The Godfather

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

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

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

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

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

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.