hear some will come from Kenya. Maybe they'll be shipping in all the competition from outside... :)
In any case, they won't have to ship in the interesting spectators. I'm guessing there will be supporters. If there's one thing the people I see on the streets are good at, it's support. Well, support and self expression.
The little things they do
When I went running at Parque Metropolitana on Sunday, I left my bag underneath a tree and smiled at the family picnicking under the tree when I left. A nice looking lady smiled back. When I came back for a brief check on the bag and to get my bearings, the family was leaving, and they told me to take my bag. They said it was not safe to leave it. I told them I had my money and my key on me, and maybe the bag would be okay. I kind of looked at them with a hopeful look, like I hoped they would let me leave it, but like any good mother, the mother shook her head no. She would not let me be that irresponsible.
At Parque Metropolitana, about twenty girls put on a Bring-It-On style show for all the many park goers. As pairs of people wheeled past on their strange pedal-car contraptions (kind of like the Flinstones, only with pedaling power) these girls danced in perfect unison to some great American pop song. They wore these uniforms with short red skirts and red shoes, and white shirts, all of them skinny, with their black hair in ponytails. It’s fun to be a part of a cartoon every now and then.
So often, in the afternoons, when everyone on the bus is incredibly tired, these musicians come on and play. They play guitars and sing. The other day, there were these two bigger ladies with long black hair, and their voices were so strong and smooth. The bus-musicians seem to have a solid amount of talent, enough to be employed by a bar, and people recognize that. At the end of the song, they go around and collect money, and the passengers give it gladly.
Today on the bus an old lady came on, and as the bus lurched forward, she nearly fell, and had to grab onto the seat quickly in order to get her balance. I tried to help steady her, but she was okay by the time I reached out. I felt compelled to do this because it had been done for me. Once when I almost fell on the bus, even though I was holding onto the bar above, a lady in the seat next to me reached both arms out behind me, to catch me if I fell. She looked up at me with a relieved expression and then a smile. I laughed and said “Gracias!”
There is a girl that gets on the bus about the same time I do every day, and she is always dressed in perfect Mexican fashion. I think she’s about 19 and seems a good gauge of what a typical perfect Mexican girl should be. Today she wore shiny silver pointy flats with perfectly tight jeans, the grain of the material running lengthwise. Her Sweatshirt was striped Light and dark purple, and she wore big round purple earrings to match. To match her shoes, she carried a shiny silver purse.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
On happiness
The people of Mexico are not rich, but are they happy? We all know money can't buy happiness, but it's only natural for the American mind to wonder: doesn't economic instability hurt one's overall sense of happiness?
Well, as far as I can tell, the answer is no.
They seem to enjoy riding life's ups and downs, like a roller coaster. People on the streets offer car washes for a little cash with exuberant energy. There is such hope for what can be earned through one's individual efforts. On buses, people take care of eachother. I almost fell down the other day when the bus lurched with more force than usual, and a lady reached out to catch me. We laughed immediately afterward. Musicians looking for cash enter the buses to play their guitars and sing for money. Their voices are incredible, and they explain their hopes for money. Then there are the entrepreneurs selling incense. They too enter the buses, where there is a captive audience, and explain the health merits of their product. In appreciation of the presentation, and the amazing-smelling incense, several bus-goers purchased a few bundles.
Even in the midst of their unrest, there is celebration. Such was the case in Thursday's protest, when workers wore corn husk costumes to protest the recent lifting of tariffs on U.S. corn. The agreements from NAFTA recently expired, and that means Mexican corn farmers now have to compete with American farmers to sell their corn. So in protest, a bunch of workers lined up in a huge crowd outside this old government building, calling for something to be done about the agreement. I'm not sure what the local government could do. It seemed ridiculous to me that they would be lining up outside a local government building, calling for something to be done about a national treaty. But in the end, it appeared that whether they had an affect on the government or not, they were going to have a good time. I mean, they were wearing corn costumes. They were also playing music that echoed throughout the plaza, as though it were time for a fiesta. In reality, the unfair tarriff lifts were an excuse to gather in the plaza, take a day off of work, and listen to some good 'ole Mexican beats. I don't mean to dismiss their cause--the trade agreement is a serious issue that is affecting Mexico's economy. But the effort was decidedly quaint and festival-like.
But the calm nature of the event did not stop the police from coming out with their machine guns at the ready. They stood at the side of the building in a neat military formation, wearing black and carrying shields. They stared straight ahead in true military form, shifting their eyes to watch me as I passed. It was really strange. I went over and asked the head police, who was standing on the side with his walkee talkee, if this was common. He said yes, these types of protests happen about 4 or 5 times per year in Guadalajara. But things are very "tranquilo" (calm--one of their favorite words, a huge compliment, it seems) here, he said with a proud smile. The people don't get violent. They don't do anything rash like people do in Mexico City or Monterey.
I started to wish I lived in Mexico City or Monterey when he told me this. I know, that's not exactly an intelligent reaction, but aren't you a little curious too? I want to see the drama of Mexico playing out before my eyes. I don't want to keep missing out on the action. I've lived such a sheltered life. On the cover of a newspaper recently, I saw this photo of people with their hands pressed up against the glass and these really desperate facial expressions. It was a hold up at some bank in Venezuela, far far away. It seems that no matter where I go, the exciting stuff is happening somewhere else. Maybe I'll see something crazy at some point. I've got my eyes peeled. Sometimes on my runs, I take little detours away from the nice neighborhoods, so that I can see the shady streets. I want to see what happens on the streets with the broken glass and all the graffiti. Of course, I only do this during the day and then quickly slip back into the nice neighborhoods with the nice houses and the trees. But sometimes I just wonder what stories I'm missing on these other streets.
As I run through the quieter streets, I often see happy lives unfolding. I see store owners talking idly with customers and friends. I often wonder what they are talking about that keeps them entertained hour upon hour, just standing their, waiting for business to pick up? I visited a little market last Sunday, a market with little eateries lining the periphery. I ate an incredible little quesadilla, which I doused in guacamole and salsa, while talking to the ladies behind the counter. One of them said she'd been working their for eleven years. I asked her how old she was, and she said 17. She said she didn't live close; she lived about a half hour bus ride away, but it was a family business and she liked it. She, her mother, and her sister went about their work peacefully, greeting the men who stopped by for tacos and gorditas with genuine warmth. They smiled as they talked to them. I wonder if they have dreams of meeting their future husband as they work. Maybe they too gaze at the beautiful white wedding dresses in the dozens of "Novias" stores that line Vallarta as I do. Maybe my sense of happiness is not so different from theirs after all.
Well, as far as I can tell, the answer is no.
They seem to enjoy riding life's ups and downs, like a roller coaster. People on the streets offer car washes for a little cash with exuberant energy. There is such hope for what can be earned through one's individual efforts. On buses, people take care of eachother. I almost fell down the other day when the bus lurched with more force than usual, and a lady reached out to catch me. We laughed immediately afterward. Musicians looking for cash enter the buses to play their guitars and sing for money. Their voices are incredible, and they explain their hopes for money. Then there are the entrepreneurs selling incense. They too enter the buses, where there is a captive audience, and explain the health merits of their product. In appreciation of the presentation, and the amazing-smelling incense, several bus-goers purchased a few bundles.
Even in the midst of their unrest, there is celebration. Such was the case in Thursday's protest, when workers wore corn husk costumes to protest the recent lifting of tariffs on U.S. corn. The agreements from NAFTA recently expired, and that means Mexican corn farmers now have to compete with American farmers to sell their corn. So in protest, a bunch of workers lined up in a huge crowd outside this old government building, calling for something to be done about the agreement. I'm not sure what the local government could do. It seemed ridiculous to me that they would be lining up outside a local government building, calling for something to be done about a national treaty. But in the end, it appeared that whether they had an affect on the government or not, they were going to have a good time. I mean, they were wearing corn costumes. They were also playing music that echoed throughout the plaza, as though it were time for a fiesta. In reality, the unfair tarriff lifts were an excuse to gather in the plaza, take a day off of work, and listen to some good 'ole Mexican beats. I don't mean to dismiss their cause--the trade agreement is a serious issue that is affecting Mexico's economy. But the effort was decidedly quaint and festival-like.
But the calm nature of the event did not stop the police from coming out with their machine guns at the ready. They stood at the side of the building in a neat military formation, wearing black and carrying shields. They stared straight ahead in true military form, shifting their eyes to watch me as I passed. It was really strange. I went over and asked the head police, who was standing on the side with his walkee talkee, if this was common. He said yes, these types of protests happen about 4 or 5 times per year in Guadalajara. But things are very "tranquilo" (calm--one of their favorite words, a huge compliment, it seems) here, he said with a proud smile. The people don't get violent. They don't do anything rash like people do in Mexico City or Monterey.
I started to wish I lived in Mexico City or Monterey when he told me this. I know, that's not exactly an intelligent reaction, but aren't you a little curious too? I want to see the drama of Mexico playing out before my eyes. I don't want to keep missing out on the action. I've lived such a sheltered life. On the cover of a newspaper recently, I saw this photo of people with their hands pressed up against the glass and these really desperate facial expressions. It was a hold up at some bank in Venezuela, far far away. It seems that no matter where I go, the exciting stuff is happening somewhere else. Maybe I'll see something crazy at some point. I've got my eyes peeled. Sometimes on my runs, I take little detours away from the nice neighborhoods, so that I can see the shady streets. I want to see what happens on the streets with the broken glass and all the graffiti. Of course, I only do this during the day and then quickly slip back into the nice neighborhoods with the nice houses and the trees. But sometimes I just wonder what stories I'm missing on these other streets.
As I run through the quieter streets, I often see happy lives unfolding. I see store owners talking idly with customers and friends. I often wonder what they are talking about that keeps them entertained hour upon hour, just standing their, waiting for business to pick up? I visited a little market last Sunday, a market with little eateries lining the periphery. I ate an incredible little quesadilla, which I doused in guacamole and salsa, while talking to the ladies behind the counter. One of them said she'd been working their for eleven years. I asked her how old she was, and she said 17. She said she didn't live close; she lived about a half hour bus ride away, but it was a family business and she liked it. She, her mother, and her sister went about their work peacefully, greeting the men who stopped by for tacos and gorditas with genuine warmth. They smiled as they talked to them. I wonder if they have dreams of meeting their future husband as they work. Maybe they too gaze at the beautiful white wedding dresses in the dozens of "Novias" stores that line Vallarta as I do. Maybe my sense of happiness is not so different from theirs after all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)