Recuerdos

Riot!

Riot

After visiting the ancient Mayan ruins at Palenque yesterday, I found myself at the center of a riot this morning. Managed to survive thanks to Centurion training, Spanish classes and what mama Rosa Maria would call my ?Good wits.?

This is how it all started: Rather than visit the villages surrounding San Cristobal de las Casas alone, I went with a group of travelers. There were six of us - three Israelis and two Canadians, none of whom spoke any Spanish. They all had the same guide book I do, and had read about local customs, which include indigenous/Catholic ceremonies before Easter week. Local religious leaders, mostly men, dress in embroidered huipile shirts, sandals and ribbon bedecked hats, light incense, sharpen knives, chants, and venerate sacred statues. They charge extra for entrance into local churches. Photographs there and even in the square are forbidden.As you can see here

I saw one of the Israeli girls with her camera out near one of the ceremonial areas, and warned her not to take pictures. I?m not, she said, I know about the rules. She kept the camera out.

A few minutes later, a local leader accosted her. He grabbed the camera, insisting in Spanish that she relinquish the film. She did not understand and started to fight him. The crowd of men closed in on us as I tried to explain. Trouble was, I was explaining in two directions - to her and to him, simultaneoulsy translating, trying to diffuse the situation as men started to pelt us with stones and brandish sticks. Did my best to play the supplicant muneca, and to fend of the dozens of hands.

Finally, we got her camera back. A few of the guys kept pelting me. I stood my ground, chided the cabrons for berating me when I did not even have a camera. I explained that we respected their traditions, and were only trying to learn more. In the end, I had them deriding the pinche gringos with me and I scored a few more marriage proposals as I whispered to my companion to get moving.

She was shaken. She did not understand why they were so upset, just as she did not understand why they charged admission at the church, or why villagers throw trash along the mountainside. I tried my best to be sympathetic and to explain. It is their land after all, I said, to do with as they wish. She did not seem persuaded.

We went on to hike the forest roads to Zanacatan, visit another church and lunch on a hillside. It would probably not have been safe to go alone, but I must admit I enjoyed myself more after the others left me to roam the town, exploring the Bat Museum and chatting with Tzotzil women as they wove their glittering blankets.

Do we come to Mexico to lose or find ourselves? The Canadians said they came in search of something they could learn about themselves. I came to get lost in the lives of others.

Searching?

Day one of the search found me in Juchitan, a town perched on the edge of the Isthmus of Tehuantepec where everything is in-between. Even personal pronouns are hard to pin down. I am looking for a certain personality, and with him ? and her - the story of a people. Amaranta.

To see why I was so eager to arrive take a look here Isabella Tree's writing reminds me of Songlines.

I knew Amaranta had friends at the Juchitan hospital. But rather than stop there, which I could not reach by phone, I decided to ask around the Casa Huespedes just after I arrived ($10 a night, btw). Met two lovely muxhe right away who directed me to a nearby estetica. No Amaranta, but I did meet her friend Paco, who runs a bar nearby. After taking me to look for the famed Amaranta, he found me a taxi driver who knew how to get to her house. Actually, since she ran for the senate last summer just about every taxi driver knows.

The neighborhood is called Los Pinos, same as the Mexican presidential palace but far more modest. Mango trees separate it from the dirt and gravel entry road. Chickens and baby rabbits roam the vast chiki hut outside, a shady porch that doubles as a roadside restaurant. Amaranta?s mother forced gorditas and Coke on me during the six hours that I waited. Was that Amaranta in the blue Nissan four-door? Climbing out of the taxi, the combi, the souped up Impala with the indigo windshield? No. Heat penetrated everything, dry and humid at the same time, sort of Key West meets Iowa. I gave up any pretense of not looking the gringa and stripped down to shorts and a tank top. No one seemed to mind ? Amaranta?s sister in law was doing the laundry out front in a transparent blue slip, after all.

The cultural exchange continued as Amaranta?s mother and her friend rattled on about my fate as a soltera. I could do well here, they said, considering men hate skinny women. And did I know that only a few towns away, all the people have blue eyes? The conquistadors, they said, nodding, two round, brown women in gold hoop earrings, colored t-shirts and flower print skirts. Then they cracked open three Victoria beers ? and I do not mean the chica ones ? explaining that women here can drink as much as they want. Here women sew so well, even Selma Hayek came to buy clothes for that movie, ?Frida.? Married or single, fat or thin, young or old, women here run things, they said. Viva Juchitan.

I did my part to answer their questions about the U.S. I estimated salaries - they were amazed to hear what even the average teacher makes. They asked me to name all the states. ?All 50?? ?Are there really 50?? I gave them the highlights, admittedly slighting the midwest. Midway through, I dispelled their misconception that Anna Kournikova, much-despised for stealing the greatest Latin lover alive, is American. Not sure if they believed me. They kept citing blonde Hollywood movie stars as proof, as though the horde spawned and propelled her to tennis pseudo-stardom.

Shadows stretched across the road as the heat subsided. The sky darkened. I finally left at about 6:30 p.m. by bus for the plaza, where I found Paco but ? that?s right, not Amaranta. I am now sitting in my room. An industrial-strength fan is whirring away above me, trembling with the effort of combating tropical heat. Sounds? like Platoon. Could it have been fashioned from recycled helicopter blades?

Tomorrow: The search continues.

Day 37

Do not fear death but rather the unlived life. You don?t have to live forever. You just have to live.
~?Tuck Everlasting?

Found Amaranta - After a long, drawn out search. This is Mexico, after all, land of anticipation and the manana syndrome. We were supposed to meet at the cultural center next to the church, where I found a Zapotec dance class in progress. No Amaranta. An hour later, called the cell. News was we would meet soon ? half hour at the most. More waiting. Mexico is a lesson in paciencia. Thought of my grandmother, who would say, ?Offer it up to God? and ducked into the church. I passed a hybrid Zapotec/Catholic altar painted in fluorescent pink and yellow. Ducked out again with a funeral procession replete with black lace and white gladiolas. A few blocks later I sat down on the foot-high curb, exhausted from a day alternately filled with interviews and long, hot walks among the palms.

Then I heard my name, Mariana (the Spanish version). It was coming from behind. I turned, and there was Amaranta, lighted by the sunset from behind. Amaranta in a flowing purple flowered skirt and pink scarf, brown hair pulled back in a clip, dark eyes flashing. Amaranta bending down, offering her only hand to greet and help me up as the curious began to approach.

Much conversation ensued, about the muxhe tradition in Juchitan, recent changes and projects underway. Stories soon to come. Many thanks to those who got me this far, including Pew, mis professoras de espanol, the fam and my leading Mexican contact who is still working this week after a car accident landed her with a broken arm. Indestructible! Now that is Mexico

Next: Destabilized zones.

Day 39

Traffic everywhere is getting crazy as Semana Santa approaches. In small towns sidewalks are only about two feet wide, so buses, trucks, bicycles, three-wheeled bicycle taxis and pedestrians compete for street space with vendors. The crowds combined with the heat, bad directions, broken telephones, locals? propensity to forget citas/entrevistas (interviews) and my hair?s propensity to turn ?All 18th century French? as KHF would say, had me frazzled late yesterday. Just as I surrendered control to whatever benevolent force was left in the universe, everything came together. All the people I wanted to talk to converged on the house where I was already interviewing someone. That?s how I arrived at my Mexican chaos theory: If you want to get something done, do not under any circumstances commit. Do not plan. Better to arrange two or three other things at the exact same time, then cancel them.

Met some amazing women and muxhes in Juchitan who helped me understand how indigenous groups are grappling with SIDA, (AIDS). Thanks to all who shared their stories, particularly Sodelba, 21, who you will be hearing more about in an upcoming story. I wish her and her two sons pictured here in their house, ages three and four, luck in their search for truth, salvation and a cure.

Am now in Chiapas. Just arrived and still exploring. Climate reminds me of the Sierras in Puebla but even colder. Mist on the mountains, gringos in the streets as well as vendors from nearby towns hawking everything from rope belts to dried meat. Hope to head out to el campo tomorrow.