When preconceived notions explode

I confess. For thirty-some-odd years, I loved traveling in Mexico, which I would have described as a beautiful, colorful, happy country. However, it was always the backdrop to the vacations or workshops that were the main focus of my attention. I loved the food, the music, the laid-back, anything-goes feeling. The people I met during these trips were mainly waiters, hotel workers, or kind strangers who dug us out of deep sand, rescued our lost selves, or rebuilt broken car parts seemingly out of spit and sawdust. I "loved Mexico.” And, Mexicans.

It’s hard to admit how deeply into the “happy, carefree Mexican” stereotype I was. I knew Mexico's history was traumatic and that poverty was widespread, but I didn’t have an inkling of how narrow my understanding was until a few years ago when I was in San Cristóbal de las Casas. It was September, 2014, and I was walking through the Cathedral plaza, loud speakers blaring words I didn’t understand and a gathering crowd of a thousand or more. I had no idea what was going on. However, as I moved through the crowds, I was suddenly hit with a feeling of overwhelming sadness.

The feeling was so strong I started looking around, trying to figure out what was happening. I noticed large photos of young men on the ground, arranged like a quilt. Children were placing flowers and candles on the photos. Something was terribly wrong. I finally found a woman who could explain that 43 students had recently been kidnapped and no one knew if they were dead or alive.*

Over the next few months, I wound up in several demonstrations about “the 43,” talked about it as much as possible with the Mexican husband of a friend, and read all I could. Mexico's history … and it’s present … opened up a sliver of understanding about this incredible country, traumatized for at least 400 years, and the complex culture of generosity in the face of poverty, kindness to strangers while trusting only family, open skepticism of government, and defiant celebration of life and joy in a world that mainly offered pain, suffering and death.

Where moments of life and joy are restricted,

Music, dance, food and festivals enhance those precious moments.

Slowly, it becomes more clear why family is everything in Mexico. For centuries, family has been the heart of the culture while trauma, abuse and death have been constant external forces. It is no wonder why music, dancing, food and festivals are such a huge part of this culture. My view on this is that the Mexican people have never been able to take life or joy for granted, so they celebrate as often as possible.

Gradually, as I explore the country, less as a vacationer and more as someone trying to understand this intriguing and confusing culture, I keep running into the deep vein of abuse of wealth over poverty. Mexico is a rich country and from the first days of the early 1500’s, Spain exploited the wealth of Mexico, stripping gold and silver from its hills and life from the miners who brought it up from the depth.

Zacatecas Cathedral

Concentrated wealth 

is generated 

by widespread poverty.

The Zacatecas Cathedral (Cathedral of Our Lady of the Assumption of Zacatecas) is one of the most beautiful in the world The ornately carved, Baroque style is termed Churrigueresque, named for its architect and sculptor Jose Benito de Churriguera (1650-1725). 

This style is kindly called “lavish” and not-so-kindly described as "over-the-top.” Many references state that the building of the Cathedral was funded by and built as a temple worthy of the "aristocrats of silver."

Model of mine worker

After touring Mina El Eden where we learned that miners never saw the light of day as they worked 16 hours a day for barely enough to eat, went to work when they were 8, and died at the rate of 9 or 10 a day, it is clear that it was the miners and their families who built that cathedral. I have seen no sign that their contribution to it is honored.

Slowly, it becomes more clear why family is everything in Mexico. For centuries, family has been the heart of the culture while trauma, abuse and death have been constant external forces. It is no wonder why music, dancing, food and festivals are such a huge part of this culture. My view on this is that they’ve never been able to take life or joy for granted so they celebrate as often as possible.

My stereotypes go even deeper

However, my stereotypical view of Mexicans went even deeper than not understanding their relationship to authority, both church and state, and their culture of celebration which results in loud, exuberant music, startling rockets and firecrackers, and a deep acceptance of middle-of-the-night crowing roosters and barking dogs. My view of their art has always focused on Frida Kahlo, the muralists Rivera, Orozco, and Siqueiros, and the vibrantly exciting street art and murals found in many of the cities I’ve visited.

Pedro Coronel - Wikipedia

That preconception was blown apart by visiting Pedro Coronel’s museum in Zacatecas. Housed in a Jesuit convent built in the early 1600s, it was used as a college, hospital, barracks, and prison before being converted in 1983 to a museum to exhibit the art collection of painter and sculptor, Pedro Coronel, who apparently bartered his own paintings to build his extensive collection and said, "Pedro Coronel said: "Little by little I was acquiring the pieces that had the most meaning for me and I formed my own idea of beauty.”

Walking through the mind of a genius.

I’ve visited many great art museums but this one knocked me sidewise because it was like walking through the mind of a genius. One man with an artistic scope that ranged from ancient Mexico, Japan, Greece, and Africa to dozens of modern artists such as Goya, Miro, Picasso, Chagall, Giacometti and dozens of others. 

Standing posters share his thoughts about art, beauty, psychology. As I walked deeper and deeper into this tangible brain, I felt my perceptions sputtering like sparklers at the end of their lives. I had expected so little and was being flooded by so much. Suddenly I recognized that my perceptions of Mexican art and artists had been blown to bits. 

Whoever Pedro Coronel was, his vision, curiosity, and talent were immense. I wanted to know more and immediately made arrangements to come back in a month for permitted study, which will allow me to take pictures and document more of Pedro Coronel’s art and thoughts. 

More of his paintings here.

* Postscript: The story of "the 43" that slowly came out was that a woman with connections to a cartel and political ambitions had had the students kidnapped because they threatened to disrupt a political speech she was planning to make. The government investigation released a report that did not jive with the investigations of others.

On June 5, 2018, The New York Times reported: A federal court in Mexico ordered the government on Monday to investigate the 2014 disappearances of 43 college students again, but this time under the supervision of a truth commission to be led by the nation’s top human rights body and parents of the victims.

Mexico laughs at expectations and cries over its lost children

San Cristóbal de las Casas

I hit the wall in early evening when I landed at Tuxtla Gutiérrez airport in Chiapas. It was 2014 and at age 69 I had embarked on a grand adventure. The plan was two weeks of language immersion in San Miguel de Allende, three weeks of snorkeling and swimming in cenotes in Maya Riviera, and then a final week of language immersion in Mérida where I would also follow the trail of a story that had intrigued me for years. Six weeks. I expected that would be enough time to ground me in Spanish well enough to travel with the Spanish-fluent guy with whom I was making happily-ever-after plans.

I expected to take a bus to San Cristóbal de las Casas, a place I knew absolutely nothing about other than it was at 7200’ and should be cooler than Playa del Carmen which was where I was supposed to stay for three weeks but lasted only two days. What I didn’t expect was that no one at the Tuxtla airport spoke English any better than I spoke Spanish. My abysmal Spanish skills had gotten me by so far but now it seemed that I wasn’t going to be able to just walk over to the bus stop and get whisked to San Cristóbal.

This adventure was my first extended trip not prompted by work and the first by myself. Already my carefully constructed plan looked a bit tattered and I could feel tendrils of panic rising as the non-conversation with an airport woman about how to get to San Cristóbal failed. I had been told to take the bus because taxis were expensive. However, I wasn’t even sure how to find a taxi.

As I stood there, somewhat frozen, a young woman joined our conversation. Her English was limited but a smidge better than my Spanish. After a long back and forth, most of which I couldn’t understand, I finally understood that she was inviting me to share her taxi to town. I wasn’t sure, but I thought she might also be able to drop me at the bus station. While I didn’t realize it at the time, she was my introduction to the kindness of strangers in Mexico, a pattern that would repeat itself regularly as I blundered into interesting situations.

The Tuxtla Gutiérrez airport is relatively new and built on the far outskirts of town. As I was riding in the cab with this young woman on the long trip to Tuxtla, I realized that I had no idea where we were actually going. She seemed friendly enough, but I didn’t know if she really understood what I had been trying to tell her about the bus station and San Cristóbal. And, it was getting dark. Finally, we wound up in front of a small, concrete building where, apparently, I was supposed to get out. So, I did even though I saw no buses and felt a sudden wave of desperation as my new protector drove away in her taxi. I was on my own, in the dark, in a strange city. No one knew where I was  and I couldn’t speak the language. I had heard enough stories to be nervous.

Finally, I entered the little concrete building where a man at a battered desk understood my words enough to take my money and point me toward a small van already filled with people. I squeezed myself into a seat and gave myself up to the belief that this might actually take me to my destination. I was almost relaxed when I realized I’d left my backpack with laptop and other necessities in the office. Fortunately, it was still there and I relaxed into the long drive through the night until we wound up at the San Cristóbal bus station where a bunch of taxis waited. I had arrived.

I breathed a sign of relief as I handed the taxi driver the address and expected the rest to be simple. Clearly, the taxi driver did not speak English but, since he had my carefully printed address, I wasn’t worried. We wound through town and then into a darker neighborhood and soon the driver was glancing around in a way that concerned me. Finally, we pulled up at what seemed like the right address and a couple came out. However, the place didn’t seem right from the pictures I had seen. More language fumbling and it was clear that they didn’t know anything about a guest arriving in the middle of the night.

The driver seemed confused and asked me questions that I didn’t understand. By now, it was about 10:30 and I was getting nervous again. The driver didn’t have a phone or a map or apparently any connection to a home office and I was trying to figure out what I was going to do. I had no resources, knew no hotels and didn’t know how to ask the frustrated driver for help. 

Together our frustration was rising rapidly as we stood in the street speaking but not communicating. Suddenly, out of the shadows, a woman in white appeared. Completely in white. Long, white robe-like dress and white turban. She walked over to us and said in perfect English, “Can I help you?” I now believe in angels.

Angel Blanca and friend.

After talking for awhile with the woman named Blanca, we decided that if I could show her a picture of the house, she could help us find it. We needed a computer. At Blanca’s direction, we piled into the taxi and went back about three blocks to an undistinguished row of concrete buildings. Blanca knocked on one of the many doors and an eight-year-old kid let us into a room full of twenty-year-old computers. With a high level of skepticism about the functioning of these systems, I waited as he warmed up the antique PC, logged onto the internet and I pulled up my airbnb site. Blanca recognized the house and within minutes and a few pesos, we were at my destination.

During this time, I learned that Blanca lived in the neighborhood. I was so grateful for her help that I invited her to lunch and she accepted. Gradually, I learned about her life as a Mexican hippy living with her partner, the father of her three children, making clay flutes and trying to live by principles that set them apart from the “normal" culture. She introduced me to new foods and new places and new ways of thinking about life and amazed me with the breadth and depth of her English, which she had "picked up” on a job.

I expected to go to San Cristóbal as a comfortable place to continue studying Spanish. What I didn’t expect was to meet such fascinating people such as Blanca. However, throughout my time in San Cristóbal I continued to meet amazing people. The house I stayed in belonged to a woman photographer who had just left for a six-month stay in Israel. We never met but talked a lot by email and became friends. Her book on the various textile styles of the Mayan villages made me fall in love with weavings and I quickly developed a favorite … Zinacantan, which had a distinctive style and incredible blending of colors.

On my first day walking around town, I stopped into a coffee shop and met a US woman married to a Mexican man. We quickly became friends and she introduced me to so many interesting people: Women from Mayan villages, a nun who started a photography project for the local villagers, a Muslim man who left the US after being continually harassed after 9/11 and now rescues street dogs and cats as well as lame horses, cooking seven pounds of rice every day for his ever-expanding flock.

From the top of Tonina ruins

As my planned six-week trip expanded into four months, I met a British woman living in Spain, when she stayed for two weeks in the same compound where I was staying. We traveled together to Guatemala where we explored the villages around Lake Atitlán, met a US woman helping Mayan women sell their weavings, and fell in love with chicken buses. On a trip to the ruins at Tonina, we met a young Mexican entrepreneur with the most beautiful dreadlocks I’ve ever seen and an older world traveler from New Zealand. We formed an unlikely foursome as we explored the ruins as well as an incredibly beautiful swimming hole and local restaurants. They also introduced me to Posh (the local intoxicant) and I became a fan.

Gringos in foreign places tend to recognize each other and often fall into conversation as they explore the standard where-are-you-from, how-long-have-you-been-here questions. One of these conversations resulted in an ongoing conversation with an older woman artist traveling the world on $600 a month with no safety net. Her confidence and cheeriness about her financial situation reminded me of how fortunate I am. 

As it became clear that my language skills were not racing ahead, I asked a charming, young guy to be my language coach. Our Posh-fueled sessions definitely improved my confidence as we explored life in San Cristóbal and our challenging love lives in mostly broken Spanish.

I had expected to make rapid progress learning Spanish. I felt like I had a head start having lived in California for decades and having started several adult-ed Spanish classes (perhaps it would have been good if I had finished a few of them). Since I had been listening to Pimsleur CDs for months, I did not expect the wall of meaningless sounds that I found when I arrived at the Mexico City airport. Even concentrating, language was a sound blur with only an occasional word like “pero” (but) rising to the level of recognition. Not extremely useful.

When I had arrived in San Miguel at the beginning of this adventure, I expected to be put into an “intermediate beginner” class at my language school. I expected to work hard and learn fast. I expected it to come easily. It was immersion, supposedly the magical panacea of learning a language. How quickly so many expectations can be dashed. My “immersion” seemed to be limited to waiters and taxi drivers. There were plenty of people around all too happy to speak English. I expected myself to be a good student, to do the worksheets and sit in the cramped student seats in a stuffy classroom. I didn’t expect myself to chuck it all for the “escuela de las calles” as I called the fascinating, colorful, exciting sights and sounds I found in the streets.

The first mural I fell in love with.

I didn’t expect myself to fall in love with the murals and wall art I found just wandering about. There are many things I didn’t expect, but probably the biggest happened one day while I was wandering through the plaza in front of the Cathedral. There was almost always something going on there so at first I thought it was a concert or something. There was a man's voice booming over huge speakers and there must have been a thousand people wandering around the plaza.

As I walked through the crowd, my chest began to hurt and I felt like crying. The words were just sounds so I didn’t know why and started trying to figure out the words on posters. I saw a row of pictures of young men and on the ground children were putting flowers on pictures of the same young men laid out in a grid. I realized that what I was feeling was grief. That something horrible had happened to these young men.

Finally, I ran into someone I knew who explained that 43 students from Ayotzinapa Rural Teachers' College went missing in Iguala, Guerrero. They had just disappeared twelve days earlier. Over the next several weeks in San Cristóbal, Tuxtla Gutiérrez, and Merida, I saw heartbreaking marches demanding action and information about the students. At first the students were called “Los Vivos,” the living.

The story that gradually came out was horrifying. It remains unclear who all was involved but the story that I heard most was that the ambitious, cartel-related wife of the mayor of Iguala was going to give a speech in Mexico City before announcing her candidacy for office. She heard that the students planned to protest her speech and she had them kidnapped, apparently with the assistance of local police and government officials. This incident set off massive protests in Mexico as well as worldwide and led to the arrest of more than 130 suspects, 44 of whom were police officers. It also significantly stained the administration of Mexican President Enrique Peña Nieto.

By later in October, the most common signs included the words:

nos enterraron (they buried us)

pero no sabían (but they did not know)

que estamos semillas. (that we are seeds)

The inquiry remains open.

I didn’t expect to see the underbelly of this beautiful country. I didn’t expect to feel the pain of a system where human rights often disappear under the weight of power, money and greed. 

I didn’t expect to return almost three years later when life turned once again toward Mexico. I hadn't expected to experience the underbelly of my own country as human rights began to be attacked in a way we thought we had left behind decades ago.

When I left San Cristóbal, I was innocently planning my future ... reconnecting with my guy, traveling and creating a nest together in New Mexico, settling down in a new dream. With all of these expectations clanging around in my head, I didn’t hear Mexico chuckling while it also cried for its lost children.

Morning in Ajijic, Mexico

Now, three years later, as I return to Mexico, I have fewer expectations, fewer illusions about the shadow side of the human experience. But, I still have the expectation of learning the beautiful language of this country and soaking in more of its natural beauty and culture.

Sauntering

It is eleven days into the new year and I am still stuck between the old and the new. I have not made the transition; I have not glitter-doodled my journal for 2015; I have not collaged my intentions for the year; I have been stuck in old stuff that I carried with me into this bright, shiny new year.

Today a friend sent me a copy of Brain Pickings, a rather amazing collection of wisdom and thoughts, and it shook me out of my stupor and offered me a resolution … walking, or more accurately sauntering. Now, I have been an avid walker for as long as I can remember but suddenly I realized I have been only half-walking … walking in body and mind but not in spirit and connection with the world around me.

The realization that I have been missing much in my walking was sparked by Henry David Thoreau’s treatise on walking where he says (quoting from Brain Pickings) “(Thoreau) sets out to remind us of how that primal act of mobility connects us with our essential wildness, that spring of spiritual vitality methodically dried up by our sedentary civilization."

"Thoreau argues that the genius of walking lies not in mechanically putting one foot in front of the other en route to a destination but in mastering the art of sauntering. (In one of several wonderful asides, Thoreau offers what is perhaps the best definition of “genius”: “Genius is a light which makes the darkness visible, like the lightning’s flash, which perchance shatters the temple of knowledge itself — and not a taper lighted at the hearthstone of the race, which pales before the light of common day.”) An avid practitioner of hiking, Thoreau extols sauntering as a different thing altogether:

I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of Walking, that is, of taking walks — who had a genius, so to speak, for sauntering, which word is beautifully derived “from idle people who roved about the country, in the Middle Ages, and asked charity, under pretense of going a la Sainte Terre, to the Holy Land, till the children exclaimed, “There goes a Sainte-Terrer,” a Saunterer, a Holy-Lander. They who never go to the Holy Land in their walks, as they pretend, are indeed mere idlers and vagabonds; but they who do go there are saunterers in the good sense, such as I mean. Some, however, would derive the word from sans terre, without land or a home, which, therefore, in the good sense, will mean, having no particular home, but equally at home everywhere. For this is the secret of successful sauntering. He who sits still in a house all the time may be the greatest vagrant of all; but the saunterer, in the good sense, is no more vagrant than the meandering river, which is all the while sedulously seeking the shortest course to the sea.

So, my first resolution for the year is to practice sauntering, to treat walking as a holy act and to allow the world to unfold in front of me.

 

About the image: I think while I was in San Cristóbal de las Casas, I did spend a fair amount of time sauntering, wandering aimlessly through streets and neighborhoods, following sights or sounds as they appeared ... finding my way to the sea. This wall art was one of the things that captured my attention.

Festival of Guadalupe

Guadalupe Festival (click for video)

Yesterday was the last day of the Festival of Guadalupe and the city was filled with pilgrims from all over the region who ran or biked here to show their devotion to the Virgin. It’s a lovely, noisy, chaotic time, filled with music, sirens, cannon-like fireworks sounding late into the night and beginning again early in the morning. Food, flowers, bright costumes and candles are everywhere.

Guadalupe is one of the most venerated of religious icons, especially to the campesinos of Mexico. Her story begins with Juan Diego, a poor farmer, who saw a dark-skinned apparition of the Virgin in the winter of 1531. She instructed him to visit the Bishop of Mexico City, ten miles away, and ask him to construct a church in her honor on Tepeyac Hill.

At first Diego was unable to gain an audience with the Bishop but again the Virgin visited Juan Diego and implored him to see the Bishop. This time he was successful but the Bishop demanded proof. Diego visited the same hill every day until December 12th when the Virgin appeared once more and told him to climb Tepeyac Hill to collect roses growing there.

Even though roses had never been known to grow on the rocky slopes and it was the dead of winter when roses would not flower, Juan Diego found the hill covered with blood red roses and returned to the Virgin with his arms overflowing. She filled his cape with the roses and bid him to visit the Bishop once more. When he opened his cape before the Bishop and the roses tumbled to the ground, it also revealed a beautiful painting of a dark-skinned Virgin with Indian features.

This proof of the miracle convinced the Bishop and the church was built and the famous cape is still on display.

The rest of the story … as with many a good story, the facts of this one are often in question.

• Juan Diego, now a saint himself, may never have existed.
• The Bishop Juan Diego supposedly presented with the roses was Bishop Juan de Zumarraga … except he wasn’t made Bishop until three years after the miracle … and, until his death 14 years later, he never mentioned the miracle, and, in his last catechism stated, “The Redeemer of the world doesn’t want any more miracles, because they are no longer necessary.” No one actually wrote about this miracle for another hundred years.
• It is said that the now famous image of the Virgin was actually done as a commission by Marcos Cipac de Aquino, an Indian painter famous throughout the regions north of Mexico City.

The true miracle of the story may be how much this famous artifact with its likeness to the indigenous peoples of the region helped convert the people to a new religion and how deeply the Virgin is revered to this day. The Basilica of Guadalupe received 22 million visitors in 2010 and is considered the world's major centre of pilgrimage for Roman Catholics.

Here are photos from the day ...

The zocalo at night

Pilgrims from all over the region

Pilgrim parade past the zocalo

The pilgrim groups all carry images of the Virgin.

Parents dress their children in indigenous

 costumes ... including mustaches for the boys.

Enough

One of the great blessings of travel is that occasionally you get to meet people who would never have touched your life’s “normal” circle. San Cristóbal has offered me several of those moments ...

— from my first night here when my taxi driver couldn’t find the address where I was supposed to stay, did not speak English and had no phone. About the time when I was wondering just what might happen to me, an angel dressed in white appeared. Her name was Blanca; she spoke English and sorted out the problem and promptly delivered me to my door. The next day, over a thank-you lunch, we discovered areas of commonality despite our polar backgrounds, and became friends.

— to a nun who came here eighteen years ago to start a project to help the Mayan people learn photography in order to document their own lives and culture. Not only did Carlota Duarte tell me fascinating stories about her journey that led her to San Cristóbal and the formation of the Chiapas Photography Project, which is now sending amazing photographic exhibits around the world, but she also introduced me to Jonathan Castañeda, who has become my conversation coach and friend.

— to the hostess of the place where I’m staying, whom I’ve yet to meet in person, but who, through her books and a lot of emailing has introduced me to the world of Mayan textiles and many other interesting people. Janet Schwartz is now on a six-month grant in Israel to photograph and write about what she finds there.

— to a woman who adopts people and opens her home to fascinating gatherings of folks from different backgrounds, cultures, and worlds. Alison opened a conversation in a coffee shop my first day here and was kind enough to add me to her tribe. At one of her gatherings, I met Pablo* (not his real name).

I knew at our first meeting in Alison's home that Pablo was a unique soul. Yesterday I got to spend several hours with him as we worked our way through the mundane task of traveling to Tuxtla (one hour away) and mailing a package, a seemingly simple task made more difficult by customs and bureaucracy.

We spent much of the day talking about how Pablo arrived here in San Cristóbal which is always a fun story since people come here from all over the world ... many coming just for a visit and then just somehow staying on. Pablo came ten years ago and he’s still here, now taking care of 16 street dogs, 16 cats and 2 lame horses.  He is also helping a group of indigenous local women, who can't read or have experiences with the world outside of their villages, get their hand-made textiles to the market using the internet.

I was fascinated with the logistics of caring for so many animals … especially when I found out that it involved cooking 3 kilos (a little over 6.6 pounds) of rice every day and spending hours buying and carrying home enormous amounts of food without benefit of a truck or car! However, his eyes light up when he talks about each one of his animal family and how they respond to having a home where fed, petted and brushed … and how he sometimes sleeps with up to 12 cats. It takes an enormous amount of time and effort to care for so many abused and wounded animals, but Pablo’s response when I asked, was “This wasn’t my plan but what else would I do?” In addition to feeding his adopted family every day, he carries dog food on all his trips to town to feed the street dogs.

Pablo is an off-the-grid kind of guy who lives in the country where he has built his own cabin, installed a solar panel to heat water and uses a composting toilet and tends his garden. He doesn’t consider any of this “work”; it’s just all part of his life.

As we traveled through his day, I watched Pablo “gift” everyone he came into contact with … a conversation with the woman who sells snacks in the bus station  a mini-lesson in English for the guy at the post office counter, smiles and jokes everywhere. At some point I realized that this is a man who is content with his life ... a man at peace with a world that often makes no sense but offers him “enough."

*Why am I using a pseudonym? ... Pablo asked me to.

Being Heard

Click here for a few seconds of the demonstration.

I didn’t understand the words nor the history but I could feel the sorrow and anger. Walking through the crowd of maybe a couple of thousand people, my eyes began to leak and my heart felt heavy. 

It was a demonstration complete with hand-marked signs and professional banners, megaphones and chants … a gathering of the hard-core, the wounded, the determined and the merely curious and happenstance, such as myself, a wanderer who happened to converge with reality in the Cathedral square of this small town in the southernmost state of Mexico. 

This is a land of textiles, beautiful and brightly colored hand-woven or hand-stitched clothing and household goods. It is also the land of the Zapatistas, once a fuzzy, political word from a far off place, now a part of the life, the soul, of my vecinos … my neighbors. The name comes from Emiliano Zapata, an agrarian reformer, and most Zapatistas are indigenous Mayans. And, while I thought the “Zapatista uprising” was something that happened years ago, yesterday’s demonstration and my subsequent research reminded me that all is not well in the world, even in this small bit of paradise. 

This is the 20th year of this declared war of the people, a war that has cooled to civil resistance and, perhaps, should not be called a war at all, but rather simply a movement toward a greater good. The roots of this movement go back decades, centuries even, but became public on January 1, 1994, the day the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) went into effect. Announcing their intentions from the Lacandon Jungle (the largest area of rainforest in North America, one still large enough to support jaguars), their declaration amounted to a declaration of war on the Mexican government, which they considered so out of touch with the will of the people as to make it illegitimate.

Ayotzinapa is the village where
many students were "disappeared."

It doesn’t take long here in Mexico to see the vast differences in economic well-being among the people. Begging children, the maimed and elderly, as well as peasant women carrying huge burdens of textiles or food stuffs to be sold, routinely wander through the streets, often intruding on a casual visitor’s stroll through the colorful and exotic ways of a new land. One day I literally bumped into a woman from the US who proceeded to complain to me about one of her “pet peeves” of not being able to eat in peace. 

The vendors of textiles and trinkets wander through restaurants and the streets, wherever they might find a customer. It’s how they live and feed their families. And, it is irritating. It is a constant reminder that there is poverty, disease and need among us, a poverty so deep that we can’t possibly fix it and the easiest thing to do is to not see it. It is a constant reminder that a huge part of our own “success,” economically at least, comes not just from our own efforts but also from simply our great good fortune of being born into a country and an economic system that values education and offers a great deal of freedom and stability. 

The difference between me and that woman carrying a mass of shawls that she has woven isn’t that great. Had I been born into that woman’s village, I could be her. Her life is hard, but as I talk to people here and wander through the fiestas that celebrate the lives of the saints and watch the families, it turns me back to the question of what is success?

Honoring the 43 missing students and teachers

And that turns me back to yesterday’s demonstration; people seeking a better life … more access to resources, more control over their own destinies, and in this case their own physical safety. 

One of the most powerful images from yesterday showed school photos of 43 young men arranged on the ground like quilts of “the disappeared.” The claim is that the Mexican government and the drug cartels are in an unholy alliance and that dissident students and teachers are being targeted for their efforts to combat drugs and crime.

It’s hard to know what to do with all of this. I know there is no perfect country, no blameless government, but there is so much charm and beauty and goodwill here, that I’m distressed to see this vein of sorrow, anger and the signs of dysfunction of the government systems. Like that woman I bumped into, I’d rather not see the underbelly of life; however, that doesn’t stop it from being there.

The spokesman for the Zapatistas, Subcomandante Marcos, is quoted in a Wikipedia article as saying:

We don’t want to impose our solutions by force, we want to create a democratic space. We don’t see armed struggle in the classic sense of previous guerrilla wars, that is as the only way and the only all-powerful truth around which everything is organized. In a war, the decisive thing is not the military confrontation but the politics at stake in the confrontation. We didn't go to war to kill or be killed. We went to war in order to be heard.

We went to war in order to be heard. How much of what we do in life is simply an effort to be heard … acknowledged, valued? Much to think about.

Learning to Be an "Accidental"

One of my flash cards ... now
if I just had a printer!

Today I went out to find a “papeleria” … like a doll house version of Staples … I needed more index cards, a yellow highlighter and a ruler. It amuses me that I am making flashcards … and actually studying. Never in the way-too-many years I spent in school did I study like this … and I don’t remember ever really caring whether or not I remembered the material after regurgitating it for the test. 

Learning a foreign language is a whole different learning field for me. No one’s giving me a grade and passing me along to the next classroom. I’m being tested every day … by my actual Spanish teacher, by the signs in the street, the menus on the tables and the kid in the papeleria who couldn’t quite grasp what I wanted when I asked for a gobernante, the word Google Translate told me meant ruler. When that word didn’t work, I tried to pantomime “ruler” … you try … it’s not that easy. Finally, I saw one in a student’s kit on the wall and pointed toward it … “Ahh,” he says, “regla” and brings me one. When you can’t trust Google, who can you trust?

I keep seeing bouquets
of the most unusual combinations.

For years I’ve wanted to learn Spanish and even took the first 2-3 classes of beginning Spanish at least half a dozen times. For some reason I never made it past that first stage. Now, I’m pouring myself into this world where the price of admission is understanding and speaking the language. There are a few English speakers here but almost everyone I deal with doesn’t. It has never been that way in other places I’ve been in Mexico. There I could always muddle through and pay in dollars if needed. Not here. People are friendly and helpful and will put up with a lot of ungraceful hand gestures, but basically most people I meet just don’t speak English.

Last week, I sat in a living room with 5 other women … 2 Americans who speak Spanish, 2 Mayan women for whom Spanish is their second language and a Mexican woman … and one very happy Mexican guy. I want to be able to talk to these people but, right now, I’m only getting about 10% of the conversations and contributing a gibberish that is flying around the room landing almost nowhere. 

I hate to admit it but this state of affairs is after 4 weeks of pretty intense study. I know a lot

Would I learn to play the piano
if I had one painted like this?

of words and can conjugate a bunch of verbs but when I’m with someone, some sort of blockade goes up in my head and disconnects everything, leaving me wordless … in Spanish and English.

My original schedule had me going to Merida next week and then flying home. It has been slowly dawning on me
that the chances of my becoming fluent in Spanish if I leave next week are minimal at best. It could be done. I could continue to study and find people and resources to help me continue to develop proficiency. But, if I stayed here longer, I would be immersed in the language, have fewer distractions and my chances of advancing would be much better.

I don't know if this is my angel,
but she does make me smile.

There is a synchronistic angel who’s been riding on my shoulder since I arrived in this charming town and she was with me today when a new friend started telling me about a woman who wants to rent half a hacienda in the center of town … for 6 - 12 months. My new friend really likes it but doesn’t want to make the time commitment needed to rent it. It’s a beautiful place, owned by a woman poet who does not speak English and it’s within my budget. It looks and sounds perfect and I’m going to meet the woman on Tuesday.

Maybe being an "accidental"
is a good strategy.

I’m reminding myself that I’m not in charge of this … but I do find myself a bit breathless at the thought of spending six months or a year in Mexico. Yesterday I found the tiny flower at the right growing in a gravel walkway. It's not in the "right" place, but it's doing fine. Maybe I should learn from it.

I’ll let you know what happens.

More pics ... 

Ready for the next fiesta.

The mountains around here
remind me of Santa Barbara

But, I don't remember these
colors in Santa Barbara

How can you not love a place
that routinely makes you smile?

Los Colores!

A cape with two tasseled ties

One of the first things I noticed when I arrived in San Cristóbal de las Casas was the textile work ... on bags, jackets, dresses, table cloths and more ... incredible workmanship and, oh, the colors! I knew I was going to wind up buying something but I knew absolutely nothing about the work.

Once again, the Universe seems to be playing games. The woman I'm renting from told me she had just finished a book (as the photographer) and there was a copy on the table that I could look at. She also gave me the name of a couple of friends that I should contact. I saw the book but didn't pay attention to it until this morning when I was going to contact one of the friends who was the author of the book.

By now, you probably know what's coming ... the book is about the textiles of the region and how they vary from one village to the next and how they've changed over time. I decided to take the book to coffee with me and quickly became enthralled by the stories and the beautiful work. It wasn't until the last village discussed in the book ... Zinacantán ... that I had that OMG! reaction.

The story of how the Zinacantec came to this work was almost as engaging as the work itself.  Their costumes were relatively unadorned prior to 1975. After being introduced to embroidery by a school teacher, they made amazing progress and by the 1990's, their costumes filled with dazzling flowers reflecting the flowers grown in their region.

Part of their custom is for everyone to wear new clothes for each of the two fiestas per year. That was rapidly becoming a lot of handwork for the women. Here's the part I really enjoy as it is a pure innovation story ... the solution came when some women accompanied their husbands on flower-selling trips to Merida, the capitol of the Yucatan. There they discovered sewing machines and quickly adopted the new technology while keeping their own unique sense of style.

What we see in Zinacantán, where the embroidered flowers are so large, the colors so distinctive, and the ever-changing styles repeated en masse, is an intense discussion of color, form, and tradition that is happening everywhere in Highland Chiapas. Each community is creating its own new style with more than a passing glance at their neighbors but with complete disregard for what non-Maya may think is fashionable.  -- A Textile Guide to the Highlands of Chiapas by Walter F. Morris Jr. Photos by Alfredo Martinez and Janet Schwartz

 I immediately went to the mercado and started asking vendors if they had work from Zinacantán. This was a challenge for all of us since, for a lot of the vendors, Spanish is also their second language as they speak an indigenous language. Finally however, I was pointed to a tiny woman in a closet-sized stall. I recognized the work I was looking for and touched a wrap that called to me. The woman took it off the hangar and started putting it around my shoulders ... another challenge since she could barely reach that high. I looked at a few more and then bought the one you see above.

Here are some pics from today. I'm sure there will be more about textiles and the stories of the area as the days go on.

Another fiesta and
a view of more textiles.

Bags and more bags.

I want this tablecloth ...
wait a minute ...
I don't have a table!

Maybe these are some of the flowers
that inspire the textiles.  The red one
is probably 9-10" tall!

El Día de Abundancia Infinita

I struggled with the decision to leave Playa del Carmen. Part of me thought it was a decision I had made and I should suck it up, stick it out and find the beauty and gifts there even though I was hot, sticky and my sinuses were throwing a tantrum. A friend said, "we've sucked it up enough, get out of there!" and it was like my mom had given me permission to go out and play.

It now appears that the Universe agrees. Until a few days ago, I knew nothing of this place. A chance comment in San Miguel prompted a teaser from a friend about this place called San Cristóbal de Las Casas, in the highlands of the state of Chiapas, Mexico, close to the Guatemalan border. But, since I've arrived here … actually since I made the decision to come here ... it's like I'm in a different energy flow of people and connections. 

Before I even arrived at my destination, two angels went out of their way to come to my assistance. As a matter of fact, without the second one, I'm not sure I would have arrived at all. I was lost in the streets of San Cristóbal with a taxi driver who didn't speak English, didn't know how to find the address I gave him and neither of us had a phone. In the midst of this quandary, Blanca appeared and untangled the mess and stayed with me until I was safely inside my gate. As we were saying goodnight, I said, "Let's get together tomorrow," and she agreed.

Later I thought, hmmmm.  This is a Mexican woman I've met for about 10 minutes, what will we talk about? Whatever it was, it lasted over five hours as we roamed about the city. The more we talked, the more we realized that our backgrounds were leagues apart but our world views were uncannily close. The more I listened to her, the more I began to believe I was in the presence of a mystic … and that's not something I've ever felt before.

Blanca

This is a woman who has lived most of her life off the grid without a refrigerator or oven (by choice), has home schooled her children in a country where that is not common, and who, after only two months in this town seems to know, and be loved by, everyone.  She dresses in white like many of the indigenous people of the area and as we walked through the town, her hand automatically went to her pocket for a coin for the poor or obviously needy sellers of trinkets, even though she herself is selling baked goods and clay flutes and living just up the street in a camping area with two children.

One of the places we went today was the marketplace … a seemingly endless labyrinth of fruits, vegetables, meats, clothes … stuff. There were so much there I was almost overwhelmed by the abundance of it all. It vibrated with life in a way that is completely different from the well-stocked shelves of Wal-Mart. While there were many,

I have never seen so many beautiful
colores of beans!

many things i've never seen before, there probably weren't as many actual choices. Many of the vendors were selling the same things, so it wasn't about choosing between 50 varieties of toothpaste, it was about being in a place where everything was grown, sewn or made by the person selling it. There was a human connection between the seller and the consumer that has been lost in much of our world. 

Bought some of these incredible
orange mushrooms ... not sure what
to do with them.

I didn't take many pictures today.  I was too busy gaping at the "abundancia infinitiva" … like a rube in New York for the first time trying to comprehend sky scrapers. I've committed myself to further wallowing in this abundance and trying as many of these new things as possible during my time here. Más tarde.

Lunch was a seasonal specialty:
Chiles en Nogada ... pomegranate seeds
are the seasonal touch. Bueno!

And, in case you're wondering, these
will not be some of the things I'm trying!