The Ascension of Cerro Tec

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

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

(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

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)

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

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.