Group Work.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.