¿A Good Case of the Mexicali Blues?

A note from the bus...(end)

2008-12-16T22:10:00.002-06:00

Oaxaca:

I think visiting a place for the second time is better than the first. It felt great to hit town, walk right to the hostel (where they know my name), and start running my Oaxaca errands. The first of the errands was to scout my ticket to the Mexico Norte station, the second was to go have a "Café Oaxaqueño" at a place called Los Cuiles. I still don't know what a Cuil is. Afterwards I played guitar on the street for quite some time and had a good talk with a French guy that happened by. A bed without snoring, fireworks, booming music, or razor-sharp spines facilitated a pretty incredible sleep.

In the morning I awoke, poured myself a cup of coffee, and sat in one of the hostel's many hammocks conversing with some guys. Lucien, a tall, gentle, dredded Frenchman with a good sense of humor (and who lives in the forest); Peter, a shaggy, wiry professional vagabond from the northwest hitchhiking through Mexico; Evan (who wanted to be called Tyrone."Who forgets a white guy named Tyrone?" he asked.), an eccentric waiter/cyclist who had cruised a huge chunk of the world and was headed for the bottom of Argentina and back up. We four formed a daylong band (the kind that hostels often bring into existence) and went to the ruins of Monte Alban, just above the city.

It was a downright enjoyable day. We meandered through the ancient city atop a hill in the middle of the Oaxaca valley, stopping many times to reflect on the Zapotec civilization and life in general, and to eat mandarins. For Peter and me, both having spend a good chunk of time in Mexico, it was a time to speak English again. As we were hitching back to Oaxaca, he stopped mid-sentence and remarked "…this is definitely the most I've talked in a really long time." And it was true. But good. Especially for me, since I needed to brush up on my English before hitting the states. After a while in Mexico I realized that my English was a little less fluid because I was always battling the urge to express things the Mexican way. Like if something was boring, I would know what I was feeling about it, but would be slow in saying it in English because my thought would be "me da hueva" instead of "it bores me," ...and so on. But a morning with these fellas, recounting adventures and learning quite a bit, was more than enough to bring my English rhetoric skills roaring back.

A few tacos later, I excused myself to buy my bus ticket and try to find a decent shirt (I'd left my favorite t-shirt out to dry on the rooftop in Pluma Hidalgo). The ticket was a success, the shirt a failure. In the evening, dinner was prepared by the Frenchman while Peter and I jammed out on guitar and mandolin. Our rendition of Wagon Wheel was fun enough to have us headed for the door to take it to the streets, but Lucien finished the main course and we had to stay. I'm not sure what it was, but it was sumptuous. After dinner, having some pesos to get rid of, I invited everybody for drinks on the town.

The day in Oaxaca speaking my native tongue and having lots of what I classify as good conversation was a little reminder of what I'll be able to do as often as I want back in the states. In a land where intelligent conversation is as hard to find as tacos are easy to find, it was a breath of fresh air. And though I was a bit jealous at times of their adventures that will continue for months more, I couldn't help but be satisfied to be heading homeward whilst they were heading away.

A note from the bus...(cont.)

2008-12-16T12:52:00.001-06:00

Pluma Hidalgo:

The Pluma Hidalgo section began to grow quite large, so I decided to make it a post in itself.

In the original plan, Pluma was just going to be a coffee buying stop…get the goods and be on my way. But when I got there I was welcomed so warmly and the people were so insistent that I had to stay. The folks I stay with in Pluma are a family…the late father bestowed a pretty rich inheritance to his (now adult) kids. Each of the four manages their own ranch in the hills below the town and the mother (now the grandmother) presides over everything. All three sons live in the big house with their families and their mom and several other random family members. The one daughter lives an hour away on the coast with her husband. On of the daughters-in-law runs the family restaurant. When he saw me for the first time Chepe, the youngest son and the merry drinker of the family, gave me a big hug and bought me a beer. He couldn't believe that I'd returned. But indeed, it was his idea that I return in mid-December--before I left in September, he rumored a big party going down on 12 December.

I got there on the evening of the 9th…mere hours before the festivities commenced. The 12th is the celebration of the Virgin of Guadalupe…basically the virgin Mary, but this version showed up in Mexico and has since taken on a life all its own. And in Pluma Hidalgo she's a bigger deal because she happens to be the town's patron saint. This seemed to translate into a longer, more frenzied, more colorful celebration.

As per the September rumor, the morning after I arrived all hell broke lose (don't tell them I used that particular turn of phrase). Fireworks filled the sky and live bands busted out Mexican classics as I followed a grinning old man named Pedro several miles down the mountain for a tour of one of the family coffee ranches. An hour of hiking later he said "Aquí está el rancho!" ("here is the ranch"…really more like "this is the ranch" in English) The tour mostly consisted of him showing me the process and looking back at me like a dog who has killed a mouse and wants to show you what he has done, smiling ear-to-ear and cocking his head to one side. "Aquí está el rancho!" he said again. A few minutes later he was surveying the place and, with a profound nod of his head he said "Aquí está el rancho." On about the twentieth "Aquí está el rancho," I politely made my exit.

When I stumbled up onto the main plaza, it had been transformed into festival mode--a collection of tarps held over vendors' booths by a network of cheap cord and rope, bands setting up their equipment in every nook and cranny, and six pick-ups being decked out for the evening's parade. I went to get the guidance of my nine-year-old friend José Maria as to what was going on. I met José in his family store last time I was in Pluma. We made paper airplanes for a while and I impressed him by telling him I have a friend who is a pilot. When I returned, he was happy to see me and questions poured from his brain like a fire hose. Not things like "where did you go" and "where are you from" (the normal, everyday questions), but things like "what is snow like?" and "what did you feel like the first time you flew in a plane?"

In the evening, the parade started. In the back of each truck, local kids recreated scenes from the story of the virgin of Guadalupe and half the town followed behind as they rolled one way down the main street, doubled back out to the edge of town, and returned again in the plaza. It all felt terribly cultural…like one of those movies they show in an anthropology class…long, drawn out, with music and colorful ribbons and mothers carrying babies with mustaches painted on them. During the walk, I attracted a fairly large following of the Pluma kids, all asking me crazy questions and showing me their airsoft guns (which is kind of a big cultural thing there for some reason--reminded me of the good old days in and about Haw Creek).

I was hanging out with the kids and watching a cool dance in the plaza (cool because the dancers throw candy at you) when "los negros" arrived. The four black guys, three from the states and one from Mexico City, had come into town for the basketball tourney that was to be held the next day and all the boys wanted to go meet them so we went and camped outside their hotel. "Todos los negros en los estados unidos son malos, verdad?" (all the black people in the US are bad (or evil), right?) asked José, as earnest as could be. I had to laugh at the blatant political incorrectness of the question, but then I explained that what you see in the movies and hear from ignorant, possibly racist Mexicans is not true. They were surprised to hear that I had black friends who were really cool and weren't gangsters. My daily contribution to global human rights complete, I went to greet the jugadores de basquetból.

When they found out I was from the states, they were really happy to see me and invited me to dinner. Over a scrumptious mix of rice, hotdogs, and eggs I learned about life on the Mexican basketball circuit…not an easy one. Two of the guys had just arrived a month before. Larry from Oakland, a top recruit in the bay area who got in trouble with the law before graduation, voiced his distaste for the Mexican diet saying "I want some Mac and Cheese!" They invited the pack of boys in as well, but José Maria was the only one who ate anything. This vexed old Larry. "I like to see kids eat. That's my heart."

I arrived again at the town square in time to see the beginning of the yearly dance where a bunch of boys and men dress in drag (complete with large, strategically-placed balloons) and Halloween masks and break it down, much to the enjoyment of the general populous. Chepe waved me over and paid for me to don what I think they were calling a mono…or something like that. It's basically a huge man suit…maybe ten feet tall. You kind of get harnessed in and the pants come up to your neck, then they put the top part of the giant man on and you just dance around, the arms flopping at the sides. It was more than a little surreal, peeping out of the porthole (about where the belt buckle would be), seeing throngs of grotesque-faced, scantily-clad, fake-women going nuts on all sides to the pounding beat of a Banda roll, with fireworks lighting up the night and startling all the babies and grandmothers sitting around watching.

In time, I was extracted from the giant and the sweat I'd worked up began to chill in the crisp night air. Donning my trusty sweater, I went to check out the basketball court which they were renovating in anticipation of the tournament and talked to my friend Paco who was busy coordinating it all. Then I went to bed…but not to sleep, due to the other-worldly snoring of the guy in the next room.

The next day held more fiesta, the black guys dominating at basketball, a little more hiking around (this time up instead of down), and a huge dance party on the bball court (which was prohibitively expensive for me) which lasted, no joke, from 9pm until 6:30am. It was cool because the fireworks (also going until 6:30) woke both the snoring man and me, but I got to sleep before he did. This made for a restful night's sleep, despite the two pointy springs that poked up through the mattress.

On the 12th, the actual day of celebration, things were already winding down. In the early afternoon, I said my goodbyes, packed up my coffee, and boarded a delightfully futuristic mini-bus for Oaxaca.

A note from the bus

2008-12-16T01:50:00.003-06:00

Alright then. I'm coming to you (not live) from a half-crippled bus racing towards Mexico City. Crippled as in the AC keeps breaking down and this large, possibly mentally handicapped German man keeps taking his shoes off and everybody keeps telling him to put them back on. Yeah.

Almost every time I get on one of these buses, I'm astounded at what low-quality cinema they screen. Right now we're watching The Prince and Me II: The Royal Wedding. I mean, come on now. The normal fare is about on par with this one…something with Sandra Bullock, Kevin Bacon, or just off-brand romantic comedy. Like, these are the films that you watch for a few minutes and wonder who in the world shelled out the dough to actually make them. Mainstream Hollywood churns out some pretty poor work, but the second rate stuff just makes me want to jump out of one of these big emergency exit windows and roll as a bloody mess into the much more interesting dust on the side of the road.

My time in Mexico has basically come to an end. A few days to hang out in Monterrey and that's all she wrote. Though I was pretty apathetic about my return before, the closer it gets, the more excited I am to get home for the holidays. The last ten days or so of travel in the have been fun--relaxed, even, which is something I was not expecting. But with the end of the journey coming up quickly I've been feeling a bit restless to finish it off…I don't know why. It's like the clock is ticking and I would rather it just end so that I can pick up another clock with a less urgent time frame and start a new adventure.

Despite the urgency factor, my time in the south has been a real blessing. And I believe I'll recount a little bit of it to give you an idea of what I've up to. (random thought: Eric Clapton really doesn't sound like a Brit when he sings.)

The Last Days:

The last days in Cuernavaca consisted of a lot of revisiting of people and places. The nights were filled with goodbye parties and movies with the family. During the free days I developed a reading habit. I would go into town in the morning to a sweet coffee shop above a artsy theatre, open up the old laptop, and read philosophy to possibly the best soundtrack I've found in Mexico (Moby, Emmylou H., Band of Horses, Nora Jones, Manu Chau, Sufjan Stevens, Bob Dylan, Arcade Fire…). Now as some of you know, I've never put much stock in philosophy and certainly never had the compulsion to read it for pleasure, but I figured that it couldn't hurt. And if I was going to knock somebody like Plato or Hobbes, I decided I ought to at least know a little bit about why I'm knocking them. I stumbled upon a website run by some professor that made it really accessible so I've been having a ball poking , prodding, taking notes on (and yes, learning from) a pretty interesting list of folks.

After the morning lectura, I would go to a restaurant on my short list of awesome places to eat, eat, and thank the folks for feeding me during the semester.

Taxco:

This former mining town now renowned for it's silverwork is a peaceful, if touristic, spot not far from Cuernavaca and the perfect first step south. I stayed at a cheap hotel where I found an eight-ball of cocaine under my bedspread. I thought to myself what a deal the 70 peso room would have been if I was a coke addict and briefly considered finding a buyer for the drugs, thus financing my stay. But I didn't. I left it in a whole in the wall for the next lucky person.

I spent most of my day in Taxco reading in some homey little cafes and walking up to take in the view. I spent a good bit of the night playing guitar around the main plaza. The next day Scott (roommate) and Joseph (Luxembourg) came up to town and we had lunch before I boarded a bus to Acapulco.

Acapulco:

I arrived at dark and found out that the bus to Huatulco didn't leave 'til 2am. This meat Saturday Night in Acapulco. I stashed my gear at the station and went to the Costera with my guitar to see what I could see. I swam in a resort pool, played guitar on the rocks in the bay, watched some bungee jumping, generally enjoyed myself, and ended the night with a coffee, a pen, and a little notebook.

San Agustín:

After 12 hours of transit, my return to San Agustín was exactly how I pictured it. I rolled up to Charly's Place and welcomed like a long-awaited hero…that's just how the folks are. In no time flat I was laid back in a hammock by the bay, chatting away with a icy cold Indio in my hand.

Whereas the time before I paid for very little, this time I paid for nothing, every night I got several invitations to dinner and/or drinks and every morning I ate breakfast with Charly and his family (who were not there in September). A bonfire, a seaside hike, and several life lessons later, I was on my way to Pluma Hidalgo.

By the way, looks like the the royal wedding went down just fine, but not after some unbelievable hijinks and tear-jerking suspense.

To Be Continued...

En Route...

2008-12-14T12:59:00.002-06:00

Alas, it has been some time since I've clued folks in as to my whereabouts and brushes with death and glory. Though I don't have much time, I thought I'd give a very quick update.

-The semester ended without a hitch.

-I made the rounds through Cuernavaca saying goodbye to the folks I've been hanging with.

-The entire administrative offices of the TEC somehow got a hold of my blog and were exposed to that last article. I hope they just looked at the pictures or else I may never get my transcript sent.

-On the 5th, I shot south and east.

-For the past week or so I've been kickin' it around Oaxaca...all the parts and people I came to know and love on my last trip.

-I've got 3.75 kilos of coffee in my backpack right now.

-The next 20 odd hours are going to be in buses and bus stations.

-I'm looking forward to being home for Christmas.

-The adventure continues.

love,

caleb

The Ascension of Cerro Tec

2008-11-30T12:07:00.006-06:00

I was fortunate enough to only go to school three days a week this semester. Every Tuesday-Wednesday-Friday I would share a taxi with a bunch of French people (or hop aboard the Route 20) out to the boonies and into the confines of the TEC. And every Tuesday-Wednesday-Friday I would look up at a clear, green, peak just above the school. And every Tuesday-Wednesday-Friday I would say to myself, or the nearest uninterested person “man, I really want to climb that.”

Well, this Friday my dream became reality. I set off south with Joseph, my good Luxembourgian friend, in his Chrysler Spirit— appropriately named the “Poderoso” (the mighty one). Joseph, or Luxembourg as I am apt to call him, has been a much-appreciated companion over the last few months. A tall, skinny, totally European-looking fellow, Joseph has a gift for languages and a peculiar, hilarious sense of humor. He’s quite intelligent, likes coffee, and shares a lot of my thoughts about the culture within our “prestigious” private university and in Méxcio in general. And he’s one of the few other people from school that think going downtown to have a drink and talk is just as viable a Friday night activity as spending it on the booming dance halls of Cuerna’s hottest clubs. We get along well.

Many times we’ve met to have a beer or a coffee and talk like two old men about the exchange student life in México. Our main beef is about what we call the fresitud of the TEC culture (fresa: well, it means strawberry, but it’s also a sweet adjective to describe someone as superficial, materialistic, fake—something like preppy) Our bulletproof theory is that the lives of the rich Mexican kids at school are confined to 3 places: the TEC, Galerias (the city’s mega-mall), and a handful of exclusive-ish discotecas. Many of my compatriots have been swallowed whole by the TEC crowd, so it’s refreshing to talk to a fellow critic of the lifestyle.

He’s going to be here for the whole year and has expressed the desire to find a Mexicana soul mate, so we often talk about how discouraging the pool of Mexican females is at Tec Cuernavaca. The superficiality sucks (you can’t carry on a conversation with these girls unless you talk about Galerias, the movies, gossip, or something related to name-brand consumerism). The spoiledness is often unfathomable (it’s grotesquely common for them to be talking on their iPhone, flipping through the same 21 songs on their iPod touch, driving their brand new VW the mall to buy $2000 peso shoes…you get the point). And the makeup culture is insane (I think that, if the TEC girls ever remove the gallons of makeup they slap on (which is a big “if”), their faces shrink to about half the normal size).

Suffice it to say that Luxembourg and I enjoy a good chat.

We also enjoy a good adventure, which is where we were headed in the Poderoso on Friday. We parked on campus and set out on foot towards the base of what we call Cerro Tec (Tec Hill).

Online photo of Cerro Tec from the west side ot the building.

Not 200m from the hive of luxury, opulence, and flojera, we stepped onto the dirt roads of Acatlipa. From the convenience-shop-lined main street, we started to ascend the hill and the further up we climbed, the poorer the living conditions became. From decent middle-class Mexico at the bottom, the houses began loosing luxury features like paint and water reseviours. Later windows and doors became scarce. At the top, the houses were nothing more than piles of rocks pulled from Cerro Tec (I still don't understand how they stayed upright).

We followed Cresta Fresa (Fresa Ridge) to the very top and found an incredible, stonewalled cornfield. Incredible because somehow the plants were growing up through pure rock.

Corn on the Rocks

We wondered at the sheer labor that was expended to plant and harvest the maiz in such an austere mountaintop and envisioned old men hobbling around on the rocks in the hot sun for 12 hours and making next to nothing. On the other side of the summit, we found what we were looking for.

Miles and miles of countryside...and this. If that's not surreal, I don't know what is.

In the middle of the Morleos "campo" sits Tecnologico de Monterrey, Campus Cuernavaca. An absolutely space-age building in a country of cinderblocks. It loomed below Cerro Tec like something out of a bad sci-fi movie. We pictured that old working man, coming direct from his stone-pile house, harvesting corn on the side of the mountain and catching sight of TEC--full to the brim with ultra priviledged, ultra lazy Mexican youth, many of whom are destined to live out their days without llifting a finger to do any real work. "Un poco pervertido, no?" Said Joseph.

Luxembourg. The TEC is his oyster.

We stood there for some time, thinking about the incredible contrast that exists in Mexican culture--a contrast played out right before our eyes. "Traes la bazooka?" (did you bring the bazooka?) asked Joseph (Now you see why I like this guy so much).

Where are your Rebel friends now??

In addition to being good exercise, our little excursion served to give me a mental picture of the divide that exists here between the rich and everybody else. And it made me realize that,though I can recommend Cuernavaca as an awesome place to study abroad, I think that my end-of-term report on the school will read something like this:

Though I did learn a good deal (especially in Destrezas Comunicativas with Prof. Sergio), I developed a fairly intense distaste for the school itself which seems to attract the least interesting, least motivated students in Mexico. If you're ok with shallow friendships and reverting back to a middle school maturity level, the TEC is your spot. Otherwise, see if you can find another school where "Fresa" has a negative conotation intead of being a compliment. In fact, ask that question exactly. And if you do decide to go to the TEC, a bazooka may come in handy.

Coffee Odyssey

2008-11-27T22:37:00.005-06:00

Well folks, I’ve come to a lull in the fighting—one that should last until January. As of Wednesday the semester is officially over and I’m one week, one paper, one presentation, and one exam away from leaving the City of Eternal Spring behind me indefinitely. Tonight I’m just relaxing and thinking about the things I’ll miss when I leave Cuernavaca…inevitably the 11 peso Americanos come to mind (that’s 83 cents these days, yo). I realized that I’ve made a lot of references to coffee since I’ve been down here—enough to be called a coffee fanatic, snob, and addict. I may be all those things. If so, my apologies…I hate fanatics, have a distaste for snobs, and addicts…well, they’re ok. Anyway, I gave my own personal coffee odyssey this afternoon and I thought I might share it with you—not to justify my fanaticism, but because I kind of want to see exactly what it is. And it may explain some things about me, who knows?

Today I had lunch with some German friends at the city’s only health food restaurant, a fine establishment where 45 pesos brings a veritable feast to your table. The last course is coffee (or tea) and dessert and, as we sat and sipped our hot beverages, the non-coffee-drinking Germans asked me about how I came to like coffee. So I told them. First off, I was born into a coffee family. As I grew up I watched Mom and Dad become ever more skillful at preparing the stuff and ever more elitist in their tastes. Though I loved the smell, I could never understand how they could like the taste. This continued into high school…I drank a bit with dessert when guests were over, but usually just because I wanted to talk with the adults.

During the last years of school, I started playing guitar with a bunch of honest-to-goodness good ol’ boys at the Black Mountain Center: an old banjo player named Bud Lewis, his middle-aged sons, and their posse of rag tag pickers and grinners (notably the illustrious Mark Bordeaux and this guy from Warren Wilson who played a saw…yep, a saw). Every Tuesday at 7:30 the hits rolled out of that little auditorium like Bel Airs from a '57 production line (boy, GM's wishin those days would come back aound)—mostly old time standards played in a distinct Americana Honky-Tonk style. I think that was where I started to play and sing in front of people—good place to start because the residents there loved whatever you played, as long as it had a good beat. You learn a lot about live music playing for elderly mental patients.

I left every week with a smile on my face and not a little homework to finish so every week I’d head to the Dripolator in Black Mountain (before the downtown Drip days, y’all) to write, read, procrastinate, or what have you until they shut the place down. I started off getting chai lattes and the like, but soon realized that a chai habit was nigh on unsupportable and switched to coffee, the cheapest way to rent space in the Drip’s cosy wood-toned confines. It felt pretty official, studying with the college kids, a steaming cup of Joe weighing down a copy of that week’s Mountain Xpress. In the cold winter months, the warm glow of the shop was a destination in itself. I’d walk in shaking off the cold, order up a round, and just bask in how perfectly ideal my Tuesday nights were. Somewhere along the line, I started to associate the taste of the coffee with the perfection of the Black Mountain Center Opry (not an official term…yet) and the relaxed homework sessions, completed to the rhythm of the Drip’s spot-on soundtrack—how could I not begin to love coffee after that?

That year, I started to understand what all the fuss was about. More importantly, I started to understand why Dad’s breath always smelled like coffee when he whispered to me in church. I started to enjoy the fact that my parents liked to do coffee right. I started to look forward to the big pot that they broke out when folks came over to the house. All in all, I made a pretty smooth transition from the realm of social coffee drinking to that of light coffee appreciation.

Then I went to school. Some people say that Chapel Hill has the largest number of coffee shops per capita in the country and, while that might be a bit far-fetched, I think it’s safe to say that my choice of university did not serve to diminish my taste for coffee. In fact, one of my first quests after arriving at UNC was to find the place that felt the most like the Dripolator—thus ensuring myself a spot to actually get work done. I found it at the Open Eye Café and quickly, without ceremony, became a regular. Again, a cup of hot brew became associated with good things. This time the mug rested on the latest issue of the Indy Weekly or a half-finished DTH crossword, but the vibe was about the same. The Open Eye was a nice little place to swing by during one of my numerous escapes from campus. To stop in and work or procrastinate a bit on the way to/from the thrift store was the pinnacle of any given afternoon.

And now I’m here in México averaging over a cup a day and really able to tell what a good cup of coffee is and what’s not worth my time. It’s an entertaining hobby here in a land of exceptional, largely unappreciated beans (99.99% of people drink instant Nescafé) and one that I acquired second-hand: from the glowing hominess of a little shop in Black Mountain, NC while trudging through the academic mess of senior year.

All this blabber brings to light two fairly intriguing factoids (awesome word). 1.) Despite having all the trappings of upper-middle class coffee-taste-inheritance, my taste for coffee stemmed from an acute appreciation of workplace comfort. You decide the lesser of two evils. 2.) After thinking through the above journey, it turns out my high school education did have a point to it after all. Who knew?

Dawn of the Pirate

2008-11-20T18:00:00.003-06:00

(title and photo taken from the drudgereport...because they are both awesome)

I took the night bus back to Cuernavaca and arrived in the morning with a pretty severe infirmity. And by severe, I mean vomiting uncontrollably in the streets…trying to make it past the highly-populated tourist area but not getting there and saying "I'm sorry" to all the people sitting around having a nice breakfast as I scrambled around puking in the most acceptable spots I could find. Not the best way to pass a morning.

A three hour culture class and an hour of group work in the afternoon/evening didn't seem to help much either. I finally arrived home at 8:00 with a 101F fever and an aching everything. I decided I might need to get some rest. And I did.

Today I'm feeling much better, but I figured it would be good to take it easy. After meeting with a few unsavory Mexican classmates at school to finish a project from a far more unsavory teacher, I've retreated back home to relax and have been sifting, wide-eyed, through stories of these Somali pirates and their lastest take, a Saudi supertanker...by far the largest vessel ever to be taken by pirates ("about three times the tonnage of a US aircraft carrier"). Whoa.

Those of you who've seen me around in the past few years may be privy to the fact that I fell into a pretty serious pirate phase from which I never really escaped. I mostly just wanted a pirate ship....hek, I still want a pirate ship. But I was certain that the time of bounty-hunters roving the high seas (and actually making a living off it) was over and done. Guess not.

The fact that these guys can hijack a boat full of $100 million of oil and bring it home to chill off the coast of Somalia with the entire world watching and remain untouched is pretty incredible . I've heard rumors of Somali fishermen/militiamen-turned pirates before, but with this high-profile job I think we've seen the rebirth of the pirate. I mean, when merchant ships start mounting guns on their decks for the first time since WWII and top US Admirals start advising that big freighters to hire mercenary commandos you know something's going down. All I can say is, it's exciting.

Perhaps I'm just nostalgic for the violent and debaucherous past. But seriously, all those legends of pirates plundering the world's richest ships and then retreating to their secret and unassailable hideaways to live as kings…that's exactly what's going on around the Horn of Africa right now. Tactics and weaponry have changed, but the buccaneer ethos seems to have remained intact after all these years. Jimmy Buffet sings a song called "A Pirate Looks at Forty" in which he says "Yes, I am a pirate…200 years to late." Turns out he could have said 20 years too early. The only question I have is will RPGs diminish or augment the allure of piracy?

Signs point to augment.

The "San"s: Miguel de Allende and Blas

2008-11-15T14:18:00.005-06:00

Vintage: Friday, November 14, 2008

11:30am

San Blas. Definitely not the sort of Pirate Village I'd envisioned, but homey nonetheless. I'm Staying at a little beachside compound run by a world-class longboarder known around these parts as "Pompy"…don't ask me why. My fellow campers are the relaxed, peace-loving sort that you might expect to be hanging around a place called "Stoner's Surf Camp." The high Aussie concentration accounts for the 'round-the-clock beer consumption and general wit that characterizes my Stoner's experience thus far.

Of course, hanging out with such laid-back folk makes the slow, costly process of writing semester projects seem that much heavier, but I actually had a very successful writing blitz late yesterday which opened the evening up to hours of rather entertaining conversation.
As it stands, my budget precludes the purchase of copious amounts of alcohol, but I had fun watching the rest partake in the famous Aussie pastime of beer consumption. I realized that while Americans (in my opinion) usually get more boring as they get drunk, the people of Oz get much more entertaining as the drinks march on. Perhaps that explains their international drunkard stereotype.

Well, this trip has been quite the working vacation. The duality of sleeping in a hammock by the sea or a dry fountain on the streets at night and cracking open the laptop in a nice café in the morning has been pretty pleasing to me. I started off in Queretaro; arriving at midnight, I was wondering where to go but was quickly invited by a nice lady to crash in an empty bed

at her house for the night (sounded sketch, but turned out fine).

In the morning, I shot over to a place called San Miguel de Allende. Recommended by various and sundry compatriots, what I found was a pretty little city chock full of middle/advanced-aged Americans. It feels like all the people who want to retire in luxury but can't quite swing it in the states go there. Weird, weird culture…not really one that I support. But the surfeit of gringos also meant the highest concentration of free Wi-Fi in the entire Republic which was good for me, so I decided that I couldn't be too critical. I split my nights in San Miguel between the streets and a quiet hostel (called Alcatraz…I finally learned that in addition to a prison and an overused movie plot device an alcatraz is a seabird. Go figure) Alcatraz's hot shower was incredibly welcome when I arrived. Due to high food prices I survived on tamales and atoles (not sure what it is…but I think it's sort of a drink made out of flavored corn syrup. Lemme tell ya, that stuff fills you up. It would be worth the return trip just to have another cookie-flavored atol. Wow.) in the city's small downtown market. Verdict: Worthwhile, if you can pardon the people who've been living there for six years and still can't speak Spanish.

On Wednesday, I made a dash to reach San Blas, but fell short in Tepic, an hour and a half away, and was stranded for the night. Having been in a state of semi-sleep during 8 hours of buses, I wasn't too ready to sleep despite the late hour, so I dodged cops until the wee hours of the morning writing a bit more (gotta hit that daily quota {which doesn't actually exist}). I napped near a church until the cold woke me up. Then I boarded the 5am bus to San Blas. Aboard the bus I met a Canadian who also slept on Tepic's empty streets. World traveler since 18 (now

27) and a seeker of vibrations and extremely vague spiritual things, he was something of an oddity to me. I couldn't understand how someone could be so strongly set on something so undefined and ephemeral, but that's what's "in" these days with the druggie globetrotter set. Enough magic mushrooms and things get really spiritual really fast.

In San Blas I've continued my half-merrymaker/half-student ways (reminds me of final exam time at school). And as usual I've done a lot of walking. On a sheer-cliffed hill above the town is an abandoned church ("immortalized" in the poem The Bells of San Blas by Longfello

w who, oddly enough, never saw the church. There were no bells) and the hull of an old Spani

sh fort, looking reservedly down on the coastline. Going on the hunch from my friend in CVA, I thought the fort was to protect from pirates, but the sign said it was constructed to ward of Russian forces? Whoa, didn't see that on coming. Merits a bit more research I should say. I didn't know the Russians even had a navy in the pre-soviet era. And can you imagine a Russian pirate? He would be awesome.

Speaking of imagination, there is also a part of the hill around which a veritable hoard of 50-60 vultures constantly hover. I walked up to the point and stood there, totally surrounded by scores of circling vultures--those things are huge! And then I thought about how scary it would be if, wherever you went, you always had 50 vultures gliding silently around and above you. Can you imagine a Russian pirate setting foot upon the shore, covered in a shroud of pure vulture. The peasants would freak out.

Anyway, here I am. Alive and quite well, encouragingly past the halfway mark on my writing work, and experiencing the best of satellite Australian community. Not a bad way to pass the time. Verdict: awakened by the sunrise every morning, fix a huge pot of Oaxacan coffee and sit under the palapas watching the steam rise from your cup as your friends slowly wake up and drift over the the coffee pot. sit for a couple hours talking slowly as the sand heats up and the waves grow to surfing perfection. San Blas gets a hearty nod.

(Arbitrary Title Because There's No Actual Subject To Be Found Here)

2008-11-08T14:05:00.004-06:00

Ay. (sounds like "eye") I've been saying that a lot lately. It can express tiredness, surprise, when someone almost falls down...pretty much applies for everything. It's not super-common in Mexican Spanish, mostly used by old women, but it seems to fit must places I put it. I keep trying to remember what sounds I made in English to express the same thing. No idea.

As November begins reaching full swing, I am being suddenly being pushed out of the nest of complacent Mexicanism that I've constructed over the past couple weeks. With a 10-day adventure beginning this evening and about 30 pages worth of "proyectos finales" to slog through, I feel like the strange, relaxed habits I've developed have to come to an indefinite end (habits such as clicking the "Random Article" button on Wikipedia for two hours...you learn a lot that way, believe me). But it's nice to have this last little sprint to the finish, that way I won't be terribly out of form when I get back to the buzzing academeopolis that is Chapel Hill (not making any claims to a beautiful "form" at school, but functionality as a scholar is helpful when you're doing scholarly things).

Sprint to the finish. Indeed, 40 more days. Feels like very few. For a while, I was kind of stuck between wanting a lot more time in Mexico and feeling the need to head back to Chapel Hill for, oh, maybe a year and a half. Now, however, I am more than certain that Mexico will be down here for a very long time and a lot of this will be the same whenever I get back. Things on the Hill are constantly in flux and, in my opinion, it's very much worth the effort to be there and catch your own little piece of the "college experience," which sounds cliche, but you know...

One thing I thought about as I wished to stay in Mexico is that here I don't have to look far to find new things, and I like that. My brain seems to get off on new things--words, cities, foods, smells. Walking the streets of Mexico I feel like a connoisseur of the entire world...from sounds of a mother scolding her son to the cracks in the sidewalk. It's hard to explain.

What I eventually realized was that I love things that are already familiar, too--the lopsided feel of my backpack when my water bottle is full, the one little puesto in the market where I always buy my produce, the ridiculous crack in my computer screen that gives the rest of the world an acute case of OCD. Again, hard to explain, but sufice it to say that no matter where I am, I'm usually tuned into this channel where life is like one of those hidden object puzzles, except all the hidden objects are higlighted in vivid colors.

My friends from around the globe are always shocked to find out that I've never smoked pot, colloquially called "mota" around here (yesterday a surprised Mexican buddy told me that he was sure I had because I "fit the profile perfectly"). Of course they always ask me "why not?" A couple months ago, after spending some time on the beach with a group of herb-enthusiasts I found my answer. I asked a few of the Mazunte beach bums, "So...what's so great about being high again?" "Well," they explained, "you're just really relaxed and you feel like nothing is too big a deal. You feel a little heavy and just kind of content with things. You think a little differently, you see things a little differently." A smile crossed my face and was slowly, stonedly mirrored in theirs. "Whoah," said I, "I think I'm always high."

A silly observation? I thought so too. But the more I thought about it, the more it fit. I don't know what the implications are for my life in general, but it kind of explains why I don't care overuse "substances" (interesting word). And I think it gives me license to leave this fine country on December 17th with the promise that upon my return it will be equally enchanting.

But while I'm still here in Tacolandia, as it is sometimes called, I'll enjoy it. Leaving on the aftanoon bus to Querétaro. From thence I shall make my way through San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato, Guadalajara, and a beach called San Blas, chewing non-stop through through these semester project and, as always, searching for the coolest and best cafes that the places have to offer. A friend told me that San Blas used to be like a pirate village. Even though said friend lives in the bus station and is slightly off his rocker, I'll still be searching for pirates and living on Pirate Time.

I'll check in when I get tired of these projects (read: soon). Cheers.

So, That's What a Righteous Wind Feels Like

2008-11-05T13:54:00.005-06:00

For the past day or so, my cultural experiences have been centered outside of Mexico. Election Day here made me feel like a beleaguered ex-pat, fed up with the system, assuming an air of total disinterest, but unable to turn away. In fact, that's probably how I would feel if I was in the states. Last night I was writing a totally unrelated (maybe) song and trolling the internet for updates and election maps. As soon as the electoral college turned into a blow-out, it lost it's novelty so I "navigated" away (nice modernism; makes my computer feel very sea-worn) to other virtual waters.

Facebook. The "social" marvel of the last few years. I laid down my guitar and scrolled through the hundred or so statuses (stati?), updated in the last few hours. My heart sighed heavily at what I saw. My friends are split straight up the middle. Half of their emotions read like a kid on Christmas morning, impossibly jubilant at the rise of this Obama guy. The other half were verbally rending their garments and cutting their chests.

I sat there for a long time, reading every word and associating each with its writer. Given my somewhat jaded view on politics of late, the first dozen had me smiling at the absurdity of it all. The extreme exultation, the gut-wrenching lament--like something out of a Monty Python skit. My amusement soon soured as I realized that these weren't just a few political fanatics...it was nearly everyone. A wave of sadness hit me with this observation. McCain and Obama had somehow turned the country into two unrecocilable camps (I would use the idea of "black and white", but some might cry racism). There were people joyfully thanking God for what he'd done that night and others crying out to him to spare their country from certain doom. Unbelievable.

Politics are messy. Politics are divisive. Politics turn your average Joe into a vicious contender with any other average Joe who hasn't "seen the light." From internet forums to conversations between friends, people vomit up the most ridiculous crap all over each other. Personal attacks reach an all-time low and the possibility of rational communication ends. I'm glad to have been in Mexico for election season.

I don't understand this amount of zeal for the political powers-that-would-be. There are precious few (if any) real examples of political figures changing things. Yes, Obama rode the "this-is-real-change" train all the way to the bank; yes, he rallied millions to his side...just like thousands upon thousands of politicians have done ever since, well, probably forever. The huge majority of all the things he said were a tasty mixture of fluff and BS. Hello, that's politics folks...I don't think I'm too far off base saying that. So I find it hard to fathom all this extreme emotion. Obama fans must have skipped over the fact that he's not going to get all their hopes and dreams sewn up in 4 years, or even 8. It just won't happen. The garment-renders must have forgotten the same. The fellow is pretty, he's charismatic, but he's basically another politician and he's not going to get as much done as he would like. This seems to be the very nature of politics.

Perhaps things will calm down soon. Perhaps emotions will cool and friends will have intelligent conversations again. And conservatives just might be a little less caustic to the new prez. That would be refreshing. I'm praying for Barrack and I'm praying for what comes next, but most of all I'm praying that this post-election rift heals quickly, unlike the past two elections.

Meanwhile, we can all wait with a bit of excitement to see what happens. And for those of you planning to go abroad in the next four years, you're going to have a much easier time getting along with the locals. Yesterday I talked to people from Mexico, Luxembourg, Finland, Denmark, Sweden, Germany, France, Holland, Nigeria, and Canada and they were all giving the States a huge, collective high five. Finally, the days of automatic prejudice based on president-elect over. Good news for us expats.

In other news, I found a $20 (USD) bill on the street today. Finally felt that jubilation that the Obama crowd was telling me about.

The Godfather

2008-10-25T17:39:00.002-05:00

Having reached another dead end in my productivity, I thought "why not send another transmission over to the homefront?" In any case, it's better than mulling over grave and unchangeable issues. I don't know, whenever I think very hard about the state of "things" I feel as though it's necessary to start some kind of revolution. Unfortunately, in this day and age, rebellions only start and never end…at least they never end in the way that the rebels had in mind. So I'm holding back on executing the revolution plan 'til it's bulletproof.

Instead, I'll recount a short, sweet story of last night. This past week, my favorite coffee shop here underwent some renovations. And last night they threw a huge reopening bash. There was free wine and cheese and cake, and tequila. There was a mariachi band jammed in and around the tiny shop cranking out the hits. All was festive and loud and awesome.

I walked up just as Arturo, the owner (his son is also named Arturo, as is another guy who works here…it's like the Artur

o Café), and his wife were stringing up a thin ceremonial ribbon. "Ah, Caleb!" they said, "We need a Padrino! Come on and cut the ribbon!" So I joined a teacher lady and, with a little pair of scissors, did so. Thus she and I became the "godparents" of the newly renovated shop.

Earlier in the semester, I learned a bit about the traditional roots of "Padrinazgo" (godfathership?) here in Mexico. When a family invests in something (from a new cow to a new religious icon), they take it to the church to be "baptized" and they scrounge up some folks to be the godparents of the thing. The padrinos are kind of a symbol of someone looking after the "fuerza" (yeah, the force, like Star Wars) of the investment. I think the godparents are supposed to bring a gift. Oops. Basically, it's like godfatherhood of a kid, just without the kid part

Those who know me might suspect that I was more than a little thrilled to be godfather to a coffee shop, and they'd be

right. Yes, I'm a very proud padrino. In fact, I'm here in the café right now. You know, gotta make sure the force is strong with this one. And I've got to make sure that the new crepe-maker works alright. Test-crepes on the house? Of course I'm here.

This Weekend's Ramblings Part 2: Puebla

2008-10-25T15:20:00.003-05:00

After my night in Cholula and breakfast atop the pyramid, I turned my focus to Puebla. I spent the better part of three days in Puebla and it never failed to disappoint. Since sleeping out in the big city was not very attractive, I first went to find Oliver, my host for the next couple days. Though it was not as simple as it first sounded, we did finally connect and he brought me back to his place. Oliver has a pretty big house near the famous Universidad de las Americas and only one housemate (an exchange student from France) so I got my very own room with two comfortable beds and plenty of warm blankets. If that wasn't pleasing enough, he also produced a map of the city and took the time to explain all the spots that were worth checking out and sent me on my way (with helpful instructions on how to return to the house).

The first few places I visited were nice, but lacked the incredibility factor of, say, the tow-lot in Cholula: an old convent-turned-cultural center (though the restrooms were free; that's always a plus), a huge cathedral with a side chapel covered in gold, a streetwalk market full of Mexican

hippies and their wannabe co

unterparts ("guanabi" in Spanglish) hawking cheap, natural-looking trinkets and (interestingly) weird poached animal goods (think a hat with a wolf head attached and a gator-skin purse with a real baby alligator head peering out of the side). All this was well and good, but I really started getting into the Poblano (Pueblan) culture around lunchtime in a market south of the city. Evidently this place is the spot for the local gastronomic delight "Cemitas" something like a sandwich that's spent a few years on steroids. Oliver told me to expect huge, but I just wasn't prepared for what came out to my flimsy plastic table. I mean, when two thick slices of ham are used as a condiment, you know things are pretty serious.

I stumbled out of the Mercado del Carmen and walked for a few hours, trying to recover from the cemita. It's a pretty city to cruise through. I'm not a huge architecture buff, but the streets have a lot of texture to them and the churches are sweet. I mean, it can get tiring walking into every single church, but it's a fun little pastime to walk into the nearest cathedral and get a spinning sensation when you realize how massive it is. I mean, I still don't really understand why they built them so huge and ornate, or why they built so many, but the spinning sensation is fun. Funny…some people do weed, others do coke…I just walk in and out of large examples of the Mexican Baroque period.

In the evening I went out with Oliver and Ancha to eat some late night tacos and hang out with some friends in a house in Cholula. It was really nice. I mean, that's something lacking in the culture here in CVA. Nobody here believes in just hanging out and talking on a Saturday night. To do so would be a failure. But I must say that I rather liked it, though as I grew sleepy it was harder and harder to keep up with the conversation.

I slept late Sunday morning and had tea and fruit for breakfast before heading downtown to look for a church. I picked one that I liked (because the steeple thing was square instead of the usual round), but left after not too long. I don't know if it's a normal Catholic thing or not, but a dude started coming around with a golden pot hemorrhaging thick smoke and another guy sat up in front ringing a bell and looking like one of those hapless minions in the Temple of Doom. Creeped me out. So I left and ate a hearty brunch and read Colossians. Not exactly church, but at least I understood what was going on.

For the rest of the afternoon, I basically just hung out in a couple of Puebla's best coffee shops, reading, writing, and relaxing. I got a little taste of home when I invited a homeless guy to dinner and an americano at a nice café. A native Poblano sporting a sweet grey beard, Erik never knew his parents and has lived on Mexico's streets since age 9. It was interesting to find out that he was very well-traveled, much more so that any of my friends from the middle and upper classes. I know there's a huge culture of work-search migration here, but I didn't know about the homeless circuit.

I tried to imagine a life without a trace of flesh and blood family, born onto the streets, but I really couldn't. I just sat across the table from my new friend and watched the wrinkles around his eyes deepen as he laughed out loud at the coffee, set gently upon the table with a few packets of natural sugar and a shiny little spoon. He'd never set foot in a café like that before. He'd never in his 50-some years eaten a bagel-ish sandwich like they served him there that night. It reminded me that, though the vagabond life is strangely beautiful to me, I am far from being a hobo. For starters I have a loving family; it's hard to be homeless when your family loves you. And while old-school, bearded streetfolk only drink a few café-style cups of coffee in their entire lives, my number-of-cups-imbibed is getting close to "countless." So I'm not straight-up, full-blooded vagrant material. In my mind the only other true hobo-types are those with a rough, rough past who are choosing the path of least resistance away from it. So it looks like, unless something serious happens, I won't be a certified vagabond. I may still look like one, though. (I find that my homeless friends have a style that, besides being quite affordable, is very chic to me.)

Other good things about Puebla included an incredible art exhibit where the main mediums were tires and cars, finding the Mexican movie soundtrack I'd been hunting since August, and learning how to say "sweet potato" in Spanish (should come in handy when I'm making Thanksgiving dinner for all my friends here).

Well, it's Saturday afternoon and all I've done today is play around with the format of some semester projects, got sucked into a slew of bioethics articles on Wikipedia, and written this. But I mean, that's not half bad if you think about it. And I've been listening to music streaming from folkalley.com all the while, so really it's been a very successful Saturday so far, huh? And later? Shopping for large quantities of fruit, dodging the weekend crowd of misplaced Chilangos, and celebrating the birthday of a good French buddy of mine (never thought you'd hear that, did ya?).

PS: that was a lot of three-item lists in two little paragraphs.

This Weekend's Ramblings Part 1: Cholula

2008-10-22T13:56:00.002-05:00

This weekend I went to Puebla. Lauded as one of Mexico's thriving cultural centers, I decided that it, along with it's famous sister-city Cholula, definitely merited a once-over. So I left directly after Friday's battery of classes.

This trip took on a very different face from the rest, beginning with the p

acking. My usual MO for weekend trips is sort of "Go. And see what happens." so I usually tote what people have come to call my "Super Mochila" (Super Backpack)--a beautiful monstrosity of canvas and carabineers, full of everything necessary to survive indefinitely in any place on earth. However, a one-night adventure in Mexico City (toting a my smaller, sleeker daypack) proved that if the traveling situation was controlled, I didn't need to harness the incredible power of a fully armed and operational Super Mochila. So this weekend, in its place, I brought along the Little Martin, my tiny, trusty guitar, with the objective of learning some new songs and possibly playing for my supper.

Planning the trip ahead of time allowed me to use the "Couc

hsurfing.com" network once again. (Note: Couchsurfing is basically a community of people all over the world who have couches and beds at their houses and are willing to open them up to people from all over the world who need a place to stay the night (the week, the month…you name it).) It's a pretty sweet idea. I mean, anyone who'll let complete strangers crash on their couch is probably an interesting (and easygoing) person…the perfect host. It's good way to save money and a great way get to know a place from the point of view of the natives. I told my host, Oliver, I'd be there on Saturday.

I intentionally left Friday night in play because, well, I

like a bit of improvisation. Figured I'd go to the relatively small town of Cholula and pass the night the best way that presented itself. On the rickety bus to Cholula, I met a well dressed man who was very nice and very engaging and we talked ab

out economics and Mexicans for some time. I was thinking, due to has agreeability and gentle nature, that perhaps he was a fellow Christian but had to smile when he revealed that he was a devout Mormon. Only a Mormon could be that nice.

I arrived downtown and, as has become my custom, walked the streets for about an hour, noting all the promising cafés, taco stands, markets and hiding spots. I always figure it's best to have some knowledge of the streets, in case I get hungry or have to make a run for it. Later, I settled down on a park bench to eat an elegant little dinner. During dessert I whipped out the Little Martin and started hacking away on some new songs (a hearty mix of Tim O'Brien, Bob Dylan, and John Hiatt). I wasn't looking for money and this must've seemed strange to the passersby because they kept stopping and asking what I was doing. They were all concerned about where I was staying for the night and by the end of a couple hours, the pages of lyrics I had printed were graffitied with phone numbers and email addresses in case I needed anything. I felt quite loved by the people of Cholula and was grateful for their concern, even though they kept interrupting my rendition of "Lily, Rosemary, and the Jack of Hearts."

As the night drew on, the mountain air got chilly and I started losing feeling in my fingers. This obviously took some of the pleasure out of sitting playing guitar so I hiked on down the road in search of a cup of coffee and some protection from the biting wind. On the way I passed Cholula's biggest attraction, a huge mountain that is actually a huge pyramid atop which the Spaniards built a tidy little convent-ish thing. At a "famous" restaurant at the corner of the pyramid, I slowly swigged an ill-prepared americano and tried to think above the karaoke session in the adjoining room. Though I wanted to play a little more guitar and go have a beer with Paco, one of my newfound friends, the cold outside and my own exhaustion were suggesting I call it a night, so I donned my knit cap and went to find a place to lay my head.

I actually knew pretty much where I was going. On the other side of the pyramid I had found a field of tall, soft grass which turned out to be the impound lot of a towing company. Filled with all manner of cars, trucks, and autobuses, I felt certain it was the ideal place to spend the night. After some brief recon, I decided the bench seat of a 90s era F-150 was the perfect spot, so I threw my gear in the bed and climbed in for a nice long sleep. Although I had to share the cab with a huge, heavy tire, and although I'm slightly longer than a pickup is wide, I found the wind protection to be the key to a good night's rest and I fell fast asleep, hoping that the towing company didn't have 24-hour guards.

When I pulled the t-shirt off of my face in the morning, the sky was a dusty predawn blue through the unwashed windshield and I extricated myself from the truck (no small feat due to the tire) and laid down in the grass to watch the sunrise. For a long time I was in sort of a trance, watching the first rays of sunlight work their way down the side of an abandoned bus and thinking about the country in which I am living. I mean, I'd just spent the night in the cab of a red F-150 in an impound lot, just below the largest pyramid (by volume) in the entire world on which sits an ancient catholic church, all against the backdrop of a giant, smoking, snowcapped volcano. Only in Mexico is that possible.

Mass of Teachers Spooked by Hovering Justice

2008-10-13T18:40:00.002-05:00

Note: This post was written on Friday (10October2008), but I forgot to post it before I left for Mexico City...

Cuernavaca nearly had some excitement last night. Nearly. The Cuernavackians have complained for years that nothing ever happens here, but last night they seemed more than a little worried about the prospects of some real happenings.

I was hanging out at my favorite café. This particular place (which I'm sure I've mentioned before) has become more of a home than my place in "Junto al Rio." It's not that I spend more time there necessarily, but the community that hangs out there feels more like a family to me. At my house here, I'm mostly just an oddity to be poked and prodded--the family wants to see what's up with this strange Yank, like finding a big jellyfish on the beach. Not that I mind all that much, but it can be quite tiring at times. The folks at the coffee shop are different. Unhurried, unscripted, and living with some sense of purpose (something that's often sorely lacking at the house). Ever since I helped the owner's family hang a shelf in the shop, I've been accepted into the community that surrounds "Paraíso del Café." They're even teaching me how to use the espresso machine making drinks for the customers. It's a good place.

Anyway, yesterday evening I walked up to find two of the baristas and another friend, Roberto, sitting, smoking on the stairs leading up to the tiny bar. It seemed odd, but it wasn't until I dropped my bag inside that I realized that all the tables and chairs traditionally set on the patio and sidewalk were stacked inside the little café. When I asked what was going on, they told me the Federales were coming. Whoa, the one thing missing in my Mexican experience to date! Federales! A quick glance around the streets proved that we were not the only ones excited about it. All the businesses were barring their doors, people were standing in small groups arching their necks as if to see around the corners of the city blocks. "Where are the riot police?" was the question of the hour.

You see, for the past 50 odd days, hundreds upon hundreds of teachers from elementary schools all over the state have been camping in the Zocalo and every adjoining street. The reason? Fuzzy at best. Some (non-teachers) say that the educators don't want to take a competency test to prove they are capable of teaching. Some of the teachers are shouting that government is taking steps to privatize schools. Some say they are losing benefits. Some, upon my inquiry, have stared nervously and tugged the shirtsleeve of the nearest well-spoken member of their group. I just decided to not believe anyone--always a safe choice when it comes to teachers and politicians.

But there they've sat for almost two months solid. As the weeks have passed, their numbers have grown and their pavilion tents and tarps have sprawled. Since the end of August, several key streets have been blocked by this sprawl, diverting 20 odd bus routes and transforming the center of town into one big street fair. Every possible space is plastered and hung with posters and banners refuting the actions of the union president (accompanied by all manner of caricatures) and wishing reform in the most childish of ways.

Yesterday we had a little action. At about 4:00pm, a police helicopter made a very low, slow pass over the teachers' camp (i.e. downtown) inciting something of a panic among the profs. Mouths started running and in no time at all, the whole place was buzzing with "They finally called the Federales!" The paper today recounts that at this point the teachers called a flash meeting and decided "of their own accord" to move everybody off the streets, clearing a way for normal transportation to resume. Some genius came up with a new slogan on the spot--"We're changing, but we're not leaving"--and dozens of tents were quickly moved into an already tightly packed zocalo.

Maybe the Federales were ready to roll in, I did see a few elite-looking police squads waiting in a street below the town square. But maybe the flyover was just a "smart" move to intimidate the teachers and capitalize on the deeply ingrained fear of the government and its minions. I don’t know. But the interesting thing about it was the excitement that accompanied the prospect of a smackdown. Of course it would have been a different story were the violence directed toward us, but it was headed for the "maestros" who no one really likes anymore anyway. Afterwards, this schoolboy anticipation struck me as quite cold. I mean, there I was sitting on the steps with my friends waiting for destruction to fall upon the nameless hoards who stopped teaching the kids to live in the center of town. Kind of like Jonah sitting, waiting for fire and brimstone. There's a certain satisfaction in seeing people get what they deserve. You know, when the bad guys get a taste of "their own medicine" or Mel Gibson goes on one of his righteous killing sprees.

The fact is, I really don't want a taste of my own medicine, so it's kind of shaky territory to wish that upon other folks. I generally don't have trouble forming a strong sense of what's right and wrong, but being an arbiter of Justice is a bit more serious a commitment. Scary even.

And from time to time, that's what keeps me from decking the nearest teacher on my way through the Centro.

Oaxacan Photo Smattering

2008-10-08T11:59:00.004-05:00

I little while back, I found out that film development is quite cheap here in Mexico and went to find out how my cheap camera did at recording the trip. The results were decidedly mixed, but here are a few of my favorites.

During a jungle hike in Pluma Hidalgo, I stumbled upon this Cafetal (coffee processing plant). It was pretty sweet. And abandoned. The misty jungle made it seem like a Jurrasic Park compound, which made it all that much better to explore. This is where they wash the coffee beans. Like a huge coffee bathtub. Below was a massive concrete pad to dry the beansafter they're washed. I ate lunch on those steps and was attacked by to dogs. They were fierce until I shared my tuna with them, then they were my friends.

This is the path that I was walking on. On either side there are coffee plants. There didn't appear to be much order to the whole operation and I decided it must be quite a task making sure they've harvested all their beans.

This is the camp I made when I arrived in San Agustin.

This is the bay itself, the view from San Augstin's shrine.

I think I might have said it before, but the waves on the Pacific coast don't mess.

I upgraded my accomodations a bit further down, to the executive suite. Mostly because of the incredible, impermeable roof. Note the Mexican Flag flying proudly from the right-most beam. I figured I was less likely to be robbed if I had a Mexican Flag.

"Bandito Yankee" a tribute to one of the great movies of all time and, more generally, the late Paul Newman.

Just thought I'd proffer I few glimpses of the trip, now that I have them. Enjoy.

Retrospective: Filling in the Holes

2008-10-02T17:56:00.003-05:00

This past week and a half have been quite busy. But honestly I probably had less than half of the work

that a normal week entailed during sophomore year. It hasn't been hard to get into "México Mode" where a pretty average work week suddenly becomes "quite busy"…come to think of it, I think I was in México Mode before I got here…and maybe my whole life…but, ahem…Anyway, I've finally caught up with my studies after the Oaxaca adventure, so I suppose I can try to recount the rest of what went on down there. (I like that phrase because it sounds like the report on a military action "You've always had your doubts about war in the Falklands. Tonight, we'll tell you what really went on down there.")

Oaxaca: Lots of Samples, Lots of Bassets

I arrived in Oaxaca at about 5am after a night bus from Puebla. As I walked into town from the station, all I could here were crickets and the dusty scuffs of my steps echoing off the aged masonry on either side of the street. It was peaceful and I found myself wondering why I didn't get up this early every morning. Quickly finding an answer to that question, I turned my attention to the streets. The first thing I thought ambling down Juarez Ave. was that Oaxaca reminded me of Mayberry (old pop-culture reference for those of my generation who are 100% "of my generation". Look it up.) the streets, storefronts, barber shops. The only thing is, with a population of over 250,000, Oaxaca is about 100 times bigger. So it's kind of like a bunch of Mayberrys (Mayberries?) sewn together. I found that pretty pleasant.

Even more pleasant was my experience in the colossal market just outside of downtown. The day I arrived I spent hours cruising the "Central de Abastos." When lunchtime rolled around I was in the food section (which probably takes up a whole zip code in the city) and I couldn't help but notice that every single vendor had a pinch of something or other to try before you buy. And infinite vendors=infinite calories. So I spent my lunch hour eating samples and talking to the people. I learned a good bit about local agriculture and had a real feast of peanuts, sugarcane, grasshoppers with chile, and funky sweet flour beverage, and that's just the beginning. This left me with more than sufficient funds to pursue one of my main goals of the trip: coffee. And for that I was glad.

Yes, a "coffee tour" of sorts became one of my goals. My other goal for the trip was to take time to think and write and I found a certain beauty in the fact that they went hand-in-hand. Have some good, Oaxacan coffee, relax, think, write in some nice little books. This ritual occurred almost every day on the road and I was sad when the luxury was revoked (when I got back to the pseudo-real life that I live).

The hostel in which I passed two nights proved itself to be pretty worthwhile. "La Luz de la Luna" (moonlight) hostel is a collection of unadorned and funky-smelling rooms surrounding the tiny courtyard of what was once a nice rich-person house in the center of the city. Hammocks hang between every possible pair of pillars and posts and the rooftop affords a lovely view of the barrio with its obligatory church sticking up above everything else. Even when no humans can be found (like 7am when I arrived) you are always in the company of the large pack of hound dogs (and the one out-of-place black dog) that call the place home. Hound dogs struck me as a strange, if welcome, spectacle in Mexico. My fellow hostellers were an eccentric strand of the usual mix you find in Mexico: German hippies, Dutch exhibitionists, Aussie drunkards, and lots of Israelis traveling the world after their tour with the army. From square one, when a girl shared her bread and Nutella with me, my time in the Moonlight was good to me. It's the kind of place where everybody comes back home at night and chills, and I really appreciate that. Evenings there meant a lot of sitting against the four walls, pipe smoking, a few beers, good conversation, passing around the hostel guitar, and trying to sing above the rain that poured into the courtyard for hours every night.

I participated in only one of Oaxaca's various tourist offerings, a culinary one (the best kind). You see, I had little interest in ruins and museums this time around, so I opted for heading to the famous chocolate stores and Mezcal booths, all of which shower you with free samples. A couple trips around the block and you've had yourself a pretty decent little dessert. The chocolate is generally used to make a rich drink called "Chocolate". In the drink is: chocolate. I had a cup. It was good.

All in all, my time in Oaxaca had a lot to do with free samples and deep talks with a cool Jewish fellow. It was grand, but when it was time to leave...I left.

The belly of the trip has already been covered briefly...

Pluma Hidalgo-

Bahia San Agustín-

Mazunte-

Then the tale drops off again...

Pochutla: Grabbing Life By the Walrus Blubber

I was intent on getting back to the big city for independence day and that meant taking a night bus back to Oaxaca. That also meant heading into the landlocked city of Pochutla to find the bus. The truck from Mazunte was half-populated with backpackers, one of whom I thought was awesome. The male half of a nice couple, he sported a graying mullet and leather boots that couldn't fit into his backpack. For some reason he reminded me of Brad Pitt in Babel, but in a good way. Never thought I'd say that. My bag fell on his head during the trip to Pochutla, thankfully there was no damage to the cowboy hat he wore.

I had an interesting realization in Pochutla. You see, it's the city that the guidebooks talk of with words like "dusty" and "uninteresting" and phrases like "Only stop here to get cash and supplies." Ooo-k. With such a negative preconception, I arrived with the idea that it was like one big strip mall (strip malls are probably the most depressing thing to look at for me. It gives me flashbacks of living in South Carolina. ..shiver..) As soon as I arrived, I bought a ticket for the 11pm bus to Oaxaca which gave me 4 odd hours to explore this dreaded place. So away I went. Many of my fellow extranjeros bought the same ticket and I p

assed them, all within shouting distance of the station, waiting out the long hours in the closest restaurant. As I followed an old woman's directions to the zocalo, I realized how intent the other backpackers were on their next destination, how they only saw Oaxaca at the end of a long trip, totally missing the trip itself. That got me thinking about just how much of life is like that. I thought of all the people who fix themselves on the next "really good thing" and simply try to endure most of life until the good thing comes. Though I have done the same thing time and again, at that moment it didn't make any sense to me. I reached the church overlook

ing the bustling town square just in time to catch the end of Sunday night services. The congregation emptied out into the crisp night lit up thousands of red, green, and white lights and I sat outside

eating , writing, and watching the antics of the cook's little daughter, I couldn't help but feel sad about all those people in the restaurant, biding their time, waiting for what they perceive to be the next great thing. I couldn't get out of my head how much waste there is in the "next great thing" method of living life.

(ok, bear with me for the next paragraph or so)

You see, life is like a walrus. And people are like deranged Inuit tribesmen, all searching for tusks of ivory--the very best part of the walrus. When they look at a big dead walrus, all they can think about is "Whoa, when do I get the Ivory?" Those two big pointy teeth occupy all their thoughts and the rest of the walrus just totally passes them by. Though the tusks might hold the most allure, I daresay it's possible, with a bit of time and imagination, to get all sorts of things from a dead walrus: a heavy walrus-skin jacket for those harsh Alaskan winters, a month's worth of walrus-fin stew, walrus blubber to light your igloo for those late-night reads. The fact is, all these "common" things are usually cast aside or simply treated as a means of finally getting to the ivory. In this way, the tribesmen end up hopping from tusk to tusk and losing all the good stuff in between in aspiration for the "great" stuff.

So there I sat in Pochutla with hefty helping of walrus-fin stew and a backpack full of mandarin oranges, happy as a clam to be in-process, in transit, on the road. (though a clam's happiness is fairly debatable, I mean to say that it was a pleasant experience) The second-class bus ride proved memorable, and not just because I got some bites from the bus-bourn equivalent of bedbugs (ask me to recount the story of "The Gnarled Hand" when you see me).

I also passed the two famous days of independence in an entertaining fashion (15th--Oaxaca; 16th--Mexico City) but maybe I'll cover those things a bit later.

Anyways, after two weeks straight in Cuernavaca, I'm more than ready to get out. So that's what I'm going to do. I can' t decide where to go, so I've decided to go to the bus station Friday after class and just take whatever bus leaves soonest, regardless of its destination.

I'll check back in a bit later. Cheers, folks.

Group Work.

2008-09-30T23:36:00.004-05:00

On an academic note (lots of academics recently), I have been reminded this semester how much I dislike group work. Not working in a group. Group Work. That ambiguous institution that bad teachers tend to overuse. Work groups are rarely organized enough to split the work and maximize their "potential." Instead, all that potential sits in a big heap in the library (..shiver..) doing nothing but wasting time. Then, the night before the presentation everyone agrees that BS is the only way the group will survive. And that is exactly what they spout all over the class the next morning. Lies, empty arguments, and poorly contrived conclusions. In this way group-work teachers (you know the type) are basically setting themselves up to get an earful of nothing when they assign a project or presentation.

It's not that I mind handing in poor work, especially if I can reason it out (if what I was doing instead of performing quality work was more valuable to me than the grade I received for the poor work), but when it comes to group-work, quality is not the issue. If you have any trace of ethics (which I generally like to believe I have) you feel a bit tied into spending the necessary time working with the group so that you're not the fellow that causes everyone to lose face and gradepoints for poor performance. Not only is it an obligatory expenditure of otherwise useful time; it's a LARGE obligatory expenditure of time. Teachers who like group-work usually don't care to make assignments intelligeble which means you spend time puzzling over what in the world the prof was thinking when she decided the work was a idea and it may take hours to just get a hadle on what you have to do. My Mexican Business teacher is no exception--she seems to take pleasure in doling out shapeless, onerous assignments that fall upon you like a huge blob of jelly mixed with shaving cream. Impossible to separate and impossible to work into anything remotely pretty, much less tasteful.

So there we sat yesterday, my group and I, reading incomprehensible, inapplicable Mexican labor laws, learning nothing except that we'd never be lawyers. A rich Mexican kid in our group didn't show up, which in retrospect was probably good seeing as every time he opens his mouth I want to knock him unconscious (and buy him a bigger bag than the Louis Vutton man-purse that he brings to class). The only reason we had anything like a presentation at the end of three very long hours was Joel, another Mexican guy. DJ by night and trendy electro-intellectual by day, he was the only one who could understand the law enough to make the things he was making up sound remotely correct.

This being the 6th such group project/presentation of the semester, I've now decided that I could probably learn more by sitting at home studying the inside of avocado peels than I do in that class.

But hey, I mean, I like all my other classes. It's healthy to have a class that I can abhor. That way I don't become enamored with this whole school thing…not that there's any real danger. Nobody be alarmed.

In other news, I think I'm going to have to give in and trim the ol' mustache finally. It's growing down over both my lips. That makes eating and drinking slightly difficult. And given how much I enjoy eating and drinking, I just cannot afford to keep it this long. Also, as evident in this recent picture, it gives me more than a slight resemblence to a chipmunk.

Musical Musings: Caustic and Cultural

2008-09-26T16:26:00.003-05:00

Well, I'm sitting here in the neighborhood ice cream and coffee shop on a nice Saturday afternoon. It's a pretty little place and, though there is no trace of thriving community here, its rich and often curt patrons cannot take away from the comfort of the covered patio and tranquility of a Saturday afternoon in Plaza Guacamayas. I was going to take the bus into town, but I needed change. And what better way to make change than drinking a little coffee and preparing a bit for my impending essay? Well, I'm not making any preparations right now obviously...I only study in short, effective bursts. (Official policy, don't ya know) But I'm passing the time well, listening to Leonard Cohen radio on some site called jango.com. I wouldn't recommend it; I'm just stooping to these levels because Pandora Radio made the call to not provide service to Mexican IP addresses (for which I cannot blame them).

In the past two days I've received two tantalizing email from the Orange Peel and WNCW about two concerts close to home: Lucinda Williams at the Peel and John Hiatt and Lyle Lovett in Greenville. When things like these come up, I'm reminded how much I miss living in an abundance of good music. The music I am able to listen to back home is, to my musical palate, much richer than the stuff I am subjected to here on a daily basis. It's funny. I came to Mexico all excited about getting into the music of the people, but now I've just about had it. I try not to get too far outside of the immersion experience, but from time to time I open up itunes and listen to an entire album of music from my collection and every time I'm blown away by it's beauty. It's like I'm living in the unpressurized cargo bay of Mexican music, cruising at 30,000ft and every now and again I reach for my music and take a big gulp of pure oxygen. Clears the head.

I'm amazed at how little respect I have for the time-honored Mexican musical tradition. Banda, Mariachi, Romantic...I'm not sure that I'll ever understand the incredible popularity of these styles of music. I can only listen to so much before I'm squirming, ready to take on the entire, funky-suited band in un-armed combat and free the people from this terrible power that oppresses their daily lives.

But there's no stopping it. When the "classics" start to roll, every Mexican changes. From businessmen in their suits to punk-rock kids with ipods full of The Clash--people glaze over and an invisible switch is thrown somewhere deep inside. They go into fiesta mode and all the beauty and the tragedy of the history that they've concocted over the years comes gushing out of their mouth in the form of discordant, half-forgotten lyrics.

Most culturally sensitive people would say that this perception is a sign that I have been hopelessly influenced by the western tradition, Tchaikovsky, Led Zeppelin, and all their buddies. And perhaps I have. But there is so much non-western music that I enjoy immensely...Andean folk music, the rhythms of the Caribbean, African ceremonial tunes, quality sitar work from India, funky Japanese ballads... And besides, Mexican music takes a lot from European roots. They sing in a Romace language, all the instruments are pretty par for the western course...but the combination that these people have cooked up is just excruciating. What should have been reduced to novelty status by now is still alive and well--weller than most musical forms in Mexico today. What's up with that? Do all Mexicans have defective musical tastes? Are they all super-nostalgic? Or do they just really crave something in common with everyone else, some go-to institution that makes them normal?

Maybe that's it. The traditional songs give folks an outlet to appear very much a part of the "normal" crowd. People here really fear the idea of being different, of liking the "wrong" things, of having the "wrong" opinion on an issue. It's not the "collectivism" that all my teachers flaunt, it's just kind of a school-of-fish tradition. If you swim the wrong way, who knows what's gonna happen to the school? And to you? Sheesh. Better just stay in the confines of this nice group of people. It's safe here. Where there's no chance of individuality, there's no chance of ridicule and you'll always belong.

Here's an example: Friday night I went to the movies and then out to a nice little bar with Scott and some Mexicans from Veracruz. I had a Michelada (very Mexican: beer mixed with hot sauce, Worcestershire sauce, soy sauce, and lime) but Scott, ever the quintessential American, ordered a huge whiskey and coke, lauding the incredible tradition of Jack Daniels. By the bottom of the liter cup, he was pretty far gone and was really interested in everybody giving their honest opinion of everyone else at the table--an interesting, if childish, exercise indicative of self-consciousness and obviously easier when half the table is quite drunk. Well, he came around to me and actually gave a pretty accurate description I think. But one of the things he said was that I was "un poco raro" (basically, a little strange), elaborating with examples of my antics over the past few months. This elicited a satisfied smile from me and not a little shock from our friends.

This morning Scott went, hangover and all, to the gym with the same people as last night and they gave him the report on his actions during the time he was drunk. They told him that he had really offended me, that he called me strange, odd, different. Oh the horror! They just couldn't fathom the idea that I took his words as a complement, such is the Mexican mindset.

Needless to say it makes me something of a permanent curiosity here. "Why are you walking without shoes?" "Why do you not shave your beard?" "Why do you always have a [beautiful, rose-colored] umbrella in your backpack?" "Why do you pack your own lunch?" Yes, in this respect Mexico is a good place for a fellow who prefers to be different from most other folks.

I came here thinking that I wanted to seem Mexican by the end of the semester, thinking that I wanted to go totally native right down to my perception of the world around me. It didn't take long to realize that there are some things Mexico can't change, not even using the ever-attractive idea of cultural experience. Conformity is not really my cup of tea.

And Steve Earle knocks the socks off José José every day of the week.

All's fun and games until someone get's pooped on by a pigeon.

2008-09-22T16:07:00.003-05:00

That's my new motto for downtown Cuernavaca. I spent the grand majority of today's financial allotment on groceries for the coming week and opted to have lunch/read in a little park-ish thing near the food-buying-place (whoa, losing some descriptive abilities in English today, standby...). Quite nice in theory, huh? I set up a little desk (the kilogram box of crackers I bought. Something to behold, let me tell ya) and had at it. I bought a wonderful-smelling loaf of bread, much richer than the typical loaf here, a piece of which you could crush down to the size a lump of sugar (and then feed to a horse as a cruel joke) but it turned out to be olive bread, and olives are one of the three foods that I prefer not to eat. The others are large cuts of raw onion and raw octopus. Fortunantly I'd also bought some Valentina salsa, an institution here in Mexico and more often consumed than water. It made a nice complement to the olive taste.

Anyways, there I was enjoying some food and a short story by Juan Rulfo when I heard a very wet, heavy splat on the bench next to me. I looked over. The man on the other bench appeared unphased but then again, he was wearing a hat. I simply put the bread back in it's ill-fitting bag and kept reading, not daring to look up into the branches above. The ambient splattering around me was just growing familiar when my head and reading material became an LZ. Splat.

Taking the hint I walked on. Picked up some coffee at a little kitchen store I found last week (very good Chiapas coffee for $0.50 US; the downside is it's always to-go) where I got a lecture about how coffee was originally intended to be a rich medicine and "not an aphrodisiac." "Lies." said the coffee lady, "All Lies." I took my cup of medicine and ambled up the road to find some shade. I took a turn through the grounds of Cuernavaca's XVI century cathedral and found a quiet spot under the arches of an open-air chapel to reset my crackerbox table. I began reading again, terribly pleased at the place I'd found to pass the afternoon. I was reclining in same place an hour later, talking to an old woman from Guerrero when I heard an ominous "Coooo!" (which reminded me of Graham). My body tensed, ready to react, but as with all good stories of natural predators it was too late. Splat. I'm glad the lady was with me or I might have done physical harm to the perpetrator. I walked away to find a rag or something and my old friend yelled after me the Spanish equivalent of "There's piegeons I tell you! Piegeons!" Don't I know it.

So I retreated with my few pesos to coffee shop without a soul, possessed of the ambience of a Dunkin Doughnuts with cheap coffee to match(not a complement for you New Englanders out there). I thought I'd crossed this one off my list for good, but I was compelled to make the compromise this time around.

Pigeons'll do that to you.(photos: 1. the perp 2. my hero)

Mazunte: hype city and bad drug deals

2008-09-20T12:14:00.004-05:00

Coming off an incredible stay in San Agustín, I knew that wherever I went next had some serious work to do to keep up. And what better place than the purportedly magical beach of Mazunte? Everyone who had been there told me that it was among their favorite places in Mexico and, taking them at their word, I decided to make it my next destination.

Mazunte was once a backpacker's jewel, a fishing town of 500 with plenty of hammockspace along the beach, cheap eats, a couple of hostels, and a small hip constituency that made you feel cool. That was then. A couple of years ago, the demons known as travel writers discovered it and trumpeted it as a place where anyone can go to be cool. Seeing as a lot of people were reading the travel books and seeing as people like to be cool, Mazunte experienced something of a goldrush--backpackers flocked to the beach with entrepreneurs hot on their trail. In two years, the place ballooned to at least twice its size and its status changed from dusty little village to international backpacker obligation (like El Panchan in Palenque). This isn't bad, per se, but I soon realized that the locals were not going to give me free breakfast which was something of a disappointment.

As soon as I arrived, a random guy passing on a bicycle asked me if I was looking for something. I told him I wanted to camp and he recommended Mermejita, a beach across the mountain, for its seclusion and tranquility. I took his advice and made my way up the hill. I considered setting up in the forest atop the hill but there was a sign that marked the territory near "Punta Cometa" as sacred and I didn't want to be the object of any ancient Toltec rites so I kept moving.

I crossed the point and found what appeared to be a nice, fairly sequestered beach so I hiked down to investigate. The beach was a bit too sequestered as it turned out, judging by the fact that the entirety of its small population was walking about in the nude. I was turning tail for other waters when a Spainish couple came up to vehemently make my acquaintance. I got a nice history lesson about Punta Cometa, however I couldn't help but feel that we were not quite on equal terms, me being fully clothed and all. They said they'd see me later, I just smiled and made my way to Playa Mermejita.

I set up camp on a beachfront lot that was for sale and walked the beach, which I shared with one family, five vacation homes, and a little restaurant/cabana spot, closed for the season. I gathered firewood so I could brew coffee later, saved a kid's skimboard from a gruesome death upon a the rocks, and sat down at a little table at the abandoned cafe to dry my pants and write in my journal.

Just as I put pen to paper, I was interrupted by someone coming out of the woods. I looked up to find some friends from the Netherlands who are studying with me in Cuernavaca. We knew we were going to be in the same part of the country, but no cell reception made meeting up an impossibility, or so I had thought. They (Kristal and Leoba{spl?}) were lost--looking for the main beach--so I took them there and got them settled into a palapa full of young campers. In return they bought me dinner and some fancy cocktails which, because I'd forgotten to find an ATM earlier, was a most welcome gift. We met some students from UNAM in D.F. and passed the night with them. Everybody but me smoked a lot of pot, adding to the cloud that hovers above Mazunte every night (no doubt making the Dutch feel right at home).

Before we went to the local bar for reggae/ska night, Kristal and Leoba decided that they needed to buy some "mota" (weed) of their own and went looking for the nearest Rastafarian. They were gone for some time and when the Mexicans left for the bar, I went looking for them. I finally found them on a dark road evidently finishing up the deal with a squirrely fellow with wanna-be dreds and his short, shirtless minion. All was well until he asked for 40 pesos more to cover some other cost that I couldn't understand. Kristal didn't know what to do and tried to terminate the transaction. The squirrely one who I call Green Shirt didn't like that and tried to puff himself up to look threatening, demanding half the package of weed instead. This advance and threat of violence was terribly exciting to me. I know it's an uncommon sentiment, but fighting a skinny, smalltime drug dealer and his silent minion to protect some friends seemed like the perfect night's entertainment (there was another, fairly buff Mexican guy with me which tipped the scales well onto my side). Man, if I could intimidate malignant potheads for a living I would. After a few minutes of very savory tension, we opted to smooth things over and handed the pot to Green Shirt who ripped it in half in forced rage and stormed off into the darkness, Silent Minion bobbing along behind.

As we walked on to the bar, I was a little bit sorry that there had not been a fight, but (I am still a rational human being) I was more happy that Green Shirt had been appeased, because he knew where the Dutch were sleeping and self-conscious people do crazy things when their egos take a hit. But I sat and thought over an Indio about the whole thing. Everyone else was talking about how harrowing it was; I didn't say anything because it was the best part of my day. It's so appealing, standing in the way of a threat. It's appealing to look into the other guy's eyes and see how nervous he is that all of your body language is telling him that you're not worried about him. I'm not a fighter. I'm not going to go out on the street here and try to beat up miscreants vigilante-style. But that tension is pretty addictive. I guess I need to accompany more people on their drug-buying errands.

The cultural lesson for the night occurred when Green Shirt and Silent Minion showed up at the bar, obviously at another level of stoned-ness, and started dancing. I kept an eye on them, but I could tell that their attitudes were at a different levels as well. As the night passed, they made their rounds and told everyone involved in the night's narcotics activity that they were really sorry--the classic Mexican at a fiesta, wanting everything to run smoothly again, spouting every different form of "excuse me" and "I'm sorry" that the language offers (which are many). They didn't return the mota, but they were sorry.

I returned to my little camp on Mermejita satisfied with the day. Mazunte had satisfied very differently than San Agustín, but it had certainly made me rethink my initial prejudices against its intrinsic hipness. Though it was late, it was my last chance to have a fogata (campfire) for a long time so I burned my pile of firewood and feasted on a plump orange, the full moon, the roar of the surf, the whine of the jungle bugs, and the lightning out on the Pacific.

Then the lightning out on the Pacific became the lightning much closer to the beach.
So I snuggled into my hammock before the bottom dropped out and slept to the rhytm of the rain.

(photo: Mermejita by morning)

San Agustín or How I Became a Pacific Villager for a Time

2008-09-15T18:00:00.005-05:00

Well, my circuit in the south of Oaxaca is complete. I arrived early this morning to Oaxaca (City), back to the land where internet exists once more, for better or for worse. The past few days have been pretty incredible and I don´t exactly know where to begin recounting it, so I´ll try to pick up where I left off (apx.).

During my second day in Pluma Hidalgo I explored the coffee plantations and visited the nice waterfall and a nearby, deserted coffee processing place (the harvest is in December). In Pluma I started my ritual of consuming a can of tuna daily. The fact is, there really isn´t much else proteinwise at the little tiendas in small towns here. Yep, tuna on bread, tuna on crackers, tuna with apple, tuna with avocado. you name it I´ve had it. It´s cheap, tasty and healthy so I can´t complain. Early wednesday morning I got a ride down to Huatulco with my friend Paco and followed his recommendation to San Agustín. I told him I wanted a pretty undeveloped place where I could camp and maybe find food and water when I needed it. His suggestion was right on the money.

San Agustín is not a small town. Rather it is a strand of Palapas tucked neatly into the western end of a beach that is maybe 2km long (a little over a mile I would say). A short walk from the taxi put me on unoccupied soil and I walked nearly to the end of the beach before dropping my bag and setting up shop beneath a very nice shelter, abandoned for some time. I washed my clothes and myself in the surf as best I could, hung all but myself out to dry in the gloriously warm sunshine and took off walking down the beach.

Most of the establishments in San Agustín are of the restaurant vein, usually with a few gear rental options to boot. Everything very basic and perfectly tranquil, this being the part of the year directly opposite of tourist season. Overlooking the bay is a little orange shrine with a fellow inside who I can only assume to be Saint Augustine. He has a beautiful view of the bay, but his shriny back is turned to a beautiful place known as sacrifice point. I rambled barefoot and in awe of the place which vaguely reminded me of the west-Ireland coast with it´s perfect, rocky bluffs, green greeness, and wildflowers growing in the sand. I got my water bottles refilled and bought some tuna before returning to my compound. Then came the good part.

It was getting toward evening and I headed back towards the village to look up a friend of Paco´s but got no further than the first guy I met. A permanently drunk Cancun native named Melesio offered me a swig from his coke bottle filled with mezcal (Agave liquor and a Oaxaca speciality) and bought me a beer and we sat by the sea and made the sort of boring conversation that you make with permanently drunk people. But on my budget I couldn´t decline. Beer is free calories. I left as soon as I felt it polite to do so.

Further on down I was hailed once again, this time by a bigger group of folks and invited for a beer. Indio this time, my favorite of the Mexican beers. I told everyone my story and after paying for my second Indio, my benefactors left. I was invited to sit at the table with the two young employees of "Charly"s" Place", Felix and Betrico and we talk well into the evening over another Indio. Later, went to the owner (Charly)´s house to watch the world cup qualifier against Canada. Everybody got a huge kick out of me calling the Canadian goalie "El Pelón" (the bald guy). Mexico won 2-1. So began my process of getting to know the good people of San Agustín.

The next morning I went to the house of Doña Fia, Charly´s 84 year old mom who makes a mean cup of Pluma coffee. I wrote in my journal and she served me breakfast on the house with Charly and Felix. Iguana. Mmm. I had a second breakfast on the way back to my house with a group of fishermen who´d just come in and had prepared a sizable hammerhead shark and a barrel of Coronas for breakfast. One guy cut himself pretty good filleting a second shark and I was able to fix him up with a neosporin/bandaid/duct tape combo which he was still wearing when I left. Maybe he couldn´t get it off.

I spent the day hiking, mending my hammock, and eating fruit. In the evening I attended the birthday party of Felix which was no more than sitting around Charly´s porch listening to Bob Marley and drinking more Indios. Betrico loved the song "La Casa del Sol Naciento" (House of the Rising Sun....not Bob Marley) and had me sing it a capella. At the end he was nearly in tears. He had me sing it again twice before I left. People in San Agustín like repetition. In the street I met the core group of men in the village all sitting and drinking mezcal and strumming a guitar that was horribly out of tune and no one knew how to play. I was happy to remedy both problems and they had me repeating "Wagon Wheel" late into the night.

The next day was much like the first, I took my coffee in the morning, had turtle eggs for breakfast with Felix (Eco-friendly? Maybe not; tasty? Yes.). My friend Jesus lent me some snorkeling gear and I explored the big coral reef right in front of Charly"s" Place (all the signs were originally "Charly Place" but I guess he found out that that was incorrect and added an "s" in quotes above and between the words. Quite endearing really.) Then in the afternoon I went spear fishing in the ocean with Jesus and his friend, Negro, who wasn´t actually black. My job was to keep track of the floating basket into which they threw shellfish and onto which they tied the fish they speared. At first I was a little concerned, holding on to a bunch of bleeding fish in the open bay but I got over it and enjoyed seeing all the different things they brought up from the depths.

We returned to the beach as evening fell and after everyone cleaned up we had an absolute feast with a few other people--four different kinds of fish and three kinds of raw scallops all piled high so that the plastic table was a little wobbly and served with the ever-present tortillas, picante salsa and lime.

I left the next day for Mazunte, but not before my cook friend, Mamo, served me up an incredible plate of beef and turtle stew. It was quite hard to leave this place, this place where the town is really more like a family of 150 people...a family who welcomed me not as a tourist on the beach but as a friend and a brother. I barely spent a dime there (I only paid a lady to have my water bottles refilled), yet my belly was always full. I had never been there before, but wen I left, it took me an hour to walk to the taxi because I knew half the village and they all wanted to say goodby. It got me thinking a lot about community. Its beauty, its eccentricity--a theme I'll be turning over a lot for the next little bit. It's a place to which I´ll return and one that I´ll not forget.

I liked it.

Pluma Hidalgo: Clouds and Coffee

2008-09-09T18:52:00.006-05:00

Before I left for this trip, I googled just about every combination of "jungle" and "Oaxaca" that I could think of, both in english and Spanish. I wanted to get out in the sticks of Mexico and see what I could see. Well, google seems to have paid off for me this time. It led me to Pluma Hidalgo, a tiny town splayed out over a hilltop in the Sierra Madre del Sur like jelly unskillfully spread over a small artisian loaf (or something like that...).

Often shrouded in wispy clouds, this town of several thousand has gained notoriety on a global scale for the quality of its coffee. It is a place where buzzwords of the socially concious upper-middle class meet reality--"organic", "shade grown", "free trade." Yesterday at a hot jungle crossroads I left the bumpy curvy experience of a ford van from Oaxaca and climbed into the back of a pickup truck to Pluma. As the dirt road flew out from under the wheels and the engine whined in tune with the other whining jungle things I knew that I had found what I was looking for.

My boots hit the street in two little clouds of dust and it was immediatly evident that depsite its agricultural significance Pluma has not seen very many roving bearded yankees with bandanas tied over their somehwhat messy hair. Go figure. After a little while I learned that I am one of three foreigners in the city, the others having permanent residences here. I asked about a guesthouse and was directed to inquire in one of the few restaurants in town. I did so and was led to a lovely little room with rooftop access overlooking the little town sqare. After arranging my things I left in search of bread and knowledge.

I found both in the shop of a man with slicked-back hair and thin lips. I bought his bread and got to talking with him. When I indicated that I had come to take a look at the coffee-making process he smiled and gave me a detailed account of how the planting, growth, and harvest works here culminating his story by giving me a huge bag of coffee to try. I continued my long tour of a short town and then came back to the room for a rooftop feast of tuna, bread, local honey and part of the 12lbs of fruit I had bought in Oaxaca's impressive market.

After dinner the sun began to fade and the clouds lowered themselves down on the zocalo bringing with them a wonderful, cool evening. Naturally I got a hankering for the coffee I´d been given earlier so I went down to the kitchen to ask if I could use the stove and a pot to brew. The lady who keeps the place (the owner's wife) was more than happy to let me and help me along the way. Having no cup, I fixed enough coffee to fit fill the stainless bowl that I brought--a great way to experience coffee. I spent the evening in and around the kitchen talking to the couple and his mother and playing with their little daughter. It was wonderful. More than I could've asked. Sipping gift coffee and acting as part of the little family as clouds drifted in the door.

Later on I took another walk and discovered that the "kiosko" in the town square had been converted into a café with the kitchen underneath and tables and chairs on top. Though I had already had dinner and coffee, the owner, a bald fellow named Paco, insisted that he made it better and gave me a cup to test his statement. It was true. I sat there under the bandstand with chef Paco as the regulars shuffled in and out for coffee and a hamburger (hey, this is coffee country, what can I say?) and we talked until closing time.

To finish off the evening I pulled a table and chair and wrote in my journal while I smoked a bowl of fine NC tobacco, all the while giving thanks for the wonderful day in Pluma Hidalgo.

More happened today... and indeed I have skipped the whole Oaxaca City part of the journey, but this little library closes at eight and I need to go have my hamburger and coffee at Paco's café. Until later, cheers.

Wandering: the draw of the journey

2008-09-01T01:54:00.002-05:00

I bought a machete after church today. Machetes usually come at a pretty decent price down here. I was thankful that the lady in the hardware booth wrapped it newspaper because I had not my backpack and thought that brandishing a large blade in the public eye might be a little much, even for México. (Unlike in the movies there are not daily shootouts and face-painted rebels lurking in the alleys in their dusty Toyotas)

I bought a machete after church today because I decided that it might come in handy in the bush. You see, little over a week ago I was talking with the barista at my favorite café in the city, my friend Arturo. A thoughtful (full of thought), serious fellow living at constant ease with the world and his espresso machine, he has quickly become one of my favorite Mexicans. He was telling me about the coffee at Paraíso (the café)—the “Mezcla de la Casa” is from the jungles of Oaxaca, Veracruz, and Chiapas (all states in México). He said that one place he really wanted to visit was the low jungle of southern Oaxaca where the coffee is grown. This sparked my interest immediately as I was reminded of my taste of jungle adventure in Chiapas. Two other reliable sources, Hannah and Rachel, seemed to enjoy their time in Oaxaca as well and advised me to visit. For me, these three recommendations spelled a getaway plan.

After the school faculty told me about the attendance policy at Tec (2 weeks of class can be missed per semester) I immediately decided that my absences would serve me best if used in bulk. Likewise, after Arturo told me about Oaxaca I immediately decided that an adventure there would probably be worth said bulk absence usage. This week I’ve been preparing things, making sure that I’m ready for a solo trip. Among many other things, I felt that it would be a tragedy to lose my trusty and gigantic backpack so I’ve been adding cargo capacity to my rucksack, sewing and strapping things onto it with reckless abandon, an endeavor that has set my roommate to calling me MacGyver/Martha Stewart. Not such a bad combination.

As I look forward to knocking around Oaxaca for 12 days or so (also D.F. for Independence Day) I can’t help but think of all the Mexican soil I have yet to get to know. At least 14 cities made my “must see” list and I sat for a time trying to figure out if I could smash them all into this short semester. This peculiar feeling I had, and have always had, about travel got me thinking. What is it about travel that is so appealing? I always say that I like it because it’s a sort exercise for your whole person: mind, body, heart, even soul at times. But is that a sufficient explanation or it is just words?

Most people that run in my circles put world travelers on a pedestal. There’s a certain social value attached to travel. It’s like a recreational drug that is totally integrated into the culture .Everybody does a little bit of it, most of them enjoy it, people are jealous of other people who have achieved greater “highs” off it. The nomad is the object of infinite awe and envy. Why is this? What is it about the journey that transfixes us so? Could it be that in the journey we come closer to our true status as wayfarers in this old world? I mean come on, what better place for a wanderer than on the road?

I like the road. I like its novelty. I like its unpredictability. I think that in a way it’s quite beautiful to have so many unknowns. We spend a painful amount of our time at home making sure that we lead predictable, controllable lives, making sure that the future is a guaranteed success, bright and sunny, just what we want. By Jove we need a break from all that pressure, huh? Yes, perhaps it’s the road that puts us right where we ought to be. Searching for beauty in between meals, keeping our eyes wide open and our mouths closed, realizing that, just like the sunrise through the hostel window, our safety, our life, and our salvation…all the things we value most are out of our hands. What freedom!

And the best part is that so often the wanderer has the clarity to see the shadows of those strong capable hands keeping him afloat. Things happen on the road to bring the hands to light…things that at home are easily mistaken for good planning or hard work. And I believe that this is one of travel’s magnetic lures for me; it is the chance to act out physically what I will be acting out all my life spiritually—a chance to sojourn in a land that is not my home and be the object of the care and affection of a father back home, ever drawing the rambler to himself. And that is beautiful to me…

…so I bought a machete.

Taxco (Tas-Ko): silver, silver, silver, more silver, and a big fat mystery

2008-08-24T23:30:00.010-05:00

I spent today in the fine town of Taxco. Ever since the Spaniards found out about the silver veins in Taxco’s hills there have been thousands of people slaving away to yank it out. Things have changed a bit since its establishment—the people aren’t actually slaves anymore and the mines no longer operate—but silver remains king here. The majority of shops in town are “Platerias”, selling all manner of shiny things including half-size silver jaguars and full-size silver frogs. But shopping was not high on the to-do list, so our motley crew of 9 (from 6 different countries) did a lot of looking.

More than the silver, we were charmed by the city’s beauty and winded by its steep, ally-like streets. We passed a thoroughly enjoyable morning and afternoon taking in the city and stopping for lunch and coffee along the way. It‘s the sort of city that I could get into. After just a few minutes in Taxco I decided that I would come back again to stay for a few days.

While city itself was delightful, the most interesting part of the day lay at the end of a Swiss-made “teleférico”, or cable car. Atop a mountain just outside Taxco's hillside sprawl are an aging hotel and a few pretty haciendas, all of whom enjoy an incredible view of Taxco and the surrounding mountains. After a turn around the fairly empty hotel, we stumbled upon a place far emptier. We took a little walk. A mere 100m down the street rose a beautiful, multi-terraced hacienda. Bea, a Spanish girl from Denmark, jokingly asked “how do we get up there?” referring to the house’s pristine top floor visible from the road. I was thinking of just how few people were able to enjoy the view from up there when we discovered that the gate to the house was wide open and the grounds looked to have been abandoned some time ago. Needless to say, this intrigued me.

As I walked in through the gate, it became evident that this was not a really nice house, it was the most incredible building I’d seen in all of México. The prime location was complemented by an absolutely beautiful, absolutely gigantic hacienda. The creative genius of this design could only be unleashed by the super-rich. And that made it so nonsensical. This architectural marvel had been abandoned—maybe for more than a year—just before it was finished. The landscaping had grown out of control in the front garden and the spectacular pool was half full of greenish-black water. An tiny, emaciated dog sat on the far side of the pool watching us, though seemingly too unhealthy to move. The whole picture was strange and not a little creepy. But by this time I simply had to explore the house so I pushed through the overgrown bushes and up to the main floor.

The creepiness factor plus my previous encounters with street dogs prompted me to have in hand a fair-sized rock which I reckoned would give me a bit of a mechanical advantage in the event that I had to crush someone/something’s skull. My first objective was to reach the top and take in the view which I did cautiously and without incident. The vista was by far the best the mountain had to offer and the wide open space of the highest terrace was quite tranquil. I was struck by the neatness of the place. Aside from a few broken pieces of masonry laying around, the hacienda was really in great shape. And aside from a broken tennis ball and a melted candle there were no signs of the sketchy revelry that often takes place in abandoned buildings. Presently everyone joined me at the top.

After a good while basking in the glory of our find, we spread out and got to know the place. In our subsequent exploration of the four other floors, including the naturally lighted, bat-laden labyrinth of a basement (only Erwan and I went down there), we counted at least 9 bedrooms, four of which had two formed concrete slabs for queen beds. The tilework in the bathrooms was exquisite and the master suite alone was probably larger than 90% of houses in México. All the while my head was spinning with questions as to how this happened, questions which merit further investigation. I mean, I’ve seen my fair share of aborted construction jobs in México—it’s fairly common to run out of dinero mid-project and bail—but this place was insane. On the very cusp of being Taxco’s nicest house, it was abandoned. Crazy. And kinda spooky. I was in the last group out of the house, still pondering the mystery of it. On the way back I fed the skeleton puppy half of my pb&j, partly out of compassion and partly because I thought that it would nice to have a friend there at the mystery house upon my return. And I do plan to return.

Speaking of returning, I have returned to my bed in peaceful, non-mysterious Cuernavaca. Now I shall sleep.

PS: Photo Guide: 1.) The group (minus Erwan) at a church above downtown Taxco 2.)Erwan, your typical Frenchman, and I in the cable car 3.) Me scouting out the main floor of the hacienda—note the fair-sized rock.

Wednesday is my slack day

2008-08-21T15:33:00.002-05:00

Wednesday is my slack day. Slack day as opposed to free day. Free days come with some degree of obligation to use them well. Slack days assign no such responsibility. I have class at 4pm, but the grand part of the day is straight-up relaxation. I didn’t sleep particularly late (8:00 for all those keeping score), but the tempo of this rainy morning has been wonderfully slow. My “parents” here don’t get up until ten or eleven every day which means that Scott and I have the house to ourselves for a few hours on the slack days. We washed a joint load of clothes and watched the Olympic recap while chopping banana into our customary Special K. I never had much of a palate for the stuff, but Zucaritas (the Mexican face of Frosted Flakes, complete with Tigre Toño) and Choco Krispies always seem far less appealing in the morning. And the whole milk helps.

It’s getting on toward eleven now and I’ve come down the mountain and lit for the first time at my friendly neighborhood pasteleria (place where they make and sell cakes) and café to write a bit before I head into town for lunch. With the rich smell of locally roasted Chiapas coffee beans drifting up from my Americano, I can’t help but be grateful that this piece of pre-yuppie culture has made it into the heart of México. Coffee shops. It’s a good thing they’re here because I’ve conditioned myself to do my very best work in coffee shops (or cafés as they are called here—and the idea of doing work in them is pretty foreign. But heck, so am I). In addition to a workspace, and perhaps more importantly, these places have been serving as a no-mans-land. A place to step out of straight México into a parallel México where I can process, take notes, read in English (I try to refrain from it as much as possible otherwise), or what have you. A bit of respite.

In the parallel México I can still practice Spanish, talking with the owners and baristas, but generally these people are not like your average José. They care less about impressing you, less about being polite and more about really communicating. This is refreshing because most people don’t actually care what you say—just smile and agree with a “que bueno!” or a deluge of their own thoughts and polite blabbering which makes it easy to chat and hard to converse. To actually have someone intently trying to understand you and help you out is a luxury here.

In one of my classes, I had to write an essay about “Luces y Sombras” (lights and shadows, good things and bad things) of my life in Cuernavaca. All of my “lights” had to do with the people, but so did the shadows. I wrote that my main beef with the Cuernavaca experience was that no one (Mexican) wanted to broach the tough subjects, no one wanted to have what I would call a real conversation. I mean, if I’m going to learn a language I would like reach the level of actually using it. I don’t consider myself a real intellectual, but like the way they talk. I want to have the option of speaking deeply in Spanish and being fluently, intelligently contrary if I want to be. But I don’t think they teach that here. I’ve learned from conversations, my own and those I overhear on the street, that most Mexicanos are really happy to talk for days about things that everyone agrees on. And conversations can be controversial as long as all the conversers are on the same side of the controversy. (say that a few times fast)

But the way I see it, if you and another person are totally on the same page about something you probably don’t need to talk a lot about it—that’s not communication, just reiteration. It’s the union of two different angles, the gentle give and take…the friction that makes communication beautiful. And worthwhile. Indeed, some of the very best conversations I’ve had have been with people of opposite and immovable opinions. Here interpersonal communication has been greased up, pared down, and streamlined so that it’s basically against the rules to create friction.

I’m trying to reconcile that with the huge protests that happen in Cuernavaca nearly every week. On Monday I was returning home from a trip to the mystical town of Tepoztlan and got stuck in downtown CVA for hours as thousands upon thousands of people blocked every major thoroughfare in the heart of the city. As I sat in a café reading Ocatavio Paz (a Mexican “intellectual” whose Spanish is beautiful and whose cultural commentary has been a much-needed counterweight to the shallow mainstream), el centro roared in protest of poor education, stolen property rights, and general unrest. It’s so strange that when these non-confrontational people gather by the thousands, they can become a clamoring mass unafraid of aggravating an entire city’s worth of motorists and commuters. These people who, on their own, would not even dare to correct you if you said their name wrong.

Welcome to Southern México.

Aspectos Culturales: a caleb-shaped peg

2008-08-12T00:27:00.002-05:00

It's pleasant.

Sitting here on my bed listening to the nightly rain shower, I can't help but feel that the weather here in Cuernavaca is about as good as it gets. I've been told that it's the rainy season, but here, the rainy season consists of beautiful sunny days and an ever-reliable hour-long rain storm every night just about the time I go to bed. Wherever I am in the house, I can always hear the first huge drops pummeling the pool cover and I know that I need to run on up the stairs and hop into bed soon so I can drift off to the rhythm (or aryhthm) of the rain through the windowscreens.

But tonight I think I'll be up a little later than the shower. I very much want to give a quick update on the Cuernavaca life. I've had two weeks now to get to know the place and a small fraction of its people and on the whole I really really like it.

First though, I must say that there are parts of me that just refuse to integrate into south-central Mexican society. An example. My first assignment in "Communication Skills" was to find out how to say "No" in Mexico. You see, in a lot of westernish places, it's understood that when a person declines an offer or advance with an English "no" they actually mean to decline said offer. When a girl says "no, i won't dance with you" the would-be partner understands that he is the won't-be. When a person says "no, I can't come to the party" the host crosses them off the list. In Mexico, a "no" often met with an intensified, more ardent plea to accept the original offer. Strange. And puzzling. Very interested in this peculiarity, I went to ask some Mexican friends from the Casa de Huespedes (guesthouse) about this tendency. Basically what they told me was that in Mexican culture (southern especially), giving a straight-up "No." is unacceptably rude. Therefore, when you say no, people simply infer that you are waiting to be persuaded because a nice person like you wouldn't be so uncouth. Surely you're just playing a hard sell.

Ok, a little cultural politeness I can handle. But the kicker was when my friends said that to actually make people understand that you are saying no you should say something along the lines of "We'll see..." or "Next time, for sure". People generally understand this to really mean no. When I heard this, I thought back on my journey through the republic and it became evident that it was indeed the truth. It struck me as mildly infuriating because it leaves you with an entire culture of people whose most effective way of saying "no" is to say "yes."

Now maybe I'm just hopelessly westernized, Americanized, Bruce Willisized, or what have you, but I like saying no. I like saying no and having that mean "negative, ghostrider, the pattern is full." The prospect of saying "yeah, I want to do that" to something I don't want to do leaves a bit of a sour taste in my mouth. I know I want the whole immersion shebang, but is it OK to conscientiously abstain from select parts of the culture? And would such a conscientious abstinence leave me here with no way to say "no?"

I like to say no.

I also like to have a beard. That's really not too cultural here either.

I also like to walk for miles and miles to get to know the lay of the land, the streets, the sights, smells, sounds and all the decent coffee shops. When I told my Mexican family and friends about a particularly long trek from my house to my school with 2 lonely pesos in my pocket they absolutely could not understand. Like such an endeavor had no basis in reality for them.

Alas, and not without some tacit satisfaction on my part, my brain does not function like a good Mexican brain. My heart does not beat like a good Mexican heart. Guess I'm not Mexican.

But one thing's for sure, my stomach might as well be 100% Mexicano! And food is culture. So the slate of cultural misgivings and incompatability is wiped clean at least 3 times every day!

Believe me, the gastronomy is not the only reason that I love being here in Mexico, and I can't wait to recount some of the great delights of living, working, exploring, and thinking here. But pardon me, the rain just began again and I am going to take full advantage of this wave of lullaby showers. Much Love. Goodnight.

Tec Orientation: Culture Lessons and Lots of French People

2008-08-09T10:21:00.002-05:00

For the past week or so, we international students have been roving as one big group (40-something) getting to know the system, the area, and each other. I think everyone is from either Europe or the States. Oddly the largest showing is from the French but there are also people from a bunch of countries that you never think about all that much (e.g. Finland, Denmark, Sweden). There are some really cool folks and, though hanging out with them inevitably means speaking a lot of English, it has been quite a pleasure to chill with them in the evenings, playing guitar or discovering the city bit by bit.

Though the schedule for the week included plenty of cultural information, the most prominent lesson has been that “schedules” are more or less simply a suggestion here in Mexico. I don’t think anything has begun or ended on time yet. Though this has been a bit frustrating for those coming from time-sensitive European cultures, it has only strengthened my suspicion that this semester is going to be the perfect respite from the breakneck pace and save-the-world mentality of my darling Chapel Hill.

Upon this realization, I breathed a sigh of relief and relaxation, turned down yet another offer to smoke pot, and played “Wagon Wheel” for a bunch of Frenchmen, Frenchwomen, and other assorted Europeans.

(ps...this post written 7 days before publish date...I'm working on Mexican time)

Cuernavaca: Welcome Home

2008-08-07T15:40:00.000-05:00

I suppose it’s been over a week since I arrived here and I think I’ve made the transition from scruffy young backpacker to scruffy young exchange student (indeed, I’m still toying with the idea of not shaving at all this semester…stay tuned for updates on that one).

James and I stayed at a guesthouse here for a bit and met some great, great people. It was awesome to realize that I’m here in Mexico for a while and I don’t have to say goodbye all the time like we did when we were traveling. James left on the second day and is safely returned to the states. I was sorry to see him go because he’s quite a good companion on the road and it signified a change in the style of adventure. Before, I was free to move as I pleased, do as I pleased, for as long as I pleased (sounds quite selfish, huh? ), now I was shackled to Cuernavaca (CVA). I hoped very much that I would like the place.

On the 29^th, I called my host family to ask when I should come over. Now, my ability to understand Spanish had skyrocketed since crossing the border, but making calls in Spanish is a whole different ballgame; there are no nonverbal signals—no lips to read, no facial expressions or hand motions to interpret. With a little help from their son Isaac who speaks pretty good English I told them I’d be there soon.

When I stepped out of the taxi I could tell that this was to be no ordinary home-stay. I don’t know if Mexico has a Beverly Hills, but if it does, that’s where I’m staying. I was greeted with utter warmth by the dad of the family, Juan Manuel, and ushered into the house. The abundance of flatscreen TVs, the domed cupolas, and the pristine pool in the backyard told me that this was not your average Mexican family. I quickly realized that living there would not be your average Mexican existence, but I quickly decided not to complain about it. For the first half hour Juan Manuel and his bride, Aurora Ortiz, kept saying things like “Estas en tu casa, estas en tu familia” (you are in your house, you are in your family). I felt almost too welcome.

I went to check out the lay of the land and came back to a full, tasty meal. As I finished up, my roommate came in, direct from Burlington, NC. Scott had just graduated a few weeks prior and was coming down to practice Spanish and have some fun before entering the “workforce.” A really easy-going fellow from the South and eager to speak Spanish instead of English a lot of times, he’s been a fine guy to live with.

Tuesday morning, we headed up the long hill to one of two “Tec de Monterrey” campuses and confirmed our status of “estudiantes internacionales.”

Puerto Escondido: Riptides and Espresso

2008-08-06T22:26:00.000-05:00

We lucked out with accommodations in Puerto Escondido (that’s “providenced out” for all my hardcore reformed readers) in that we were far away from the tourist epicenter of the little town. El Barko del Amor (the loveboat) hostel was owned and run by a group of Italians who gave the heartiest “Holaaa!”s I’ve ever heard. It was a wonderful place where Jim Morrison of “the Doors” was evidently a patron saint and whose customer constituency was also mostly Italian (except for the decidedly Mexican bedbugs).

James was able to rent a tabla (yeah, surfboard) and hit the waves and I was able to spend some time reading, reviving my computer, washing clothes, and reorganizing all my gear for the triumphal arrival to Cuernavaca.

After fixing dinner on the beach, chillin’ in the hammocks, sampling Italian café, and shopping at the Super Che, it was time to wish all the Italians goodbye and take the night bus to Acapulco and after a relaxing morning in that fading playground of the rich and famous we took the breathtaking journey north to Cuernavaca, Morelos, Mexico.

That’s where I am now.

San Cristobal: a beautiful layover

2008-08-06T22:16:00.002-05:00

We stopped in San Cristobal de las Casas long enough to cool down and jam out.

Palenque: on and off the beaten path

2008-08-01T00:02:00.006-05:00

The Mayan ruins at Palenque were, from the beginning, meant to be a focal point of the journey. They did not disappoint. We found a crazy cabana/camping village called “El Panchan” where we could hang our hammocks for 25 pesos per night (USD 2.50). As we walked in through the maze of drugged up hippies and tepid streams we could hear Hotel California drifting through the trees and it was immediately evident that El Panchan was something of a twilight zone for many young backpackers. Though the complex is not too far into the jungle, it gives a beautiful taste of the wild side of Chiapas (the southernmost Mexican state). An army of cats and dogs keep the creepy crawlies and jaguars at bay and, provided that you are in possession of a mosquito net, a hammock in the jungle is an incredibly pleasant place to pass the night. The morning we got to town, we met some German guys and some Belgian girls with whom we passed the day visiting some famous, super-touristy waterfalls and riding back through the mountains in the back of a pickup truck as the sun eased down into the crux of two faraway hills like a flaming asteroid into a bowl of piping hot lav. That night we were eating with the same folks and decided that in the morning we were going to experience the ruins the way it was meant to be done.

Before the sun, James and I swung out of our hammocks and slung our packs over our shoulders. Mist rolled over the narrow road as went to awaken our comrades. The Belgians, Ellen and Belle were up and ready to go and soon we were back on the road to the ruins. A few hundred meters before the first guard station we dove into the forest at the side of the road. Thus began almost two hours of trekking through the jungle with only a rough estimate of where we were headed. We were questioning our sense of direction when, atop a saddle in the hills, we found a pile of stones. Upon inspection we could see that the stones had been hewn (spl?) to their rough rectangular shape and that the pile was originally stacked to form of a wall. Whoa. There we were in the middle of a nearly untrodden jungle next to a structure that had been there for almost a millennium. Needless to say, this gave even more impetus to our quest for Palenque and on we plunged on through thick and thin. As we got closer and closer to the excavated site, we ran upon more and bigger ruined structures of stone. We were walking along the top of something that must have been enormous back in the day (think small stacked-stone ridgeline with squared corners) when we caught a glimpse of a brilliant, white temple—much less ruined than the one upon which we stood. We climbed down into a creekbed and turned a few heads when we pulled ourselves up the other side, rising to our feet not 25m from the central pyramid.

It’s kind of bad, but we found it hard to count ourselves equal to all the other tourists at the site, especially when we went back to the river to cool off around midday. Mere meters off the main path we found a series of jungle waterfalls that might as well have been paradise.

A quest not to be forgotten, the day at Palenque ended in town with a pizzeria send off for our German and Belgian friends. After another wonderful roofless shower and night in the hammocks, we made for the colonial legacy and cool climate to be found in San Cristobal de las Casas.

Into the Jungla

2008-07-30T07:49:00.000-05:00

We found a hippie shrine constructed in honor of a huge and nameless beast.

We thought it was just a legend...until it hurled James into the river.

In Mérida, we went native.

2008-07-28T15:48:00.001-05:00

I had to sacrifice James to end the 40 year draught that was plaguing the region.

It’s Happened Again, Folks

2008-07-26T13:25:00.000-05:00

In true Caleb Goodrum style I’ve begun this blog in sweeping fashion, bent on delving into every aspect of the trip and very quickly run out of time to keep it up. Now I’m left with a very unsatisfying 10 day gap in the record and no good way to make it up.

I’m sitting at the breakfast table of a sleepy hostel on the beach eating a mango Manilla (tarter and fresher than it’s orange cousin) and drinking an amazing espresso made by the Italian owner of the place. There is a tiny black kitten in my lap who seems to enjoy sitting here almost as much as she enjoys attacking my feet whenever I move them under the table. My computer has just come back from the dead. Before Puerto Escondido, we spent a few days in the Lacondonian (spl?) jungle at Palenque and I suppose the jungle did it in somehow. I think the battery is shot, but it could be a good bit worse. Now I can finally post some material and tell people about this blog (which has been sitting with just one post for quite some time now.)

Stay tuned to see just how I am going to recollect the past few days for any interested parties at home or abroad!

Monterrey: Barrios and Hippies

2008-07-26T13:08:00.000-05:00

On the way to my friend Carlos’ house to spend the night, I was caught up in barreling down Garza Sada avenue with the windows down, but the taxi reverie ended quickly and was replaced with a reunion. Carlos and his housemates feel like old friends, though I only just met them in march. I met Carlos the way that young folks tend to meet other young folks in this lost generation—the internet. Couchsurfing.com to be exact, a website that I can recommend to everyone who isn’t paranoid like my parents, siblings, and select friends are. (I say that if you can’t take an infinitesimal (read: ultra small) risk like surfing on a couch you will never, never live)

But I digress. The lovely house in the “tecnologico” part of town is shared by a lovely quartet (actually quintet, now) of young folks, all mexicanos having spent some part of their childhood in the states. It makes for a great atmosphere. It seems that there is always an engaging conversation to be had or an off-the-wall project to be worked on. After catching up with Carlos and lending some superglue to a watchsmith named Homer, I took a much needed shower (first in 50 hours) and retired for the night to their familiar beige couch.

I woke up in a sweat. But it was because the 11 o’clock sun shoots straight and hot at the beige couch. I rolled out of bed and dodged the rays like so many laser beams. Half an hour later the sun had found me once more and I was compelled to rise. I bided (or bode) my time reading until Carlos got out of the shower and he fixed me a scrumptious breakfast consisting mostly of eggs and chorizo. Thus filled, I cleaned the kitchen as Carlos left for work and then decided to walk downtown, though Carlos said the distance “was not meant to be walked.” I had seen the major stuff; I wanted to see a different set of streets. I meandered around the “colonias” between the house and downtown taking in the sights and staying in the sombre (shade). After a snack (Indiana Jones M&Ms!) at the Mexican version of Wal-Mart (Soriana), I made the final assault on downtown and slipped into an air-conditioned internet café to cool down and tell my wondering family where I was.

I did more walking and looking and took an afternoon nap on the riverwalk . I woke up refreshed and headed to the café Infinito which was actually one of the main reasons I wanted to return to MTY. Sitting on a nice street corner in the old town, el Infinito is a place for deep conversations, deep thoughts, and overly sweet frappes. It has a wall devoted to a book exchange in which the books are organized by color which delights me to no end. I was able to begin writing about the trip there and rest assured my account could have had no better birthplace.

[Here begins 10-day retrospective writing and a far sketchier account]

The next day James met me in the city. We were planning on hiking Monterrey’s trademark mountain, Cerro de la Silla (Saddle Hill), but it was surrounded by a thick veil of smog so we opted for a more urban route. Above Carlos’ neighborhood rises a house-covered ridge that runs for several kilometers parallel to downtown Monterrey so we headed up to the top to see what we could see. I had been told by a cab driver not to go there at night but with the sun up it seemed as safe as the next place, what with all the criminals off committing daytime crimes in the city. The incredible staircase to the top was reminiscent of a pre-Colombian pyramid and I thought of how this concrete laden hillside was a technological marvel of the new-school Toltecs. Imagine a national park 1600 years from now showing off the way that “ancient” Mexicans had covered an entire mountain ridge with stone. “Was it the palatial dwelling of the king of Monterrey?” They would ask. “Was it a grand temple to the God of commerce?” No, it was just a dirty hill to which thousands of poor people retreated at night and enjoyed the best view of the city. And what a splendid view it was. We hiked through the neighborhoods for a long time before we had to descend into the bustling city.

Later in the afternoon, James left to have dinner with the missionaries and I went to the bookstore to pick up some Ernest Hemingway (en Español). I was walking to find dinner when I was snagged off the streets by a guy named Rodrigo telling me to come on in to this café called Trece Lunas (13 Moons). It was an artsy place with a mostly reggae soundtrack and nuevo hippie vibe. Rodrigo, a cool Mexican youth of 2o, sipped a leather-clad cup of mate as he led me back into the depths of the place and introduced me to the other people who worked and lived there. For the next three hours I hung out with them. Hippie types really know how to hang out well. I watched Carly, a laconic, ultra pleasant Argentino, blend the most remarkable smoothie-like drinks I’d ever tasted (he gave me a tiny metal cupful of the leftovers every time he cleaned the blender). I learned some urban agriculture from Dulce, the resident gardener and dreadlocks-bearer. And looked at Rodrigo’s travel pictures. We passed the mate (strong South American tea drink) around all night and spoke only in Spanish because no one else knew any English to speak of (pun intended) and it was so thoroughly enjoyable that I came back the next night for more of the same. I shared tobacco from NC and saw a two-act play about communication which was quite appropriate for me. I stayed past closing was welcomed into the group who didn’t get kicked out of the place after hours. Trece Lunas left me wanting to stay in Monterrey for the semester. I’m sure I would have learned perfect hipster Spanish pretty quickly.

Other adventures included taking a midnight bus which I thought would get me back to the centro, but which took me about 25 minutes outside of the city to a dark town called Escobedo (which, I learned later, is known as “Escomiedo” [miedo=fear]) where the bus stopped. “This is the end” said the driver in Spanish and sent me across an abandoned highway to a slightly less abandoned gas station where I was able to hail a cab back to Carlos’ house just in time for a long game of risk with his roommates and a guy they call the Pope for his tendency to recreate the holy Roman empire during the game.

On the evening of the 18^th I met James at the airport and we crossed the Gulf. We arrived in Mérida in need of a roof and in search of adventure. We found both.

Backfill

2008-07-26T12:54:00.000-05:00

The how and why of the adventure, or perhaps “hows and whys”, came from all directions. Two boys bent on seeing the world piece by piece stepped up onto a ragged Greyhound bus. Their quest for the time being: head south and return with a “piece” of Mexico in tow. What the two would do with such a thing is currently speculation at best but obviously it seemed worth the price of two cross-country tickets and 30 hours of their lives—both given without reservation to the rather disorganized bus company.

Caleb and James began this journey and this account is through the young eyes, romantic heart, and fairly cynical mind of Caleb. That’s me. And though it would be infinitely entertaining to write about the entire semester in the third person, I decided that I would not. It seems that writing in that voice gives you absolute superiority and while I’m not against it, I thought it would be weird to have absolute authority over myself as a character in my own story. Then I got confused. So I wrote in the first person.

Grammatical issues aside, James and I were on a bus. With all the other people that ride greyhound buses. I attempted to describe that crowd last night but met with failure so I’ll not try again. I know everyone’s eager to hear all about the bus trip, but there’s really not that much to report. We both slept a lot. We decided that if one is able to sleep easily on a bus then it is a viable means of transport. In truth the trip to Laredo, Texas was composed of 30 of the shorter hours of my life. The universe must have been contracting that day, you know, squishing the hours together or something. The universe contracts when you sleep.

A chemical spill on I-40 forced a sidetrip down to Chattanooga before we hit Nasheville and that spelled a 2 hour deficit which our driver was determined to shake. This meant that we had 0:10-0:15 minute layovers instead of 0:30-1:00 long ones which was grand, except we weren’t able to cook any part of the stash of food we brought along. Fortunately we were able to survive the wide and bumpy Arkansas roads and huge traffic jams outside of Dallas on oranges, cheese, and lil’ smokies (as well as a Subway sandwich that George, our longtime busmate, insisted I have after a 4am bus-cleaning crew stole my sandwich.)

In celebration of our arrival in Laredo (23 hours after the above sandwich-theft) we walked out to a very Spain-influenced park and cooked pasta with vodka sauce next to the eternal flame of the Laredo veterans’ memorial. Some water boiled over our small pot during the cooking of the second batch, soaking or stove. Ever resourceful, James set the pot upon the eternal flame to finish cooking. “I think” remarked James “that those veterans would be so proud of their flame being used so well.”

We took turns at communicating via my computer and having as close to a shower as one can in an especially filthy public restroom. Before dawn we had packed up and were headed for the border.

From what I read in the news, I gather that the US has something of an issue with border crossings. Mexico has no such issue, I guess, because after the federales checked our bags a woman who I assumed to be the immigration officer pointed into her country and said “Go.” And we went. There was a fleeting trial associated with trying to acquire that lovely currency called el peso, but soon we hopped aboard a city bus for the Central de Autobuses. At that moment I knew we had made it, made the transition to traveling in Mexico. Figuring out public transportation and knowing that the rickety (route numbers were spray painted onto the windshield) old school bus you’re on is headed where to need to be is more than just a symbolic measure of your ability to exist in a country. At the central we were welcomed in and sent on our way to Monterrey within a quarter of an hour. The quality of the bus slapped us in the face as we boarded. For we travelers who had just spent over a day on a Greyhound, it felt like stepping into a royal palace. The bus had real air conditioning, not the “oooh, we’ve got freezing air coming from this phantom crack somewhere near the window” that the ‘hound offered. The seats afforded nearly horizontal reclination and they actually had movies playing (alibi dumb ones, but whatever.)

Susie, an MTW missionary, met us at the bus station in MTY and drove us in her dusty Subaru to Apodaca a city-like institution north of the actual Monterrey city where a man, Eraclio, and his family have begun a little church in what was once their home. We walked up the stairs into the sanctuary which was a medical clinic for the morning and James was reunited to his beau, Helen. I’ll spare you the mushy stuff; suffice it to say they were happy to see each other and they both smiled a lot.

We two newbies tried to make ourselves useful and were marginally successful. Early in the afternoon, the clinic was broken down to accommodate the afternoon’s vacation bible school for the neighborhood kids. They served us a wonderful meal and we were able to hang out with the folks there (teams of short term missionaries, interns, regular missionaries...you name it) which was great. Incidentally, there were guys there from both N.C. State and Duke, which proves the ubiquity of the ACC.

As with all VBSs, this one was largely a disorganized mass of tiny bodies and big toothy smiles—a fact that was made all more noticeable by the small language barrier that existed—but it was quite enjoyable nevertheless. When the “campamento del verano” began to wind down, I drifted from the sidewalk where kids were running relays into the narrow street in front of the church and joined in with mix of non-VBS attendees from the barrio tossing an American football. For the next hour and a half I played and talked with this rag-tag gang of boys which grew by the minute. I learned their names and took great pleasure in making them laugh as I showed off the sillier side of my Spanish. James joined in after a while. We were summoned back to the church by Helen to find we had missed the debrief for the day and that our streetside shenanigans were not smiled upon by the higher-ups. We apologized, but our attempt at contrition was met quite coldly and after diner I left, never to return.

[Here it must be noted that James was content to stay with the interns and short-terms (who were all awesome—not contributors to the coldness factor) owing in no small part to the fact that his novia was one of their number. This effectively left me on my own, but I could not complain because a short cab ride was the only thing between me and my return to el centro de Monterrey (as detailed in the post entitled “14 July 2008”)]

14 July 2008

2008-07-18T15:14:00.000-05:00

Today James and I rolled into Monterrey. It marked the first time I have returned to an international destination. It didn’t hit me until I dropped James off at the hotel where Helen and the missionary folks are living. I flagged a cab ride into the “macroplaza” downtown and (after having possibly my best Spanish conversation to date) hopped out into an absolutely gorgeous Monterrey night. As I walked the length of the macro, I was delighted—delighted at the feel of a cool breeze brushing away any hint of mugginess, delighted at the sight of so many families and amantes and contemplative viejos all soaking in the same tranquil night. But most of all I was delighted that I knew the city. In March, I had spent hours simply walking around el centro and getting to know the lay of downtown. Now I was making a quiet but triumphal return.

I don’t know what made it so enjoyable—maybe it was the fact that nothing had changed, maybe it was because I recognized some people I’d seen before (like the crazed-looking astronomer with tangled Robert Plant hair and a dark, intricate mustache offering glances at the moon through his telescope. ). I think there must be something about returning to an out of the way place that grants you a degree of ownership, even if you’re the only one who knows about it. I sat down next to my backpack on one of Monterrey’s green park benches, packed a bowl of whiskey flavored tobacco in my pipe , and took my shoes off. For the better part of an hour I thought and prayed and watched as the groundskeeper for the park managed the legion of sprinklers and hoses feeding water to the many green things in the plaza. Perhaps I inhaled a bit too much smoke, but this nightly upkeep ritual was more beautiful than poetry to me. The woman, dressed appropriately in all green, walked an unhurried circuit around the park conducting a visual orchestra of flying and flowing water with a pair of large vice-grip pliers. The ensemble even broke into the tactile realm for passers-by. A young father playing with his son, both acting like kids while the lady of the family looked on and smiled contentedly. Two elderly lovers who were at first startled by the water but soon gave in to the feeling of a good mist and stood in an embrace in the path of the sprinkler.

Eventually, the bowl was finished and, after the profound ritual of cleaning the pipe, I retrieved my guitar from its case. The strings (brand new, they were) sounded wonderful and rich out there in the plaza and that drove me to play for some time. It was wonderful, recalling old songs I thought I had forgotten, easily picking out some that I had never played but which seemed to fit the moment. A couple whose age I could not tell was approaching and, hearing the sound of a few notes being picked, stopped to listen through one of the garden master’s streams of water. I kept playing and they stayed—at times sitting on a bench, at times standing and dancing in the slow, awkward, beautiful manner of those lacking the skill or energy to do anything else.

I left utterly pleased with the prospect of spending so many more nights in Mexico.