La Gringa Culichi

Agridulce

2010-02-12T16:16:00.003-07:00

I’ve learned a new Spanish word recently: agridulce.

Having that word in my vocabulary toolbox would have been helpful ten years ago when I found myself sitting at the dining room table of my Mexican host family’s house in Querétaro, trying to put into words what I was feeling upon leaving Mexico. I’d spent an amazing semester as an exchange student with them, but it was time to pack up my bags and go home. It was sweet and bitter at the same time: bittersweet. I tried to explain the dichotomy to them, to find a translation for the word on the tip of my tongue: bittersweet. They stared at me blankly (it could have been that my already-bad Spanish was made completely incomprehensible by the tears rolling down my cheeks).

“Lo siento, Sarita. Sorry. I’m not sure how to translate that.”

Having the Japanese version of the word available to me would have been helpful 20 months ago when I grappled with the same emotions upon leaving Japan. I’d spent an amazing year teaching middle school English in the rice paddies of rural Fukui prefecture, making friends in unlikely places and living dreams I never thought I had. But when it came time to tell my classes how I was feeling, I was at a loss for words and my Japanese team teachers were at a loss for a translation.

“Gomen-ne, Sara-san. Sorry. I’m not sure how to translate that.”

I was reading a mindless gossip magazine en español the other day, trying to take my mind off the big changes ahead. I’d been doing entirely too much thinking (worrying) about the future, entirely too much reflection (reminiscing) about the past, and was feeling drained. Just as I was trying to clear my head of my emotions, in creeps the perfect word to describe them, right in the middle of an interview with Tina Fey translated to Spanish: Agridulce. (Literally, “sour and sweet,” or “bittersweet.” Ironically enough, it's also used to describe the flavor or what we English speakers know as sweet-and-sour chicken.)

Be it a reference to a botched recipe for Chinese food, or an accurate portrayal of my complex emotions, ten years later, the word was worth the wait.

Today is my last day at work. I'm leaving Huajuapan tonight and will board a plane on Sunday with a one-way ticket that will take me to a place I’d never thought I’d return to, had you asked me three years ago. I’ll be doing the same things (I’m going back into PR, but this time I’m doing it for a Latino-focused community group, work that I hope to find infinitely more rewarding than hawking sausage or formerly-overweight spokespersons of restaurant chains), in the same city (Chi-town is still Chi-town, for better or worse) with the same people (I have amazing family and friends who have been briefed on the horrors of reverse culture-shock).

The thing is, I’m completely different. I’m not sure how the new Sara – the product of 30 months abroad – will behave in the stomping grounds of her former self.

It’s a daunting excitement. It’s a sad happiness. It’s a comfortable adventure.

Above all, it’s agridulce.

I’m so glad I have a word to convey that emotion to the people around me. And I’m finding more and more that the emotion is universal. Upon hearing agridulce -- followed simultaneously by a quivering lower lip and a big smile -- they’ll inevitably offer me a hug, a shy smile, or a kind word. They identify with me. They’ve been there.

“Que te vaya, bien, Sarita.” I hope it goes well for you.

“Igualmente.” The same to you.

In the spirit of offering some sort of closure – to myself, if to nobody else – I’d like to say muchas gracias, arigatou gozaimasu and thank you to everyone who has kept tabs on me as the Gringa Culichi, and as my former Japanese version in Muy Oishii. It’s been a whirlwind adventure, full of amazing highs and devastating lows, an experience that I hope to have the good fortune of being able to reflect on for years and years to come. I’m looking forward to seeing how exactly living the experiences of setting off alarms in public restrooms in Japan, playing with street children in Cambodia, getting a pedicure with flesh-eating fish in Korea, seeing social injustice in Guatemala and dodging bullets in Mexico might shape the chapters of my life in the future.

For now, it’s time to close out this one. Publishing the last post of my Gringa Culichi blog – the virtual representation of my globe-trotting life – is just as agridulce as saying “hasta luego” to its physical manifestations: my Mexican friends, the breathtaking Oaxacan landscape and my amazing students here at the university. I talked about bittersweet emotions as the last post of my Japanese blog, and it seems only fitting to do the same here. It's the same emotion in any country, in any language.

Thanks for being a part of it all, the bitter and the sweet.

File under: Things NOT to miss about Huajuapan

2010-02-02T19:39:00.003-07:00

If I had a large-scale construction project to undertake, something that involved the tearing down of concrete walls and the backhoeing and bulldozing of the subsequent rubble, the time I’d pick to start the project everyday would obviously be 11pm.

I’d feel the need to put in an honest days’ work, so quitting time would be scheduled for eight hours later, promptly at 7am.

I’d be working through the night, so I’d obviously need to find a really, really bright light to illuminate my workspace, one that could easily be positioned to also shine directly into the (hermetically sealed) bedroom window of my neighbor across the street, ensuring that she could see the undersides of her eyelids as she fruitlessly would try to sleep, tossing and turning and punching her pillow as she would work through her repertoire of bilingual curse words, doing all she could to keep herself from running into the road in her pajamas, her bloodshot eyes ablaze with rage as she’d yell obscenities at me and my crew like the potentially-violent, half-crazed gringa that three days of sleep deprivation would turn her into.

But I wouldn't worry about her. Instead, I’d feel fortunate that I could undertake this project in the great city of Huajuapan de León, a commuity of 80,000 people that somehow manages to be 100 decibels louder than Chicago, a city of 8 million, a place where the everybody is used to noise at all hours, so nobody would even think to complain, except that grouchy gringa across the street. I’m glad that the municipal government would understand that my concrete wall would be more important than my neighbood's sleep. They’d even give me a permit so that I could park a truck right outside the construction site. I'd have to have some way of hauling away all that rubble. It’s OK that it would be blocking the entire road. Nobody in their right mind would be up at that hour anyway, you know?

I’d leave that big truck idling in the street the entire time, just because. The low, loud purr of that powerful engine could provide something of a backdrop to the scrape-lift-crash syncopation of the bulldozer’s scooping and spilling of rubble. It’d be a nice rhythm to work by, don’t you think?

I’d count my blessings that the project doesn’t fall during the months of December or July, or else my big, idling truck might get in the way of the processions of loud speakers, mariachi bands, fireworks and devout Catholics that parade down that same street at 4:30am. Gosh, we’d sure have a problem if that were the case.

Luckily, in February, the only other living beings up all night would be the street dogs who would bark at my bulldozer and that cranky, pajama-clad gringa across the street. Why wouldn't she just go to bed?

Yup, 11 pm it is. Sounds like a great plan.

Laughter in a time of goodbyes

2010-01-25T19:53:00.004-07:00

With three short weeks to go until I move back to the khaki-colored world that is Chicago, I’ve begun a series of long, sad, drawn-out goodbyes here in Oaxaca. As was the case in Japan, the proverbial painful Band-Aid is being removed very, very slowly, allowing for multiple opportunities for tears and hugs and sentiments.

This past weekend, I traveled to Juxtlahuaca, my novio’s hometown, a picturesque pueblo that time has left behind, tucked away in the Sierra Madres. Our trips to his childhood home are usually for happy occasions: his mother’s birthday, a cousin’s child’s baptism, the chance to hang out in a cemetery with his extended family. But the churning, unsettled feeling in my stomach reminded me that the purpose of this trip was different: We’d made the 2.5-hour journey so that I could say goodbye to his family, a group of warm and wonderful people who have accepted this funny, awkward gringa into their home and hearts from the first day we met, a day spent in search of fish on a mountaintop almost one year ago.

His parents, brother and sister all understood the reasons for my decision to move back home. As sad as it would be to tell them goodbye, I knew that I had their support. What worried me was how his 6-year-old niece was going to react. Like the rest of her family, "M" has accepted me unconditionally, affectionately calling me tía (aunt), seemingly unfazed by my funny accent and habit of asking her uncle to define the often-incomprehensible Spanish that excitedly spills from her mouth when she runs to greet me at the door with a big hug. Like many kids that grow up in Oaxaca, "M" has seen multiple neighbors, friends and family members leave her community for work in El Norte, often unsure of when -- or if -- they will return. It broke my heart to think that I’d be leaving her for seemingly the same reasons.

But "M" wouldn’t allow me to be sad. Seemingly sensing that I needed a good laugh, she told me about her recent vacation to the beach, showing off her braided-and-beaded hair as she recounted all the details:

"Sara, I went to the beach, and -- guess what? -- I saw a lot of people from your planet!"

"M" and her mother had taken a road trip down to Oaxaca’s coast and spent a week beach-hopping. The fact that the Spanish word for "country" (país) starts with a "p", just like the word for "planet" (planeta)makes "M's" slip understandable, but no less funny.

Or perhaps she really does think that I -- and "my people" -- come from a far-away galaxy. I wouldn't blame her: "M" went on to tell me of the scandal she’d seen in Zipolite, an unapologetically liberal beach in otherwise-conservative Oaxaca, often frequented by hippie-dippie foreigners and their Mexican counterparts who enjoy the community's clothing-optional rules.

"A lot of them were naked. Does everyone go naked on your planet?"

No, M, we don’t all go naked in Chicago. It gets too cold.

But maybe you can come visit me someday on my planet. In the meantime, I’ll fondly remember yours.

The Pursuit of Khaki-ness

2010-01-12T17:45:00.004-07:00

Khaki isn’t exactly the prettiest color in the world.

It’s the stuff of Gap ads and corporate casual dress codes, the proverbial “vanilla” of the crayon box: It’s not really the color I’d reach for if I were asked to paint the picture of my life for the past two and a half years.

I’d choose orange for Buddhist temples. Or green for the calm forests I used to cycle through in Fukui. I’d choose white for the uncompromising neon light of Korean cities, or a warm brown for the faces of smiling Cambodian children. I’d pick blue for the sea lapping at Oaxaca’s unspoiled virgin coastline and the endless sky of the Mixteca. Pink for the church in Huajuapan that I run past in the mornings and for the laundry room at my old apartment in Culiacán. Yellow for the threads woven into Guatemalan textiles.

Red for the color of the three faithful suitcases that have accompanied me on my incredible 30-month journey through five countries in two hemispheres, an experience that has helped me fulfill goals I never knew I had and to become a person I never dreamed I could be.

Nope, I never would have reached for the khaki-colored crayon to paint all of that.

Khaki, according to a co-worker, is the color of Chicago. The color of the cold plastic seats on the CTA. The color of file folders. Of cubicle walls in downtown office buildings and of the pants of the people that work in them.

My colleague, who left Chicago years ago and has since found a new home here in Huajuapan, never wants to go back to khaki. At least that’s what she told me yesterday when I told her that I was moving back to the city we both used to call home. It’s funny how we cling to the words we hear when we’re sharing the results of big, life-changing decisions.

Khaki or not, it’s time for me to go home. The reason is simple: The colors of a globe-trekking life, once vibrant and exciting to me, are starting to fade. Travel, once my raison d'être, leaves me feeling a bit hollow. Wanderlust-y weekend treks to exotic locales make me more exhausted than enlightened. As Paolo Coelho-ish as it might sound, through all the travel and time zones and tears and triumphs, I’ve finally found what I was looking for: Me. (Or at least a better understanding of how I fit into this crazy, big-but-small world.)

The decision to return to a khaki-colored life would have horrified the girl who, thirty months ago, sold off every last possession that wouldn’t fit into her three red suitcases and set off in search of adventure.

But the idea of khaki doesn’t scare me now. And that’s how I know I’m ready to go back, mature enough to handle it. Khaki may be the color of the biggest adventure of all: Settling down. Being brave enough to realize that personal growth and fulfillment don't necessarily come in the form of a passport full of stamps and a scrapbook full of photographs. Instead -- and here's where I'll go all Paolo Coelho on you again -- it's about daring to put down roots, to contribute to instead of taking from a community, and to see the day-to-day color in what, from the outside, may seem to be a pretty simple, khaki-colored life.

In five short weeks, my three red suitcases and I will again arrive in a foreign land, a place that will surely be unfamiliar and difficult at first, with the seemingly insurmountable task of making that new place feel like home. The Chicago I'll return to isn't the same Chicago I left in July of 2007. But this time, my process of building a home for myself will be different because I know what home really is.

Home: It’s only fitting that I had to stray thousands of miles away from it to truly understand it.

Foreshadowing

2010-01-02T18:23:00.015-07:00

The last thing the Yucateco cab driver said to me before exiting his taxi to go talk to the Federales (the notoriously-corrupt federal police force in Mexico) was to tell ‘em that I was his cousin.

Eh, yes. The green-eyed, sorta-blonde, freckle-faced gringa sitting in the back of your cab is obviously your cousin. Ob-vi-ou-sly. The feds are totally going to buy this one, buddy.

But we hadn’t done anything wrong. There was no reason to worry, yet for some reason I started to sweat, sitting in the back of that taxi watching the machine gun-clad Federales approach in the rearview mirrors. Maybe it was the hot Yucatán sun.

The whole thing started out innocently enough: I flagged a cab outside of the airport on the first day of our vacation to the Yucatán Peninsula, the sticky-out southeastern part of Mexico that is home to well-known cities like Mérida, Cancún and Playa del Carmen. We’d decided that a quick trip to the region would be just what I’d need before heading back to frigid Illinois for the holidays. After all, my tan (or resulting sunburn) would be the envy of all of my friends back home.

Now, in all of my travels to the many corners of the world, I’ve found that one thing usually holds true: The first couple of minutes in place have a way of setting the tone for the entire stay. Foreshadowing, if you will. So if this constant were to prove true in the Yucatán, getting pulled over by the cops within 10 minutes of landing in Mérida was the universe’s way of saying that our little vacation was going to kind of suck.

And it kind of did.

But our trip wasn’t nearly as lousy as that cabbie’s day.

He got pulled over for picking up passengers outside of his permitted zone. It was mostly my fault. Sweaty and suitcase-laden, and not knowing the traffic rules in Mérida, I’d flagged him down on the sidewalk just outside of the airport. Being a nice guy, he’d stopped to give us a lift to our hotel. We hadn’t driven more than 100 meters before those damn Federales honked and flashed their lights and pulled him over. That’s when he told us to tell them that I was his cousin. And that’s when I thought this violation was going to be a bit more serious than a zoning issue.

We waited in the taxi as the cabbie walked over to the police car, showed his license, and handed ‘em a fistful of money. Then the cops walked over the cab and proceeded to question the mismatched pair in the backseat. I, super nervous, suddenly Spanish-less, and obviously not the cab driver’s cousin, diverted my eyes and let my Mexican novio do all of the talking: Yes, he was the cab driver’s cousin. (Lie No. 1.) Yes, the cab driver was a good guy, just doing us a favor. (Lie No. 2.) Yes, we’d just arrived in Mérida, on vacation from Mexico City. (Lie No. 3.)

No, he couldn’t actually verify the cab drivers’ name, despite the fact that they were cousins. Oops.

The Federales had a good laugh at that one, and much to my surprise (and relief), let us off the hook. The cabbie came back to the car in surprisingly good spirits. Just a matter of bad luck, he said. These damn Federales are really cracking down on this zoning stuff, he explained. No need for this little incident to ruin our vacation, he assured us.

We zipped our way through Mérida and arrived at our hotel, where the cabbie parked along the curb. We generously tipped him to help offset the fine he’d received on our behalf. He helped us get our suitcases out of the trunk and told us to have a nice day.

And that’s when a bus rounded a corner and smashed into the back of his cab.

Thankfully nobody was hurt, but the words the cabbie yelled to the bus driver aren’t really repeatable, seeing as how as this is a family-friendly blog. The novio and I looked at each other and backed away slowly, escaped into our hotel, proceeded to check-in, go to our room, and unpack our suitcases. Forty-five minutes later, we could still hear the commotion in the street from the hotel lobby: The cabbie and the bus driver still exchanging heated words, and the honking of nearly an hour’s worth of backed-up traffic.

So the cabby had a pretty rotten day. And we had a pretty rotten vacation. After being pulled over by the cops and nearly crushed by a bus, things stayed kinda lousy for us in the Yucatán. I got sick. My camera got wet and stopped working. And it rained for five of our seven days there. I didn't get a tan (or even a sunburn), which, as you'll recall, was the whole point of this trip in the first place...

But we did salvage our time in the Yucatán with lots of laughs, a run-in with huge iguana on a pyramid, a visit to the region's cenotes (underground swimming holes) via horse-drawn railroad car (you have to see it to believe it), a frigid snorkeling tour, a beach bike ride in the rain, and lots of pictures, courtesy of the camera on my novio’s cell phone. We even had, like, 45 minutes of sun on our last day on the beach.

If you’re ever in Mérida, look for my “cousin,” the cab driver. He’ll be the guy with the smashed bumper and the Federales on his tail. And given his bad luck with us, he could probably use the extra fares.

NOTE to all my beloved Gringa Culichi readers who have noticed the nearly month-long lapse since my last entry: No, I haven't died from the swine flu. I've simply been über busy, hosting hippie biker friends here in Huajuapan, wrapping up work at the university, taking the aforementioned worst vacation ever, and celebrating the holidays state-side. Thanks for your emails; I'm glad to know my entries have been missed. Here's hoping that 2010 is your best year yet!

Sick of Being Sick

2009-12-03T19:26:00.003-07:00

I could swear that I’ve had the swine flu about 46 times since April, which is when the international media started with their oh-my-God-we’re-all-gonna-die sensationalism, if I recall correctly. Now, don’t get me wrong: I’m no hypochondriac. It’s just that the common cold seems to pack a pretty big punch here in the mountains, what with the elevation and dramatic temperature changes and all. On any given Huajuapan morning, you can wake up seeing your breath. By noon things have heated up and you’re sweating, peeling off layers of clothes to get to the tank top you’ve cleverly worn under two sweaters and a scarf. Come nightfall and you’re back to shivering under the covers. It takes a while for a gringa gal's immune system to get used to this stuff: Where I come from, it’s either really, really hot or it’s really, really cold, but it’s not both.

These frequent, climate-change-induced colds usually have me so worn down that I’ll swear it’s H1N1. I’ll suck down orange juice and Thermaflu and plan out the monster blog I’ll write about experiencing the phenomenon that may just have replaced donkey shows and getting mugged on the Mexico City metro as the quintessential Mexican experience of our time: The Swine Flu.

“Bravely Battling the Swine Flu in Oaxaca, the Place Where it Supposedly All Originated.” By: Sara Mac, the Gringa Culichi. Has a nice ring to it, right?

But after a few days the symptoms are gone, I’m back to normal, and life goes on. No swine flu. No blog. No glory.

This last time, however, the sick symptoms lingered a bit longer, prompting me to buy an extra-large “freshly” squeezed orange juice from a guy with a cart on my way to work one morning last week. The plan was to blast it all away with a massive dose of Vitamina C, but the quotation marks surrounding “fresh” are foreshadowing for the result: I had to battle some nasty stomach issues – not nearly as “sexy” as the swine flu for blogging purposes – supposedly brought about by bacteria in a bad orange.

By noon, I had to excuse myself from/run out of a meeting at work and barely reached the restroom, where suffice to say, the results weren’t pretty. I won’t be drinking orange juice again anytime soon.

I went home sick and I vomited and shivered and sniffled alone in my apartment that entire afternoon, cursing my misfortune. Why, oh why, couldn’t it be the swine flu? H1N1 would at least have given my suffering a higher blogging purpose, or maybe have even scored me an interview on FOX News, if not just guaranteed me sympathy from my friends back home.

But no, I had to go and get food poisoning from bloody orange juice. Who wants to read about that? (Apparently you, if you’ve made it this far.)

Mexico, however, is almost as synonymous with stomach issues as it is with swine flu, donkey shows and muggings on the metro. A quick Wikipedia search reveals that a full 40 percent of foreigners' travels in Mexico are interrupted by Montezuma’s revenge. In fact, I’d argue that stomach-based maladies are the tie that binds all of us expats living in Mexico. We’ll talk to each other about our pooping and puking in Mexico just as naturally and openly as we would discuss the weather or sports or Sarah Palin’s running shorts back in our home countries.

(At this point it becomes opportune to mention The Tablecloth Rule, which has never failed me, except for the few times I’ve foolishly broken it. The Tablecloth Rule says that when eating out in this lovely, bacteria-ridden country, if you only dine in restaurants that have tablecloths on the tables, you won’t get sick. Just steer clear of tablecloth-free street stalls and, um, men selling juice on carts. Lesson learned.)

At any rate, the good news is that, with such a high rate of ‘em, Mexico is used to dealing with foreigners’ stomach issues. The routine is so common that you don’t even have to leave your bed to get help: I sent a text message to a local doctor (he also happens to be a friend) who came to my apartment, poked around on my stomach, made the orange juice diagnosis and wrote me up a prescription for a cocktail of pills that would make it all go away. I then sent a text message to a local pharmacy who packed my pills into a nifty plastic bag, sent it via boy-on-motorcycle to my apartment, and – 15 bucks and 15 minutes later – I was pumped full of pills and feeling much better.

The doctor wouldn’t even take my money for the house call. Instead, I’m going to treat him to a “thanks-for-helping-me-stop-puking” lunch tomorrow.

And you better believe that we’ll be going to a restaurant with tablecloths. I’m not messing around with this food poisoning stuff anymore. The next time I get sick, I’ll be going down in an H1N1-fueled blaze of glory. Stay tuned for the blog, faithful readers.

Big Plain, Deep Freeze

2009-11-16T12:46:00.008-07:00

If Mexico were a Rorschach test, one of those psychological exams that measures your responses to ink blots to determine if you’re crazy or not, common associations might include “taco,” “cactus,” “sombrero,” and “hot.”

Hot. Hot. Hot.

The land of deserts and chiles is not exactly known for its frigid temperatures. After all, the ever-stereotypical Speedy Gonzalez never wore a scarf and gloves, did he? And what would be the point of having Spring Break here if the drunken, bikini-clad hordes of college students had to cover up with a parka?

But there’s nothing like familiarity to break down stereotypes: The more time I spend in Mexico, the more I realize that most of the tried-and-true ideas we gringos have about this place simply aren’t true. I’ve never seen a sombrero-clad man take a siesta underneath a cactus, for example. I’ve quickly learned that there’s more to eat here than just tacos and chalupas (Taco Bell, like Speedy Gonzalez and Cinco de Mayo, is really just a gringo creation, the manifestation of years and years of misunderstanding our Southern neighbor). Not everyone has a pet Chihuahua (okay, yes, some do). And – oh yeah – it’s not that hot here.

Actually, it's downright cold.

Especially when you’re 3,200 meters (that’s a mile high, y’all) above sea level in a town called Llano Grande (Big Plain), Mexico’s own version of Boulder, Colorado. Except that the Mexican version has just 92 residents, none of whom seem to have discovered the virtues of central heating, despite the fact that the average temperature of the place hovers somewhere around 45 degrees.

But Llano Grande, tucked away in Oaxaca’s Sierra Juarez mountain range, has its perks: Beautiful landscapes, for example (see above). Clear, clean rivers. Delicious locally-grown food. Snow. (The Chicagoan in me still thinks of “snow” with the same distain I hold for other four-letter words, but it is somewhat of a draw for Mexicans.) Zapotec culture. (Llano Grande is one of a system of a dozen or so Pueblos Mancomunados, a series of mostly-indigenous mountain communities that have teamed up to preserve their collective 180 square miles of forest, and all of the natural resources contained therein, while promoting sustainable tourism to the area.) And quaint, brick cabins, tucked away in pine forests.

At this point, I should add that the quaint, brick cabins come equipped with a quaint, brick fireplace, meant to combat the quaint, brick design that has the disadvantage of trapping in cool air, making the interior downright frigid at night.

Upon entering our cabin late on Saturday night (those sinuous mountain roads take some time to traverse) and literally seeing our breath indoors, my travel companion and I decided it was time to fire up the fireplace. He helped me load kindling and logs into la chimenea, and we had a decent blaze going before he left to look for some dinner n’ mezcal (what better way to warm up?), leaving me in charge of feeding the fire and warming the place up before he got back.

Clad in a knit cap and three sweaters, I squatted next to the fireplace, dutifully adding logs to the flames, waiting for it to begin to heat the place so my fingernails might appear slightly less blue. The feeling was familiar, the stuff of waiting for the train on elevated, wind-whipped platforms of a frozen February in Chicago, or of shivering in the icy bathroom of my thin-walled, space-heated Japanese apartment, waiting for my toothpaste to thaw so I could brush my teeth.

Little by little, the cabin warmed up enough for me to be able to peel off a couple of layers of sweaters. I smiled, thinking how warm n’ cozy the place would be for my novio when he came back with our dinner.

Twenty-five minutes later, and I heard my novio’s car pull up next to the cabin. The heat had made me sleepy, so I greeted him with droopy eyes and a big bear hug. But instead of settling down by the fire next to me, he tore around frantically opening doors and windows.

¿Qué diablos estás haciendo? Why the [insert choice explicative here] are you letting the cold back in?

Smoke had filled the room. Nearly drunk on the heat (and CO2) produced by the fire, I hadn’t noticed the swirling grey clouds billowing above my half-asleep head: The chimney was clogged.

It was too late to ask the Llano Grande guys for help. We’d have to air the place out and let the fire die down, despite my protests of cold.

We hurled ourselves into the bed, buried ourselves under a sheet, three thick blankets provided by the Llano folks, two more covers that my novio had the foresight to bring, plus a bedspread that we pulled off the top bunk of the bunk-beds in the corner of the cabin, waiting for oxygen to replace the carbon dioxide in the room. When the last wisp of smoke had left the cabin, we hurriedly closed the windows, bolted the door, and shivered ourselves to sleep.

At some point in that frigid, ink-black night, I woke up, teeth chattering and half-frozen. A beam of icy moonlight stretched across the cabin, up onto the bed, and shone right into my eyes.

The front door of the cabin was wide open.

We hadn’t bolted it properly. No wonder we were frozen.

If I had to take a Rorschach tomorrow, I’d probably be institutionalized: While most people associate frozen blue agave margaritas with Mexico, the mention of the place conjures up the memory of my frozen blue nail beds. Just as Speedy Gonzalez, Cinco de Mayo, and Taco Bell’s 99-cent Value Menu simply don’t exist in Mexico, neither does heat.

Coming to Mexico? Better pack your parka. And a couple of extra blankets.

Listen to your gut

2009-11-11T13:54:00.007-07:00

The apartment looked like it had served as the set of the toilet scene in Trainspotting. (For those Gringa Culichi readers who have not seen Trainspotting and, thus, have just been spared a very disturbing visual, suffice to say that the apartment was less than pleasant). But for a mere $400 USD a month, it could have be mine, in all of its cockroach-infested, urine-fragranced, windowless glory.

I was apartment shopping because I was contemplating a move. And I was contemplating a move because I had temporarily been wooed by the bright lights of the big city that is Mexico City (and that’s big with a capital B-I-G as Mexico City is the third-largest urban sprawl on the planet). Even a cursory glance at my past blog entries will reveal that I’m a city girl at heart, and deeper investigation into the number of times I’ve referenced my homesickness for Chicago or my frustrations with my $38-dollar-a-day-job and country-bumpkin living here in the small mountain-top town of Huajuapan de León, Oaxaca offer further explanation as to why I’d consider such a relocation in the first place.

So when the job offer rolled in -- and when the job offer included couple more zeros at the end of the number on the paycheck than what I currently see here in Oaxaca -- I could hardly control my enthusiasm. I bought my bus ticket to Mexico City. I’d go to check out apartments and to meet my future co-workers. I’d go to feel out what my new life would be in El Distrito Federal (that’s DF locally, for what translates to Federal District in English, which is what people-in-the-know call Mexico City).

I’d be a city girl again. One of those hip chicas who call the place DF instead of one of the schmoes who call it Mexico City.

My mind was humming with the possibilities and my heart was pounding with excitement. But my gut was less than convinced. And because I refused to listen, it was forced to scream: YOU'RE SELLING OUT! All that noise stirred me out of what semblance of sleep I was able to garner on the seven-hour overnight bus trip. But I blocked my gut's message by turning up my iPod, chalking up the unsettled feeling to carsickness.

Luckily, when a girl isn’t smart enough to listen to her gut, the universe steps in to steer her in the right direction. Despite the fact that I spent the entire weekend trying to fall in love with DF, I kept bumping into Oaxaca in the strangest of places.

There was the gardener who greeted me at the door at the fancy-pants apartment buildings I’d made an appointment to see on Saturday. Waiting for the realtor to show me the place, I struck up a friendly “where ya from?” conversation with him. He wasn’t just from Oaxaca -- nope, I never would have caught a sign that subtle from the universe -- he was from La Mixteca, the region where I live, from a town that’s right next door to Huajuapan, as if such proximity were possible in a place where mountains place two-hour barriers between “neighborhing” communities. I asked him how he liked DF. He shrugged as he looked down shyly -- or maybe it was sadly? -- and poked at the dirt with his shovel. After ten years, he said, he “was still getting used to it.”

Later that day, en route to a coffee date with a future co-worker, I got lost in the maze of streets that criss-crossed the metro stop I’d stumbled off at. All of the streets were named for delicious, glamorous big cities: Londrés (London), Tokio (Tokyo), Praga (Prauge). But I was unable to find my desired address on the swanky Hamburgo (Hamburg) because I was lost, wondering around on -- you guessed it -- Oaxaca Avenue. I’d take the wrong exit out of the subway. Or had I?

The final straw came when I stopped to buy a pair of earrings from a street vendor I came across when I finally found my way to Hamburgo. The earrings consisted of colorful turquoise shapes painted on some sort of natural material -- not quite wood, not quite shell -- so I asked about their origin. The material, of course, was from Oaxaca, which, though unsolicited from yours truly, prompted the vendor to tell me how much he loves Oaxaca. That he thinks Oaxaca is one of the most beautiful places in the country. That he would leave DF in a second if he could find work in Oaxaca.

Oaxaca. Oaxaca. Oaxaca.

Listen, amigo. I’ve just come from Oaxaca. I’ve been wondering around on it for the past hour. Or, rather, I’ve been wondering around IN IT for the past year. There’s nothing for me there! Please, please. PLEASE, just let the city girl come home.

I wanted to shake him and yell at him and attempt to reason with him. But the earring vendor had spoken. And so had the universe.

Lest this blog entry begin to eerily resemble the super-cheesy plot line from Serendipity or sound like it was ghostwritten by Paulo Coelho or those new-agey people from The Secret, let me get back to my Trainspotting experience. The next day, Sunday, I marched -- my newly-acquired Oaxacan earrings dutifully dangling from my lobes -- into the aforementioned so-disgusting-it-provoked-my-gag-reflex-upon-walking-in-the-door apartment located off a busy intersection in downtown DF. This apartment represented what my DF life would be: dank, dark and dirty, full of 6-day workweeks and 90-minute subway commutes to teach English to spoiled rich kids and corporate suits. DF may wine and dine you under its sparkling bright lights, but this apartment, dimly lit by a single, naked light bulb flickering from the cracked ceiling, revealed its dark underbelly.

It’s ironic that I had to go all the way to Mexico City to buy earrings I could have just as easily bought in Oaxaca. And it’s also ironic that I had to go all the way to Mexico City to realize that the good life was actually back in Oaxaca.

I won’t be moving to DF, and, therefore, I won't be chic enough to call the city "DF." So, correction: I won't be moving to Mexico City. Call me a schmoe. But at least my gut will finally shut up.

Meet the Fockers (à la Mexicana)

2009-11-03T14:53:00.006-07:00

There’s nothing like spending a Sunday night in a cemetery.

With your Mexican boyfriend.

And his entire extended family.

Meeting a significant other’s family is always a bit awkward. There’s the anxiety of making a good first impression. Of hoping they like you. Of remembering new faces and names.

Throw in the twist of dating a Mexican, and you do all of the above en español while attempting to juggle cultural differences with an extra-large extended family that includes, like, 36 aunts and uncles and at least 467 cousins: Do you offer Tio Martín a handshake or kiss on the cheek? Do you address thirty-something Prima Lupe in the formal “usted” form or use the more familiar “tú”? How do you react when nearly-deaf, 85-year-old Tia Josefa can’t understand your gringa accent?

And then there’s the issue of location. What could be more comfortable or natural that doing all of this in a cemetery at 11pm on a Sunday night?

But that’s par for the course here in Mexico. This time of year, families get together to celebrate El Día de los Muertos (that’s Day of the Dead), so what better opportunity to introduce your gringa girlfriend to the crew than when everybody’s together anyway?

And that’s exactly how it went down in a tiny cemetery on top of a mountain somewhere in rural Oaxaca this past Sunday. Mexican families believe that the spirits of the departed come back to visit the living on November 1 (it’s known as All Saints’ Day en inglés). Since they only come around once a year, Mexican Hospitality says you’d best make ‘em feel welcome, with elaborate altars in homes (packed with flowers, candles, pictures, food and beverages of choice) and all-night vigils at the cemetery, where families take turns tending the gravesites with flowers, candles, food and music.

Where I come from, cemeteries are usually somber places, evoking scenes of cold November days with brittle, leafless trees and sobbing widows at grey gravesites. But in Mexico on Day of the Dead, cemeteries are carnival-like, with music and crowds, cumbia-blaring speakers and vendors hawking tamales and pozole and atole right outside the cemetery gates.

So what better place than a cemetery to meet you boyfriend's father's sister's daughter's daughter, whose name you forgot thirty seconds after it was told to you, because you were whisked away to meet your boyfriend's mother's sister’s second cousin's son?

And what, exactly, does one talk about over the graves of the dearly departed? The universal awkward-situation conversation topic – the weather – doesn’t always translate to Mexico, because, let’s face it, it’s sunny and beautiful here all the time. And frankly, it seems a little trite to be comparing precipitation trends in Chicago and Oaxaca when you’re supposed to be honoring the memory of Abuelo and Abuela, who are resting for eternity just below your feet.

Given all of this awkwardness, it is strange to admit that I actually enjoyed the experience? My novio’s family was warm and welcoming, offering me lots of hugs and kisses, and it’s-so-nice-to-finally-meet-yous. They streamed into the family’s capilla throughout the evening, piling yellow and white and purple flowers on the gravesites and lighting candles. We chatted about NAFTA and master’s degrees and beach vacations. And later we noshed on hot chocolate and sweet bread.

If meeting extended family in a cemetery is normal in Mexico, I can only imagine how out-of-place my novio must have felt when I took him to my uncle's house in Central Illinois for a good ol' red-white-n'-blue fish fry this past July, inflicting my cousins and uncle and grandma on him all at once. Perhaps this whole meet-my-entire-extended-family-in-a-graveyard-at-midnight thing was his form of revenge.

At least I got some hot chocolate out of the deal. All he got was fried bass and a Bud Light-induced hangover.

Lila & Lateness

2009-10-18T12:08:00.007-06:00

When they said the concert would start at 9 pm, I knew it wouldn’t start at 9 pm. Though Mexican Time still continues to mystify me (like it did here and here and here) I’m not naïve enough to think that an event would actually – gasp – begin at the advertised time.

So when we heard that Lila Downs – a Mexican singer who’s somewhat of a heroine ‘round these parts, born in a tiny town called Tlaxiaco to a Oaxacan mom and a gringo dad, verified as a star after her appearance in the movie Frida a couple of years ago and subsequent Oscar – would be playing a rare concert in her hometown at 9 pm on Friday, we jumped at the chance to go. I’d take off work at 6 pm giving us plenty of time to drive the two hours to Tlaxiaco and arrive for the show.

A week ahead of the event, the media hype began. Tlaxiaco, a town of about 17,000, wouldn’t have the infrastructure to support the onslaught of concert-goers that Lila would bring. Speculation ran wild, with estimates of 4,000 people expected to descend on the tiny town with only 1,000 hotel rooms.

You’d think the Beatles were coming to play live in the the Mixteca. We booked our tickets early and managed to reserve one of those precious hotel rooms.

We left Huajuapan at about 6:30 on Friday in anticipation of a great night. We’d arrive in Tlaxiaco by about 8:30, giving us time to check into our hotel, get to the concert, and maybe even grab a beer before the show. The concert wouldn’t start at 9 pm. We had plenty of time.

But we didn’t expect getting stuck in mud along the pothole-plagued mountain highway on the way to Tlaxiaco. Nor did we anticipate a parade to be blocking all of the streets when, mud-covered, we finally rolled into town – late – at 9:15 pm. We also didn’t budget for the 30 minutes it would take to reach our hotel, which wasn’t in Tlaxiaco at all, but well on the way to the next town over, across streets snarled with traffic and bits of broken parade float.

We arrived at the concert around 10 pm. Apparently Lila had gotten the message about the delay, too, because her fancy-pants truck pulled up the same time we did, allowing me to snap the fabulous “hey there, adoring fans, I’m arriving fashionably late just like you” picture above.

We were right on time. I’d finally outsmarted Mexican Time! We smugly got our tickets, found our seats, and exchanged pleasantries with the people sitting around us (who had arrived at 9 pm – suckers! – don’t you know about Mexican Time?). And we waited.

And waited and waited and waited.

We waited through as the roadies – in all of their black-hoodied coolness – untangled wires on stage. We waited through the sound check-check-check. We waited through the warming-up cacophony of the saxophone, the drums, the harp, the bass guitar and a banjo – all competing to be heard over the piped-in pop en español soundtrack designed to cover up all the noise.

10:30. 10:45. 11 o’clock. 11:15 pm.

We waited as throngs of later-than-us-but-actually-more-on-time people arrived and smugly took their seats.

Suckers! Don’t you know about Mexican Time?

At 11:30 pm, Lila finally took the stage. There is really no way to put the impact of her music into words. Suffice to say that her smoky, goosebumps-inducing voice, coupled with her kaleidoscopic Mixtec dress, made the wait completely worthwhile.

At 1 am, the concert concluded, and I, after happily violating the concert produers' no-photo policy by taking about 300 pictures, dutifully filed out of the hall with throngs of octogenarians and eight-year-olds alike, all of whom had braved the late hour to see their hometown hero. Where I come from, these folks would have been fast asleep at that time.

So, while I’m convinced that I’ll never understand Mexican Time, I’m also comforted by the fact that I’m not alone.

Clack-Clack

2009-09-29T17:46:00.006-06:00

I have a thing with weddings.

No matter what I do, I always seem to be late to ‘em.

There was the time in Chicago where I got stuck in traffic and then subsequently lost in traffic. When I finally frantically rushed into the ceremony, nearly an hour late, I realized that I didn’t actually recognize anyone in the sanctuary. Turns out I was at the wrong wedding in the wrong church.

The next summer, there was a wedding up in Milwaukee. Heavy traffic out of Illinois caused a bit of a lead foot crossing into Wisconsin, so it was no surprise when I got pulled over for speeding. With a $250 ticket crumpled into the glove box, I pulled up late to the wedding anyway.

There’s nothing like opening the doors in a church, interrupting a wedding ceremony that’s already in progress. The sound of creaking door hinges and the glare of the beam of sunlight you invite inside simultaneously turn the heads of the dozens of already-seated, smugly-on-time guests. They all want to check the identity of this offending Late Person. Does she belong to the groom’s side or the bride’s? Their eyes follow you -- the clack-clack of the high heels you painstakingly picked out to match your dress embarrassingly echoing through the sanctuary -- to see which side of the aisle you sit on. You sink into the pew in shame, catching the glare of at least one of the members of the Bridal Party, if not the Bride and Groom themselves.

About a month ago, I was invited to attend a wedding here in Huajuapan. I thought Mexican Time would be on my side for this event, that there would be a possibility of actually arriving on time, since “on time” here in Mexico essentially means “60 to 90 minutes late.”

Unfortuantely, my date/ride, in true Mexican fashion, was more than three hours late to pick me up. (FYI, three hours late is very, very late, even by the generous standards of Mexican Time.) Together, we faced the embarrassment of arriving at the reception just after the meal had been served. The entire party of 200-plus guests looked up from their nearly-clean plates to gawk at the strange, tall gringa clack-clacking her way to be seated at the unadorned, fold-out table in the corner. We were served cold macaroni-and-hot-dog salad for dinner because they’d run out of the real stuff.

It felt like sitting the kid’s table at Thanksgiving. Until you learn to act like a grown-up -- chew with your mouth shut, get along with your little sister, arrive on time to things for once -- you’re relegated to PB&J sandwiches at the card table in the kitchen while everyone else is eating drumsticks in the dining room.

So, this Saturday, when a friend invited me to his Big Day here in Huajuapan, I saw it as an opportunity to redeem myself with the Wedding Gods, particularly those of the Mexican variety: I wouldn’t rely on the graces of Mexican Time for this wedding. I’d just try to arrive, well, on time for once.

On Saturday morning, I studied the ceremony start time listed on the invitation: 12 o’clock noon. Time doesn’t get lost in translation.

I nagged my date -- the same guy who’d inflicted the three-hours-late incident on me -- to be ready early. We were leaving at twenty-to-twelve at the very latest. I wasn’t going to suffer that kind of embarrassment again. ¿Comprende?

I nagged him when we left late, at 12:15, because he'd forgotten to sign the card and couldn't figure out what to write. I kept nagging him when we inevitably got lost on the way to the ceremony. (How do you not know where to go? Aren’t there, like, three streets in this whole town?) And the nagging continued as we pulled up to the event, a full forty minutes late.

At 12:40 pm, the familiar feeling of dread churned in my stomach as I played the inevitable scenario in my head: the opening of church doors, the interrupting of sermons, the clack-clacking of high heels, the eating of cold macaroni and hot dogs…

Hand-in-hand, we crept up to the wedding site (it was an outdoor wedding, so there were no doors to be open, gracias a Dios) to find…

…a handful of inpatient-looking people scattered in the audience, a maintenance crew still setting up the priest’s podium, and the band doing their ever-essential check-check on the stage.

The impatient-looking people in the audience looked up, gawked at the strange, tall gringa, and followed the clack-clack of her high heels to see where she sat: Bride’s side or groom’s side? Who arrives this early?

The groom himself showed up at 1:30 pm.

Additional guests began filing in around 2 pm, and the ceremony began at about 2:30.

Right on time, y’all. We, obviously, were just 2.5 hours early this time around.

The bride’s sister arrived at about 3 pm.

Her late arrival turned a few heads, but her high heels didn’t make a sound.

I hated her for that.

Idealism is Dead

2009-09-15T16:40:00.009-06:00

I’ve had a strange feeling swirling in the pit of my stomach lately. And I don’t think it’s the street-food induced amoebas that have been swimming there since yesterday.

No, this feeling has stuck around for a while. I think it began in Guatemala, in April, when I was there to “vacation” (and, by “vacation,” I mean “get ripped off left and right by the rats that run the Guatemalan tourism industry”) and it seems to have come to fruition in Mexico City, last week, when I was attending a United Nations conference (with my clean suit in tow, thank you Rocco brothers).

The strange feeling seems to be emptiness. There’s an emptiness in my stomach, deep down in my guts, a void that this lovely notion called “idealism” used to occupy. This may seem strange coming from a girl who has just come back from a three-day United Nations conference, but...

My idealism is dead.

I’m tempted to add an “at least for now” loophole to that last sentence, but that would seem a bit, well, idealistic, don’t you think? (My idealism may be gone, but apparently my sarcasm is alive and well.)

This “idealism is dead” declaration will come as a surprise to those who know me best. I’m the girl who, in 1998, upon graduating from high school, wrote that she wanted to be “working in the jungles of Guatemala” by the time her 10-year reunion rolled around. And I’m the girl who, just one year ago, found herself standing in the middle of a bar in Mexico City, on the verge of tears, apologizing on behalf of her US government, to the applause of the entire drunken crowd, for all the wrongs the gringos had done to our Latin American neighbors.

Now, I’m not working in the jungles of Guatemala, but I am working in the mountains of southern Mexico. Close enough. Regardless of geography, I’m living in a place where I am constantly being made to feel like I have to apologize for my US citizenship. And that has gotten really, really, REALLY old.

I’m going to just come out and say it: Mexico’s problems are not my fault. Nor are they (entirely) the fault of the United States government. And as long as the collective blame-directing fingers of my host nation keep pointing north (or toward me), Mexico’s problems will continue.

(The picture I’ve chosen to illustrate this passage provides a case-in-point. These Obama-mask-clad Mexican farmers took the streets in downtown Mexico City last Tuesday, brandishing a sign that read: “If the politicians treated us like they treated Obama, this country would be different.” The farmers had been denied a meeting with the secretary-of-something-important, and this same secretary had met with Obama when he was in Mexico this summer. I understand the farmers' frustrations, but seriously, what does Obama have to do with it? He, after all, didn’t elect Mexico’s corrupt politicians. And neither did I.)

There. That felt good.

Now before you go thinking that I've abandoned my liberal world views or have gone all -- gasp --Ugly American on you, know that I do think Mexico (and most of Latin America) has gotten the raw end of the (big) stick that is US foreign policy. It’s absolutely ridiculous that many of the world’s poorest nations share the same hemisphere with the world’s richest.

I (still) believe, idealistically or not, that this disparity needs to change. That’s why I’ve spent the last year of my life teaching in the proverbial trenches (those of you familiar with Huajuapan de León might agree with this analogy) to try to level that playing field a bit. But when I leave the warm, fuzzy cocoon that is my classroom and venture out into the streets, reality chips away at my idealism.

Before I left for Guatemala in April, a Mexican friend told me to watch out for the ratas de dos patas (that’s “two-legged rats,” e.g, thieves) that he believed plagued the lands of his neighbor to the south. Turns out, that friend was right. Those “two-legged rats” managed to milk me for my every last quetzal during my time in that country.

I should have better heeded my friend’s advice. But regardless, I’d argue that the ratas de dos patas aren’t limited to Guatemala. There seems to be quite a lot of them in Mexico, with an especially large concentration right here in my home state of Oaxaca, a state which also happens to be, arguably, the poorest in the country. These rats, thinly veiled as politicians, subsist on tax revenues and drug money (occasionally laundering it through the construction of a hospital, to be staffed by their best cronies upon completion), while the communities in their charge literally wither and die (there’s no money for water, after all).

I met a man who works for the Mexican Secretary of Education in a hotel bar in Mexico City last week. My increasingly-strong feelings of disillusionment, lubricated by the beer I was drinking, slipped right out of my mouth and into what was supposed to be a friendly conversation. He’d told me that his mother is from Oaxaca, from a small town in the marginalized region of the state where I live and work. The mention of his mom’s roots prompted the wrath of my blame-directing finger, which I pointed squarely at him, asking why he didn’t personally make sure that Oaxacan schools had more resources.

He politely replied that -- actually you silly gringa -- Oaxaca receives one of the biggest slices of the federal education budget of all the 31 states in this country. The problem, he explained, seems to be making sure that the cash actually gets to the schools, seeing as how Oaxaca’s famously-corrupt government takes it upon itself to “distribute” the funds.

With that being said, I stuck my blame-pointing finger in my pocket, and then shoved my proverbial foot inside my already-open mouth.

This Mexican government staffer is no more at fault for all of Oaxaca’s problems than I am as a U.S. citizen. But it’s human nature to want to place blame. So the Ugly American in me is tempted to shift that blame back on my Oaxacan hosts themselves for their complacency, for condoning such corruption.

I’d say that Oaxacans need to get out in the streets and protest the corruption in their government, but many are doing that already, in the form of infamous “teacher strikes” that actually have nothing to do with teachers and are hurting the fragile tourism industry here. I’d say they need to get out and vote for a new administration, but many are unable to do so, given that polling places mysteriously become “unavailable” in certain communities on election day.

So we’re back where we started: The easiest solution seems to be to blame the big, rich, neighbor to the north. I used to do this with mucho gusto, until I became its scapegoat and realized that this whole finger-pointing thing is really quite counter-productive.

While we’re all pointing fingers, the corruption continues. Ain’t nothin' gonna change, amigos.

An acquaintance recently asked me why I didn’t just throw in the towel, move back to Chicago, and marry a rich banker. (She was asking the question rhetorically, as she’s as much of a bleeding heart as I am.) The thought is tempting: Why do I stay here, making $38 USD a day and beating my head against the wall, planning English lessons in an under-resourced university for students who will eventually graduate and become a part of the society that blames me and my government for all of their problems?

Perhaps the loss of idealism, much like the network of fine lines that creeps across my once-fresh face every day, is an inevitable part of getting older. But the longer I spend underneath the oppressive Oaxacan sun, the more accelerated both processes seem to become.

To all of this, on the eve of Mexican Independence Day, I must add a very cynical but equally sincere "¡Viva México!"

Laundry Wars

2009-09-05T13:34:00.005-06:00

About a year ago, I fled a drug war in Culiacán, Sinaloa. In doing so, left behind armed guards at the grocery store, stray bullets in the streets, patrol choppers roaring over my apartment, and, yes, a washing machine.

Oh, how I miss that washing machine.

Huajuapan doesn’t have a drug war, per se, but doing the wash here is a battle all of its own.

It’s not for lack of lavanderías, however. Lavandería roughly translates to “laundry mat” but isn’t a laundry mat at all, at least not by my standards. Instead, a lavandería is where clothes go to die.

For 14 pesos a kilo (that’s about 50 cents a pound), you can drop your clothes off, and someone will “wash” and “dry” them and tell you when you can come by for “pick up.” Those unaccustomed with Mexican laundry mats are likely cursing my good fortune about now: Having somebody else do your wash for you certainly seems like a good deal.

Unfortunately, laundry service here is definitely an example of getting what you pay for: “Wash,” in a lavandería, means “soak in filthy water, throw in cheap soap, beat against rocks, stretch beyond recognition and then splatter with bleach.” “Dry,” in turn, means “blast 100% cotton garments in a heat that guarantees they shrink at least two sizes.” Finally, “pick up” means that you can come by for a bag of clothing that may or may not be your own, which means that somebody else walked off with your favorite black tank top and the green swimming suit that will be impossible to replace in Mexico because most Oaxaqueñas are 18 inches shorter and three sizes smaller than you are…

But I digress.

It took me a while to find a lavandería I could “trust” here in Huajuapan. I sacrificed several pairs of jeans, a least 30 socks, and the aforementioned tank top and bikini to the proverbial laundry gods before I found Lavandería Rocco, a laundry mat owned by two brothers that’s about a block away from my apartment. Over the months, we’ve struck a deal: I become their customer for life, and in turn, they don’t shrink, lose, stain, steal or otherwise ruin my clothes.

The Rocco brothers’ service is good, but not without drawbacks: As a small, family-run business, they’re often closed for days without warning, meaning that they’ve held my clean clothes “hostage” in their shop for the better part of a week in the past.

Their knack for being closed when I need them most has only worsened in the past weeks now that Lolita has gotten sick. Lolita is their dog, a mix of poodle and rat that they like to torture with pink sweaters and matching hair bows.

(One of the Rocco brothers is very effeminate, often greeting me with crimped eyelashes and a hint of mascara and lip gloss. The other couldn’t be more opposite, walking around shitless to show off the collection of tattoos on his chest. I think I know who Lolita belongs to…)

Just this morning, I dropped off nearly three kilos’ worth of laundry with the tattooed brother, and asked about the dog (I’m concerned about poor Lolita’s health, but my underlying motive was to know if the lavandería would be open on Monday. I’m leaving for a UN conference in Mexico City next week and need clean clothes to take with me).

He said Lolita was doing OK, and apologized for the many trips to the vet that had kept him from opening the shop. I smiled, wished him and Lolita the best, and said I’d call him Monday if the shop wasn’t open. (Yes, I have the lavendería’s number saved in my cell phone. That’s they way it’s done here in Huajuapan: Text us if you’d like, we may or may not respond, and you may or may not get your clothes this week.)

I then walked over to Huajuapan’s one and only tintorería (dry cleaner) to drop off my one and only business suit in preparation for said conference in Mexico City. I haven’t had much use for the dry cleaner here, seeing as how I haven’t had much use for my suit (my jean-and-t-shirt clad students wouldn’t know what to make of me if I came to school dressed so formally). I smiled as I approached the counter, presented my suit, said a silent prayer that it wouldn’t come back to me three sizes smaller and covered with bleach, and asked the girl when it might be ready.

“Next Saturday.”

My eyes widened. It takes a week to do drycleaning here? Are you serious? Clearly, I had been spoiled by same-day service in Chicago.

Time for Plan B. I quickly scanned the garment tags, which indicated that the suit could be machine washed in cold water. I hurried back to Rocco’s, hoping that they’d be able to clean it for me before I left for Mexico City on Monday.

When I got to the lavendería, it was closed. Damn it!

I shook my head, silently assessing my remaining options to get my suit clean in time. Did I take a risk with another lavandería in town? Wash it myself in my bathroom sink? Attempt to buy another suit somewhere in Huajuapan?

Suddenly, I heard someone call my name. The Rocco brothers pulled up on a motorcycle, the tough, tattooed one driving, the eyelash-crimped one riding on the back with Lolita and her pink bows in his lap. It was all I could do not to laugh at the scene.

The Rocco brothers are going to wash my suit for Monday, in theory.

Here’s hoping that Lolita’s feeling better next week. If not, here’s hoping that the United Nations doesn’t mind a blue jean-clad gringa serving as a panelist.

La Dentista

2009-08-17T15:46:00.004-06:00

It wasn’t exactly a vacation, but my Mexican dental experience was pretty darn nice, all things considered.

What with the debate on healthcare in the United States these days, there’s been a lot of talk about border runs to Mexico…not of the Spring Break variety, but of the medical variety. The trend is called Medical Tourism, or Medical Vacations, and the rationale is that you can get yourself fixed/cured/face-lifted/treated/boob-jobbed/whatever for a heckuva lot cheaper in the Philippines/Cuba/Malaysia/Mexico/wherever than you would in the good ol’ USA. And then you can take the money you’ve saved on your root canal or heart valve replacement and go sip fruity, umbrella-embellished cocktails on a beach somewhere in said country.

But my recent trip to the dentist didn’t come about in a pursuit to save money. Heck, when you’re earning in pesos, spending in pesos doesn’t exactly represent big savings. Instead, my dental experience came about rather serendipitously, as most things seem to happen here in Mexico.

I ended up at the dentist because I was apartment hunting on behalf of two new gringo teachers who will join our department later this month. Follow that?

The teachers need a place to crash, and it is my job to find them one. So I was wondering the streets of Huajuapan last week, looking for places for rent, when I came across a veritable goldmine: a sign advertising an entire building of furnished, rentable-by-the-month rooms located in “downtown” Huajuapan. The sign directed me to get more information…at the dentist office of all places.

So I wondered over to the closest dentist office to inquire. (If you’ll indulge the digression, I want to add that dentist offices are to Huajuapan as Starbucks are to Chicago…there seems to be one on every corner, and one wonders how there can be enough bad flossers/coffee drinkers around to possibly keep them all in business.)

Upon entering said office, I remembered that I, uh, hadn’t visited the dentist in over two years, given my globehopping tendencies and resulting questionable insurance coverage. So I inquired about a room for the new teachers and a tooth cleaning for me. Talk about a two-for-one-deal.

And there was good news and there was bad news. The good news is that both new teachers will have a place to live for the next month until they get their bearings here in Oaxaca. The bad news is that the cleaning revealed that I had a big, fat, ugly, black cavity in one of my molars.

(Yikes. Somebody needs to lay off the Diet Coke.)

So this morning, I requested off work to go see what all this “medical vacation” fuss was all about. I dutifully showed up to my dentist appointment, confident that I knew what I was getting into. How different could Mexican dentists be from American dentists? The dentist office seemed pretty standard: Olive-green chair. Soothing music on the CD player. Spit bib. Lots of scary sharp instruments lying around.

The dentist, a nice lady named Maria Inés, smiled reassuringly at me, pulled on her rubber gloves, and then said: “Well, if it’s OK with you, I think we’ll work without anaesthetic today, OK?”

Um, what?!?

Apparently, this is where the Mexican-dentist-versus-American-dentist differences began. Is this how these Mexican dentists keep their prices so low, by cutting out the numb factor, by hoping for patients with high pain thresholds?

I asked her if anaesthetic (or a bottle of strong mezcal) was available nearby if needed. She laughed, pulled on a face mask, and began drilling away.

Funny thing was, there was no pain. And there was no pain when the bill came either: The entire procedure cost 350 pesos, which is about $27 bucks in the United States. That’s just enough to cover the insurance co-pay for a dentist visit where I come from!

So, heck, the experience was so pleasant that it was almost like a vacation. The only thing missing was a couple of those fruity umbrella-embellished cocktails. But they’d probably give me more cavities, anyway, so it’s just as well.

Taxis + Soccer = Social Chaos

2009-08-12T16:15:00.008-06:00

Moms are still moms on Mother's Day. And dads are still dads on Father's Day. Teachers still teach on Día del Maestro (that's Teacher's Day, which is celebrated here in Mexico on May 15). Secretaries chug away on Secretary's Day. So why to taxi drivers get a day off on Día del Taxista, or Taxi Driver's Day, celebrated this past Wednesday?

Let me rephrase: It's not that they got the day off work, per se. It's just that they, um, don't work. And that makes getting around even a small town like Huajuapan pretty tough, seeing as how nobody has cars and how many of us work on top of a mountain and all. I live in the valley, and hoofing it up to the university takes the better part of an hour. But in a taxi, it's an easy, sweat-free ten minutes.

I usually have no trouble getting around via the collective taxis that will take folks up and down the mountain all day for the rock-bottom rate of four pesos (three cents USD). There are taxis patrolling the streets every morning when I want to go up to work, honking and flagging and clammoring for my business. The same holds true when I leave work in the evenings, though I usually choose to enjoy the mountain sunset by walking home.

Now there is some trickiness at lunchtime, when seemingly 1,500 university students, plus the teachers that teach 'em, all descend on the taxi stand at exactly the same time, each vying to get down the mountain to eat or run errands. And there's a high school up the road with another couple hundred kids that adds to the problem. But, even with that, transportation is usually pretty do-able.

Not Wednesday.

At lunchtime, all 1,500 of us were left stranded while the taxi drivers were downtown celebrating their Taxi Drivers Day. There was the decorating of the taxis. Then there was a taxi parade. And a special taxi mass at the church. Not that any of us got to witness these things, seeing as how we were all stuck on top of a mountain.

Now, I'm not complaining. Everyone needs a day off now and again. Everyone needs to feel proud of their work. If anything, Taxi Driver's Day is a reminder of just how much we depend on these folks. An 80s hair band put it best: "Don't know what you got 'til it's gone."

But there was a compounding factor on Wednesday: A hugely-hyped Mexico-versus-United States soccer match took care of what shred of civil order was left in Huajuapan. When I finally made my way down the mountain (thanks to a friend who had the foresight to drive to work) and we navigated our way through the confusion of balloons and flowers and taxis that clogged the main streets, I walked down my block to a scene that was equal parts ghost town and chaos.

Businesses, usually open for lunchtime customers, were closed and barred. The din of cheering and "¡GOOOOOOOOOOOL!" could be heard from inside these establishments, coming from what were likely groups of men crowded around foil-covered-rabbit-earred televisions, downing inapporpriate amounts of canned beer, seeing as how it was 3pm on a work day.

The few businesses that were still open had propped small, fuzzy televisions at the entrances, broadcasting the game and drawing large crowds of men, women and children that spilled over the sidewalk into the street. At one locale, an enterprising local had taken advantage of the situation, hawking ice cream to the sweaty masses.

By about 5pm, the USA's defeat and the end of the match left much of Huajuapan clamoring to celebrate Mexico's victory, looking for, uh, taxis to take them to their favorite watering holes. Come quitting time at the university, the combination of soccer game revelry and Taxi Drivers Day would have left us all stuck -- again -- save for some smart folks who rigged up their pick-up trucks to serve as ad-hoc taxis.

I chuckled as I walked down the mountain, as trucks with loads of uniformed high school students whizzed by me, their cargo crammed into the back like cattle. My university students whistled and waved at me from the back of their shuttle-trucks when they passed.

I guess I could pursue a back-up career as a taxi driver if this English teaching gig doesn't work out. At four pesos a head, I'd pay off a pickup truck pretty quickly. And it wouldn't be so bad to get my own parade every once in a while.

For the love of God...

2009-07-15T11:45:00.005-06:00

I'm a little cranky today.

My sour mood might have something to do with the fact that, for two consecutive mornings, I've woken up at 5:30 am to fireworks being launched right outside my bedroom window.

Literally. I hear them hissing out of their tubes, see a flash of white through my still-closed eyes, and then -- one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi -- there's the giant boom overhead.

I have the rest of the scenario memorized. It doesn't change much day-to-day: The fireworks set off the alarms of seemingly every car parked up and down my block. Then the neighborhood dogs begin to bark and howl in response. The car-and-dog ruckus is soon drowned out by a single white truck that drives down the street with a giant loudspeaker attached to the roof. Then come the lines of musicians belting out live music. (Tuesday's musical stylings were performed by a mariachi band, and this morning's entertainment was acoustic.) There's another lap with the truck. And then, to wrap things up, there's more fireworks. The whole thing takes about 30 minutes. By 6am, I'm able to fall asleep again, only to have my alarm go off an hour later.

(The shoe store across the street, the one with the fantastically annoying talking car, opens up shortly thereafter, making for a peaceful, relaxing start to the day.)

This morning, upon hearing the first firework being launched, I groaned and stirred, sat straight up in my bed, kicked my sheets away in a mini-tantrum, and exclaimed out loud:

¡POR EL AMOR DE DIOS! (FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!)

The ironic thing is, that's exactly the point of this whole crazy sleepless procession.

The fireworks are launched by church folks to make sure everyone's up and at 'em. The truck with the loudspeaker makes laps around the city's downtown district, belting out a prayer, pre-recorded by a woman with what possibly is the most monotone, annoying voice on the planet. (The thing is, the volume's cranked up so loud on the speaker that her voice gets distorted, nixing any possibility of actually understanding the prayer even if you weren't half-asleep and Spanish-impaired.) The musicians sing hymns. There's more prayer via loudspeaker. At the end, there are a few additional rockets, thrown in for good measure.

Now, I've blogged on these types of crack-of-dawn religious progressions before. There was the 4:30 am revelry that marked a celebration for the Virgin of Guadalupe in December. I guess I should consider myself "blessed" that they've decided to push things back an hour this time. But you'll recall that I've since moved, and now I'm a block closer to the "celebration." The noise is so deafening that I hear it even through the hermetically-sealed windows of my new apartment. Yesterday, I even had the foresight to purchase earplugs. But they were no match for the rockets and car alarms and loudspeakers this morning.

Perhaps I'd be more tolerant and understanding if I understood the "point" behind this sudden religious fervor in the streets. But I've been too tired and cranky to muster the interest to ask which saint or virgin or whatever is being celebrated. My equally tired and cranky Mexican roommates are of no help, brushing the celebration off as the work of "crazy Catholics." (For the record, I don't think that Catholics are crazy. But I tend to think that anyone who shoots off fireworks at 5:30 am, regardless of religious affiliation, has a few issues.) And, again, I'll argue that the religious figure in question would likely be just as honored by a procession that takes place AFTER the sun has come up.

Rumor has it that the 5:30 am ruckus will go on every day until July 25. Luckily, I'm heading out of town tomorrow night, home to Chicago for a visit. I have just one more mornings of fireworks to look forward to. After that, it will be back to the Windy City, back to the soothing sounds of garbage trucks, police sirens and drunken Cubs fans fighting outside my window.

Ants in My Pants, Vol. 2

2009-07-07T16:57:00.007-06:00

As I spent the last weekend of June without shoes, it seems only appropriate that I would spend the first weekend of July without pants.

Let me explain. Shortly before heading to our would-be dry expat Fourth of July Party on Saturday, a friend and I paid a visit to Huajuapan's very own archaeological site, called Cerro de las Minas. The cerro (that's "hill" in Spanish) was once home to a Mixtec pyramid. (What better way to celebrate 'Merica's birthday than by tromping about on the 500-year-old ruins of a once-powerful indigenous culture? I'll let you sort out the irony.) Today that pyramid is really just a glorified pile of rocks on a pretty green hill, but, really, how many of you can say you live down the road from a former pyramid?

That's what I thought.

At any rate, we cheerily began our ascent up the hill on that sunny Saturday afternoon. Clad in flip-flops and jeans, we didn't exactly take the climb seriously. That is, until, my cerro companion, a local guy with a knack for all things Mixteco, spotted some ants marching along the grass.

"Be careful with those, they really sting," he warned me.

Now, where I come from, ants are little more than nuisances, invading the occasional picnic or unkempt kitchen. They're rarely cause for alarm. Little did I know that these Mexican ants, known as hormiga arriera, apparently emerge from the ground -- the depths of hell, as far as I'm concerned -- when the temperatures go up in the summer. Hormiga arriera translates to "leaf-cutter ants" in English (as per Wikipedia), which would imply that they're peaceful, plant-eating types of critters. Vegetarians, if you will. However, I quickly found that this was not the case: perhaps Wikipedia should replace "leaf" with "flesh" in the translation.

Flesh-cutting ants.

I apparently placed my flip-flop clad foot right in the middle of an hormiga arriera colony while attempting to take a picture of the piles of rocks on the pretty green hill (posted above). And, apparently, an ant climbed onto my flip-flop clad foot and right up my leg. And then, apparently, it got mad.

AGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!! (I might have said something a bit stronger here, but this, after all, is a family-friendly blog.)

Fire pulsed from the back of my left thigh and quickly spread through my entire leg. I flounced around on my remaining good leg, howling in pain, tears stinging my eyes. I thrashed about at my jeans, attempting to kill the culprit, but instead, managed to merely scare it, causing that damn flesh-cutter to scurry further up my thigh and sting me twice more.

"For the love of God, Sara, take off your pants!" my hiking companion pleaded, doing a good job of feigning concern while smirking ever so slightly.

I quickly de-pantsed, leaving me standing at the top of Cerro de las Minas in my pink underwear, whimpering as my friend carefully turned my pants inside out, shook out the now-dead ant, and mustered his sternest face to keep himself from laughing out loud at me.

Never had I been so grateful that Huajuapan isn't exactly a tourist hotspot: We were the only souls on Cerro de las Minas that afternoon, so nobody saw me in my undies, except maybe for a groundskeeper who appeared about five minutes after the ant attack, presumably to see what the commotion was all about.

I'm still not convinced that the culprit was a hormiga arriera. Perhaps my cerro companion was simply pulling my (now-welt-covered) leg. However, if his story is true, avid Gringa Culichi readers will note that this is the second time that ants have attacked my pants in recent months.

It's a conspiracy, I tell you. And now I have the battle wounds to prove it.

Booze and Politics

2009-07-06T11:52:00.012-06:00

"Uh, we drink a lot. And then we light some fireworks."

That was my answer to Mexican friends' queries about how we gringos usually celebrate the Fourth of July up in El Norte. I was fielding these important cultural questions at an impromptu Independence Day party held this past Saturday held (indoors, due to lack o' yard space) by a fellow gringo for our little Huajuapan-based expat community. No better way to celebrate the United States' independence from England by chowing on potato salad and lighting sparklers (thus violating indoor fire codes -- you'll notice my terror above) with a handful of British friends...plus a Russian, a Scot, an Irish guy and all of the Mexicans who love us.

But back to the booze. If I sound cynical, I'm not alone. An article I read recently on Slate summed up Independence Day as celebrating Americans' "freedom to drink outside during daylight hours," adding:

"Some of us will fish Bud tallboys out of an Igloo on the National Mall; others will knock back rosé on picnic blankets and applejack at backyard barbecues; still others will sip on a pint bottle of Cutty Sark on the same park bench as always. We are a diverse nation."

True that, true that. During my State-side tenure, I usually celebrated 'Merica by putting back a $12 bottle of Yellowtail Shiraz in Chicago's Grant Park.

But this year, in a very interesting juxtaposition, I celebrated one of America's drunkest days in a nation where a Ley Seca (dry law) was temporarily in effect. What's more, in another very interesting juxtaposition, this Ley Seca was in effect precisely for the reason we're supposedly so darn proud to be Americans in the first place: Democracy.

July 5 is Election Day here in Mexico. And, in efforts to make an infamously-corrupt election process a little less so, folks aren't supposed to drink. That means that no booze gets sold from midnight on July 3 through midnight on July 5. Ley Seca encourages corrupt poltiticans to be a little more creative in their vote-buying: A can of beer just won't do. Show the people the cash!

There's that cynicism again. But it's hard not to roll my eyes at the brand of "democracy" that is pushed down the throats of people here in Oaxaca. And I'm not implying that the US' brand is the solution for everyone, either. (We've got our own problems: Remember Florida and Ohio?) I'm here as an observer, not a prescriptivist, folks.

But again, I'm not alone in my cynicism. While media in the United States talked about boozing on Independence Day, the Mexican press has been a-chatter with fears that people won't even bother to vote. And that those do show up to their polling places will simply tear up their ballots in an act of defiance. For some, there's no point in "voting for the least worst candidate."

I live in one of the most marginalized areas in one of the most marginalized states of what most would call a "developing" country. Politics here is a heated topic. Three main parties -- the PRD, the PRI, and the PAN -- jockey for power. You'll usually have no trouble finding someone who will readily complain about one of those three parties; however, historically, the "most worst" has been the PRI -- the party that kept itself in power through little more than changing the name on the ballot for 70 years. Since 2000, the PAN has successfully put two men -- Vicente Fox in 2000 and Felipe Calderón in 2006 -- in power as president, and the PRD has developed strongholds in several Mexican states . However, Oaxaca remains "PRI Territory," at least if you believe all of the billboards that have cropped up in honor of this year's local elections.

And, if you believe the word on the street, Oaxaca is still "PRI Territory" because the politicians are extremely adept at manipulating all of the poor folks in this state. Friends say that votes are bought for as little as a can of beer, or -- slightly more optimistically -- sometimes for $50 pesos, which would buy approximately two beers.

This political mess is played out in the graffiti tagged all over of Oaxaca City, the state capital, a place I had the pleasure to visit on Sunday, election day. (Ironically, my mission in Oaxaca City was to purchase mezcal for an uncle who I will visit when I'm back home for a vacation later this month. The tourism-starved* woman at the mezcal store was more than happy to sell the booze to me, carefully coating the bottles in bubble wrap before placing them in an discreet black plastic bag. Take that, Ley Seca!)

Anyway, angry protestors (you may have heard a little something about the conflicts between the government and the teachers here in Oaxaca state, unless you've been hiding under a rock for the past, um, three years), in response to a recent bout of troubles, have decorated the walls of churches, offices and historic buildings with such uplifting messages as "¡PRI asesino!" (PRI murders) or "¡Ulises asesino!" (a crack at Oaxaca's governor, a member of the PRI party, whom I had the dubious honor of meeting in March).

Despite the all of that anger and graffiti, today -- the day after election day -- Oaxaca still remains "PRI Territory." The PRI took 11 of the state's 18 districts yesterday. In some areas, however, the PRI victory wasn't due to people tearing up their ballots or exchanging their votes for cans of beer. According to a national newspaper, "...al menos nueve mil 547 ciudadanos se quedaron sin votar debido a que no se instalaron 19 casillas en localidades que la autoridad electoral tenía señaladas como 'altamente conflictivas'" (...at least 9,547 citizens remained without [the right] to vote because voting booths were not installed in 19 communities that electoral authorities had deemed 'highly conflictive'"). Several of those communities were right here in the Mixteca region where I live. Oaxaca's versions of Florida and Ohio, if you will.

So much for democracy. Depressing news like that kind of makes you want to knock back a cold one, right?

*Thank you, swine flu, drug war, civil unrest, and recession, for scaring away all tourists.

Shoe Story

2009-07-01T11:34:00.012-06:00

Up until last Saturday, I was the proud owner of a pair of amazing black sandals, known as chanclas here in Mexico. They were the perfect traveling shoes -- compact for packing purposes, comfortable for walking purposes, and flat for height-control purposes (I already tower over about 75 percent of the Mexicans I meet, so there's no need for high heels to exacerbate the issue).

Those shoes toured the streets of Culiacán. They climbed the pyramids of Teotihuacán. They crossed the border into Guatemala. So it only seemed natural that they'd accompany me to Vive Latino, a two-day music festival I checked out in Mexico City this past weekend.

So what if the shoes had gotten a little old? A little scuffed? So what if the soles had started to fall off? It gave them personality, man.

And that's precisely what made 'em famous.

So my fellow rockeros and I were sitting on a lawn, taking a breather between bands. Boredom must've set in (or maybe it was the beer), because my amigos started to invent a dialog about the concert, with the soles of my shoes doing the talking. This bout of maturity is perhaps best illustrated by photo 1, above.

One amigo -- we'll call him Miguel -- spotted a concert camera crew on the other side of the lawn and made a beeline for the videographer. His pitch, reported to me later, made this ex-PR girl proud:

"Hey guys, guess what? There's a funny gringa over there, and she has talking shoes!"

Imagine my horror when Miguel turned around, grinning mischieviously, and started walking back to our patch of lawn, accompanied by the camera crew. Given my protests about not speaking Spanish, the crew proceeded to interview not me, but my shoes about their Vive Latino experience.

Where were they from? What was their favorite band? Why had they come to the festival?

I giggled most of the way through the interview, picturing the reaction of my students back in Oaxaca upon seeing their ridiculous English teacher's shoes live on TeleHit. So my friends supplied most of the dialog, including the part about how the poor English prof couldn't afford new shoes because she'd bought concert tickets instead. Not so far from the truth. See photo 2, above.

The interview complete and my shoes' 15 minutes of fame firmly sealed, we headed over to the main stage to take in another band. We manuevered our way toward the front of throng of 19-year-olds surrounding the stage.

The music started.

Then the jumping started.

Then the pushing started.

And then I lost my shoes. My famous, talking shoes.

The chanclas fell off my feet with all the jumping, and then the crowd pushed me away from them. I couldn't bend down to search the ground for them for fear of being trampled. I was getting stepped on. I was in pain. I turned around to retreat, pushing my way out of the crowd. I emerged, sweaty, my bare feet black from all the dirt and who-knows-what-else on the ground.

Yuck.

Ever-helpful, my resourceful friends constructed shoe subsitutes (photo 3, above) using two styrofoam plates from a generous taco vendor and bits of trash found on the ground. My new shoes caused quite a stir: People pointed and laughed. Passerby smiled as they figured out what had happened. A couple stopped and asked to take a photo with me.

The new shoes were perhaps even more (in)famous that the chanclas had been.

We patrolled around the concert venue for about an hour, asking various vendors if there was a booth that might sell shoes. My friends motioned toward my feet and gravely explained the situation, attempting to stifle their laughter. Their funny gringa friend was again the focus of attention.

After much effort, I was able to score some Bob Marley-themed sandals for $120 pesos (photo 4, above). They'll never replace my chanclas, though.

Chanclas, 2008-2009, RIP.

Sacrificed to the gods of rock.

New Digs

2009-06-15T11:42:00.006-06:00

My new apartment smells faintly of dog food.

This is because I now live directly above a Purina food store, complete with stacks of animal feed and wire cages brimming with bunnies and chicks. The building is located along what is somehow a busy street, considering that there are few people -- and hence, few cars -- in Huajuapan. I'm reminded of my days in Chicago when big trucks roared by at 2 am, stirring me out of a sticky sleep.

Sticky. I should mention the fact that the apartment's windows don't open -- a fact that I discovered after it was too late to turn back, after I'd packed my stuff in my old place. After I'd rented a truck to move it exactly one block. After I'd handed over the keys to my former apartment, a place full of functioning, opening windows and fresh air. After the mercury in the thermometer rose to 42 Celsius -- well over 100 Fahrenheit.

Ah, the things we do for cheap rent and free internet and proximity to Mexican boyfriends.

Anyway. My non-opening bedroom windows face the street and the shoe store located on the other side. Inside that shoe store in my new arch nemesis, a bright red car, a children's ride, complete with headlight eyes and fender mouth. It's the sort of insert-a-quarter ride you used to find in the lobby of a Wal-Mart back in the day, right next to the machines that would sell stale bubble gum and little plastic treasures inside little plastic eggs. Every 10 minutes, the car's headlight eyes flash and it calls out in an slightly-demonic-sounding cartoon voice: ¡VEN NIÑO, VEN A DIVERTIRTE! ("Come here, kid, come have fun!") and then there's an onomatopoeia-tastic BOOOOOOOOOOOIIIIIIIIING to finish things off. It's loud enough that I can hear it clearly in my room, even with the windows closed (and, yes, they always are!).

And that's the noise level of the car at rest. Imagine the ruckus after a kid actually convinces mommy or daddy to part with two pesos to get the thing going. The result is a hellish-sounding mix of Western music and gas pedal revving.

But besides the car and the dog food and the non-opening windows, my new digs fantastic. In the new place, there are no nightmare-inducing spiders lurking on my ceiling or armies of ants in my pants-drawer. In fact the place is pretty clean (guess that's what happens when it is hermetically sealed with -- have I mentioned this? -- windows that don't open), which is surprising, considering I'm now living with two guys.

(They're two Mexican guys, mind you, who have somehow been programmed to make their beds and do their dishes and take out the trash. While my mom gave raising me right her best shot, it turns out that I'm the slob in the apartment, a fact that my new roommates find endlessly entertaining. Because of this, they've kept the housekeeper they'd hired before my arrival. She comes on Fridays and make the place sparkle for $100 pesos, about $7.50 dollars.)

The best part? My rent. $75 dollars a month! Kind of puts it all in perspective, no?

The Name Game

2009-06-01T16:39:00.003-06:00

My first name, like the first name of seemingly 85 percent of the female population born between 1980 and 1985, is Sara. There’s the “Sarah With an ‘H’” version of the name, there’s the slightly rarer “Sara Without an ‘H’” version of the name, and here in Mexico, we’re usually known as “Sarita” or “Saris,” but, at the end of the day, we’re all Sara(h)s. There are a lot of us running around.

Because of this phenomenon, I was usually known as “Sara M” in my elementary school years, given that there were inevitably two or three or four or nineteen other little Sara(h)s in my class. During my high school years, within my group of four best girlfriends, three of us were named Sara(h). My college roommate was Sara (also of the “Without an ‘H’” variety). As an adult, I’ve worked with dozens of Sara(h)s. My time in Japan, a place where you’d think I’d be able to “escape” my name, was met with endless mail-delivery related confusion due to fact that another American Sara(h) lived down the street. And here in Mexico, I work with another Sara(h) – also a freckle-faced Irish girl from Chicago.

I guess I’m lucky to have a lot of tocayas – that’s a hard-to-translate Spanish word for people who share the same name. But the downside of the situation is that I’m forever erroneously responding to my name. I’ll hear it called out in grocery stores, in the street, at restaurants, wherever. I’ll inevitably turn my head to find out who’s calling me, and will inevitably find that it’s someone else trying to get the attention of one of the other three billion Sara(h)s on the planet.

I recently experienced this “erroneously responding to my name” phenomenon, but, ironically, it wasn’t because there were lots of Sara(h)s running around.

Now, as usual, there were multiple Sara(h)s involved in this particular scenario – this particular time we were in quadruplicate. There was me, of course. There was Sarah, the aforementioned other freckle-faced Chicago Irish gal who lives here in Huajuapan with me. And there were to two Mexican Saritas. But the many tocayas weren’t the problem.

We were all assembled at Huajuapan’s softball diamond on Saturday afternoon. I’d come at the invitation of a Huajuapeña named Sandra. Sandra had spotted me on my morning jog a week prior, running past her sidewalk juice stand at my neck-breaking clip. Sandra, turning out to be just as speedy, had abandoned her post to run after me. The what-must-have-been strange look on my face –confusion at having an unknown apron-clad woman sprinting after me mixed with apprehension at what I thought would inevitably be an awkward interchange (remember the now-infamous quasi-stalking incident involving the taxi driver-cum television producer?) – did not seem to deter Sandra. She boldly invited me to be a part of her softball team.

So this led to the four Sara(h)s at softball on Saturday. I’d accepted, obviously, and, in turn, had invited Sarah, the freckled Irish-American Chicagoan, to come with me. And the two Mexican Saritas were already a part of the team.

The softball game was lovely. It was nice to meet other athletically-minded women – the stereotype of mexicanas content with being housewives certainly didn’t apply to this spirited group of women, women who expertly stole bases and energetically heckled the other team – as it was also nice to break my eleven-year hiatus at having actually swung a bat.

But there was a disconcerting aspect to the afternoon: I kept responding to the wrong name. And the name wasn’t Sara(h).

It was güera.

I hate that word.

Güera, translated to English, roughly means “white girl.” It’s supposed to be a neutral term. Mexicans have a tradition of calling things as they see them – so if you’re referred to as “Chaparrito” (meaning that you’re short) or “Moreno” (meaning that you’re dark-skinned) or “Chino” (meaning that you have curly hair) – it’s not meant in a mean-spirited way. It’s just because, well, that’s what you look like.

So, compared to many of my dark-skinned counterparts here in Oaxaca, I am very very very güera. And I’m reminded of it constantly – by dirty old men when I’m running, by well-intended cashiers in the grocery store, by my landlord when she sees me heading off to work in the morning. Though the term grates on my still-too-PC-from-having-grown-up-in-the-United-States nerves, I’ve slowly gotten used to responding to it.

So when the people in the bleachers started yelling at the güera on the softball diamond that afternoon, I naturally assumed that they were yelling at me. The familiar flush – part anger, part embarrassment at having been called out because I’m different – crept up my face.

But to my surprise, it was Sandra who responded back, as naturally as if they’d called her by her first name.

Sandra, by local standards, is güera. Her chestnut-colored hair is a couple of shades lighter than that of her teammates, and her skin is a light brownish color. Her "fair" complexion has become something of a trademark for her: She’s so güera that the name of her juice stand basically translates to “White Girl Juice” (Jugos la Güera). I discovered this as I ran past her closed-for-the-sabbath shop on the following Sunday morning.

Sharing my status as alpha-güera took some getting used to. I’m used to being the only “white girl” for miles. So I couldn’t help but turn my head when the bleacher set started whooping it up for the güera at bat. My ears naturally perked up when Sandra’s friends approached the dugout and called for the güera. Kids even got in on the act: A four-year-old calling for the güera – that’s Sandra, not me – even caught my attention.

It was unnerving. If Sandra wants the name, she can have it. I’ll take the confusion caused by four Sara(h)s over that of two güeras any day.

Mexican Time Strikes Again

2009-05-29T10:30:00.007-06:00

In Mexico, a week is equal to eight days. Two weeks is 15 days. And three weeks is 20 days.

Let me clarify. Lo hago dentro de ocho días. Translated to English, this literally means "I'll do it within eight days. " However, the speaker actually wants to convey that he/she will accomplish the task within a week. Lo hago dentro de quince días literally means "I'll do it within the next fifteen days." Here, however, the speaker is really talking about two weeks' time.

Now, math has never been my strong suit, but if a week is eight days, shouldn't two weeks be 16 days? Or, if I listen to the English speaker in me, a week is seven days, so two weeks is 14, right?

Let's take it one step further. Vamos a hacerlo en veinte días might literally mean "We'll do it in twenty days" to an English speaker, but the Spanish speaker is talking about three weeks' time. But taking The Week as Eight Days Factor into consideration, three weeks should be 24 days, right? So we're now missing four days of our three-week time period, which to me, is 21 days.

Not that any of this matters, anyway. If I've learned anything during my 10 months in Mexico, it's that you should never, ever EVER take talk of time at face value.

In addition to The Week as Eight Days Factor, there's more arithmetic involved: You have to apply The Rule of Two to all measures of time. So, if a friend calls you up and tells you he'll meet you in an hour, you simply double the stated time. He'll actually be there in two hours. Or if someone guarantees you something within "ocho días," or one week, you'll want to give it at least two weeks -- which, applying The Week as Eight Days Factor, actually could be anywhere between 14 to 16 days, depending on your native language and, possibly, your math skills.

So what's up with Mexican Time?

I've blogged on this phenomenon before, way back in August, just after I'd arrived in this lovely country. So, you'd think that since last summer I might have learned a thing or two. I might have learned how to understand Mexican folks' conceptions of time, realize that they are different from my own, and stop stressing about it so damn much. But, nope, Mexican Time keeps tripping me up. But at least I'm not alone.

I'll get to that story in a minute. But first you must understand that in addition to The Week as Eight Days Factor and The Rule of Two, there's another trick required to understanding -- or at least attempting to understand -- Mexican Time. There's The Hurry Up and Wait Law, which involves an important bureaucrat scaring the sh*t out of everyone with a crazy deadline, only to have them finish the task at hand way too early, leaving them to stand around and wait for an unspecified amount of time. The Hurry Up and Wait Law might best be illustrated by El Gobernador's visit back in March.

Avid Gringa Culichi readers might recall that El Gobernador came to visit us here at my university's Language Center to check out a new (albeit fake) computer lab, for which he'd ostensibly provided the funding. The lab was promptly disassembled following his visit, given the fact that it didn't, uh, work.

This same lab is the subject of today's story. Though working software was promised to us "dentro de veinte días" (translation: within twenty days, or three weeks, or perhaps six weeks, if one applies The Rule of Two) of El Gobernador's visit, it finally got installed this week, roughly two months later. We were told, by someone important, to clear our calendars for two days' worth of mandatory software training, 9am to 6pm, on Thursday and Friday.

Applying standard arithmetic, that's 18 hours' worth of training. On what is supposed to be user-friendly language software, mind you. What, exactly, were we going to do during that time? Learn how to actually program the software? Or perhaps split atoms?

But mandatory training is mandatory training. We dutifully cleared our schedules. We cancelled classes. We put out-of-office messages on our email accounts. And we arrived early on Thursday morning, ready to begin the first leg of the marathon training.

We reported to our offices, ready to be called down to the new Language Lab. At 9:10 am the training still hadn't begun. At about 9:30 am, we received an email saying that there'd be a slight delay, that they were working out a small bug in the new system, and that training would begin shortly. At 10 am, our Language Center director walked around the hall, knocking on doors.

The "small bug" meant that the computers weren't ready. Turns out they hadn't actually finished installing everything in the lab. Training would begin at 4pm. Seven hours late. Silly us, we'd forgotten about The Hurry Up and Wait Law.

Mexican Time had tricked us all. Again.

Training finally began at about 4:30 pm yesterday. We watched a five-minute video about the software, and then waited for about 30 minutes while the technician, sent from the software company to lead the training, fumbled around with cables in attempts to get the computers to work. He talked to us for about five more minutes, and told us that he'd like all teachers to come in groups for individual 30-minute training sessions on the equipment. That was it. No atom splitting involved.

So my supposed 18-hour training went from about 11 to 11:30 am this morning. It was actually scheduled for 10 am, but you know how Mexican Time works....

...sort of.

The rain falls horizontally

2009-05-28T13:43:00.007-06:00

You’d have thought that we wouldn’t have worried about getting wet.

We were going camping at a waterfall, after all.

But the ominous-looking storm clouds starting rolling in just as our destination – Nochixtlán, a small city in the valley – came into view. As we slowly cut down the mountain, following the switchbacks along the two-lane highway, the big desert sky above “Noch” became increasingly ink-colored.

I, the only American and, perhaps accordingly, the only sarcastic one in the group, muttered something in defeated-sounding Spanish about the lovely contrast between the black thunderheads and sunset-stained sky. About how ironic it was that we’d left sunshine and friendly cotton-white clouds behind at home in Huajuapan just 90 minutes earlier. About how, had we left when we said we were going to leave – before we’d sat for an hour and fifteen minutes with Octavio* and his mother in their kitchen, politely nibbling sour green plums and making small talk about all the exotic-to-me, impossibly-named regional fruits (have you ever eaten cuajenicuili?) I’d tried during my 10-month tenure in town, waiting for him to finish his dinner – we might have missed this storm altogether.

My Mexican car mates were stoic as the rain hit: At least we were still dry.

As the wipers struggled to keep up with the sheets of rain striking us head on, I thought of a university colleague’s warning a few days earlier: Umbrellas are of no use. In Oaxaca, the rain falls horizontally.

Whose idea was this anyway, attempting a camping trip in the rainy season?

But I had celebrated a birthday a few days earlier and had been, true to my Taureaness, stubborn. Stubborn in my determination to mark the occasion with an outdoor weekend retreat. I’d elected the waterfall at Apoala, a green gem that’s tucked away in the thirsty terrain that is Oaxaca’s Mixteca Baja. Thirsty, that is, for the ten months of the year when this corner of the world doesn’t see a drop of rain. Nature, it seems, makes up for lost time in May and June.

It was because of the season that friends had been hesitant to commit to the trip. But that Oaxacan Saturday had been blessed with blue skies, and we’d loaded the car with the requisite tent and sleeping bags and a few granola bars, just in case.

The rain let up just as we reached the industrial outskirts of Noch, allowing me to snap several pictures of soggy Corona billboards framed by fragile rainbows. We navigated the grey city’s flooded streets, rolling down the windows to ask locals, attacking the newly-formed pools on storefront sidewalks with tired brooms, for directions to the road to Apoala.

They’d motion vaguely with their broom handles: Por allá. It’s over there.

The rain caught us again just as we transitioned from pavement to mud, easing into the 28-kilometer-long dirt road that would take us to Apoala. Twilight became nearly midnight as we crept past washed-out banks and through flooded potholes, assured every few kilometers by an “Apoala this way” arrow carefully painted on a board nailed to a tree. Sarcastic “are you sure?” remarks from the gringa riding shotgun were met with silence from the three Mexicans.

At least we were still dry.

After three hours, hunger set in, and we raided the stash of granola bars. It was too late to turn back.

Ten kilometers outside of Apoala, the horizontal sheets of precipitation sputtered into a drizzle. Rounding a bend in the road, we caught a glimpse of the bare yellow lightbulbs adorning the homes of Apoala’s 200-something-odd residents. Their confident glow was reassuring as coasted down the mountain: It wasn’t raining in the valley.

We were still dry.

We arrived, our hunger and weariness compounded by the stress of rainstorms on dark country roads, more than four hours after we’d left Octavio’s mother back in Huajuapan. Despite the fact that we’d spent the entire evening under water, as it were, we’d arrived too late to make the hike down to the waterfall to set up camp. Even I, still the only American and still, perhaps accordingly, the only sarcastic one in the group, was too exhausted to make a crack at the irony.

We settled for a campsite in a meadow and began to unload the car. That’s when I stepped -- submerging my sneaker, sock and left sweatpant -- into one of the irrigation ditches that criss-crossed the unlit field. The sound -- the gasp that accompanies a confident stride interrupted by an unforeseen obstacle, the deep plunk of a leg sinking calf-deep into frigid mountain water, the sharp hiss of an English-language obscenity -- was enough to pull my Mexican friends out of their hunger-induced stoicism and into fits of belly laughter.

And I’d been the one carrying the flashlight. The irony was too much. The sarcastic remarks began.

At least they were still dry.

*Names have been changed to protect the chronically late.

All Dogs Go To Heaven

2009-05-22T14:09:00.013-06:00

If the title of this entry made you groan because it's so darn cheesy, you might want to skip the next couple of paragraphs. But it's just that there's so many clichés that would be perfect titles for this entry on the lives of Man's Best Friend here in Mexico. Indulge me.

Like "It's a Dog-Eat-Dog World." Compared to the pampered lives of pups up north, the daily grind ain't easy for perros here South of the Border. People here in Mexico sometimes don't have enough to eat, so tight family budgets don't tend to get stretched to buy fiber-and-flaxseed-enriched super-duper premium heart-shaped gourmet dog food. Pet owners don't drop money to buy their dogs rhinestone-studded collars or Louis Vuitton-patterned carrying cases. There's no doggie daycares or bow-wow bakeries. Nope. Mexican dogs sleep outside and usually subsist on stale tortillas. Or trash in the street.

Or "It's a Dog's Life." Despite the fact that they're homeless and hungry and stuck outside during rainy season so their fur is always matted and dirty, Mexican dogs are darn happy. They trot around with their little doggie friends, tails wagging, sniffing each other's you-know-whats and having a grand old time. To them, it's the good life when they're not being abused or hit by cars. They're pretty easy to please.

There's the "This Place is Going to the Dogs" cliché. Given the tough circumstances, all logic dictates that Mexican dogs shouldn't survive and populate. But there somehow manage to be hundreds of them in your average small town. They outnumber the human population in some areas, running around the streets in motley little packs, chasing each other and shiny cars and -- ahem -- iPod-clad gringas jogging in the street. At any given moment, I'm surrounded by dogs. There's at least two or three that hang out in my apartment complex. There's the gang of 'em that keeps turf near the grocery store. There's dogs in parking lots. There's dogs on beaches.

I've been in Mexico for so long that I've somehow stopped noticing the fact that dogs are everywhere. I sent my family some pictures of my recent beach trip. Instead of commenting on the deep blue Pacific and the pretty orange sunsets, their feedback was, "What's up with all the dogs?" I looked back at the pictures, noticing that there was a different pooch in almost every shot. The tan one that belongs to a friend. The white one that was his (the tan one's) weekend "fling." The big black one that followed me around for three days after I fed her cold oatmeal one morning. The little black one that hung around our campsite. The crazy-looking mixed one that went swimming with us in the river. Pinches perros.

Dogs are part of the landscape here, like cacti and Corona billboards and ancient Vokswagen Bugs. Hell, there are even dogs in churches. True story, people. Check my pictures.

Where's Bob Barker when you need him?

Excuses, Excuses, Excuses...

2009-05-15T13:56:00.009-06:00

It’s been a while since I’ve blogged. And it’s not because I’ve been laid up in a hospital somewhere with the swine flu, contrary to what the media might have you believe. Nope, I’m actually quite healthy and H1N1-free, thankyouverymuch.

My excuse for the nearly-three-week hiatus since my last post does have to do with the flu, though. Or rather, the fabulous -- albeit surprise -- 10-day vacation we teachers got after the Mexican government closed all schools in response to the virus. My excuse has to do with the camping trip that I took down to the Oaxacan coast during those “flu” days. (I simply HAD to get out of Huajuapan. The panic in the eyes of the face mask-clad locals in the street, coupled with the oh-my-God-this-is-unbelievable-we’re-all-gonna-die news reports would be enough to bring anyone to hysterics.)

But really, I’m going to blame the delayed post on the topes. Yup, that's my excuse. Topes.

Avid GringaCulichi readers will realize that this is not the first time that topes (speed bumps, a.k.a reductores, as pictured above) have been the bane of my existence. Nor will it be the last. But I digress…

There is about 500 kilometers (300 miles) highway between Huajuapan and the Pacific coast. Back where I come from, the drive should take about 4.5 hours, assuming you’re cruising the highway at a not-likely-to-get-you-pulled-over speed of 70 mph.

But here in Oaxaca, that 300 miles of highway (that's winding, mountainous highway, mind you) is riddled with topes. And when you’re riding in a car weighed down with two Mexicans, two gringas, a small dog, two tents, lawn chairs, an umbrella, a cooler, a grill, charcoal, enough food for four days, enough booze for four weeks, and assorted trashy paperback novels for beach reading, those topes are darn hard to drive over. The bottom of your car hits the cement and makes an awful scraping sound.

So, all passengers (including the dog, sometimes) had to get out of the car and walk at every tope -- every single PINCHE tope -- while the driver creeped across. I lost count of the number of topes we crossed somewhere after about 114. So, what should’ve been a 5-hour journey, tops, actually took us about 12. Boo.

But we didn’t mind. We were on a surprise vacation, man! We were on a road trip, man! And despite government-issued public service announcements to avoid all contact with the outside word for fear of the deadly flu virus, we were going to the beach, man!

(Out of respect for the international health emergency, we did, however, choose as our destination Las Lagunas de Chacahua, a semi-virgin bit of paradise where a fresh-water lagoon meets the salt-water Pacific. The way we justified it, no people = no germs = no flu virus.)

After 10 hours in the car, we pulled off the tope-ridden highway onto a palm tree-lined dirt road that would take us to the beach (see above). The air was salty. The sky was cloud-free. We were almost there!

But the road was rough. Our average cruising speed was about 15 kmph. (No lies. Check the picture, folks.) That last bit of road – the only thing standing between us and reading trashy paperbacks on the Pacific coast – took an agonizing two hours.

But we got there. We drank our four weeks’ worth of booze in four days. We read trashy paperback novels. We soaked up the sun. And we didn’t hear anything about the damn pig flu, save for a static-filled nightly news report brought to us courtesy of the aluminum-foil-clad antenna of our Chacahuaqueña host’s television. (We were camping under a palapa just outside of her kitchen.)

Despite the fact that we ate all the food and drank all the booze and that I mysteriously managed to lose not only my swimsuit but also one of the trashy paperbacks – despite the fact that our car should have been much lighter on the return trip – it still took us 10 hours to get back to Huajuapan.

So that’s my excuse for the delayed post, folks. I’ve been recovering from tope trouble. I haven’t had time to write. So, please accept my apologies from swine flu-ridden Mexico. As you can see from the envy-inducing sunset and beer-enjoying pictures (Indio should pay us royalties for the latter) above, we’re suffering a lot down here. Special thanks goes to everyone who panicked and cancelled their beach trips and freed up the sand and surf for us in Chacahua!

When it rains...

2009-04-27T12:37:00.012-06:00

...it pours.

I'm going to draw an analogy between Morton Salt's good ol' tagline and the steady stream of just-when-you-think-it-couldn't-get-any-worse-oh-look-it-just-got-worse headlines coming out of my lovely host country. I think it is an especially fitting analogy as we enter rainy season here in Mexico.

Where to begin...

In case you've missed the headlines for the past, um, year, Mexico's in the throes of a somewhat major drug war. The army patrols streets in border towns. Journalists are murdered. Cartel members shoot at each other in supermarkets and shopping malls. Folks get kidnapped. I can tell you from first-hand experience that in some cities it's impossible to go out for dinner without getting a gun pointed in your direction. It's kind of ugly up near the frontera.

There's also the issue of this pesky recession. Yup, la crisis has officially arrived here in Mexico. The peso is steadily sinking. Prices are steadily rising. A peso here, a peso there. That's a lot of pesos when you're only making 100 of them a day, like many folks do here in the Mixteca region of Oaxaca. In my case, an hour of peso-salaried work here in Mexico currently converts to approximately enough dollars to buy a one-way bus fare in Chicago. Nice.

You might have also heard about this swine flu. Death tolls change hourly, depending on who you're asking or what you're reading, but Oaxaca has the dubious honor of being home to the first documented swine-related death. Mexico City shut down last week. And as of noon today, Huajuapan de León has followed suit. My classes have officially been cancelled through May 6. Students have already vacated campus in search of face masks and vitamin C supplements. From tomorrow, I'll be on a vacation of sorts, a kind of vacation where you're not supposed to leave your house or breathe or talk or hug or kiss anyone.

And, just today...more good news. A 6.0 earthquake near Mexico City. We felt it here in Oaxaca. You know, just in case things weren't interesting enough.

If you relied on headlines alone, you'd think that the situation was pretty darn depressing down here. Pistols, pesos, pigs, and...darnit, I can't think of an earthquake-related word that begins with "p."

But, truth is, things ain't so bad.

Or at least things aren't as bad as the US media is making them out to be. Not everyone who visits Mexico gets kidnapped by a drug cartel -- or the swine flu from riding the Mexico City metro. I promise.

But, in my humble opinion, the glue that's holding this country together is the people. Mexicans, if nothing else, are survivors. They're resilient. The past couple of hundred years of Mexican history have seen a disproportionate number of awful events: wars, foreign invasions, natural disasters, financial crashes and political scandals. Folks here are used to these things. The mentality is that if today sucks, mañana will be better.

Life goes on here in Mexico. Cartel violence, economic woes, world health emergencies and natural disasters will not affect Mexico's core, the things that make Mexico an amazing place to live, the things that keep me here this country, even through its rough patch. Crisis will not stop people from greeting strangers in the street with a heartfelt "buenas tardes" (even if it is muffled by a sanitary mask). Crisis will not stop people from making time for friends and family (even if the government has discouraged handshakes and kisses). Crisis will not stop people from having a laugh over a beer (even if the bars are closed).

Crisis will not stop people from smiling.

This afternoon, I happened to be up near the front gate of our university as scores of blue face mask-clad students filed off campus. Some looked a bit worried, some were laughing with friends (no classes for a week and a half is a pretty sweet deal to any 19-year-old, even if a world health crisis is the reason behind it). But I caught a glimpse of one student, walking alone.

He'd drawn a big, goofy smile on his mask, just where his mouth would've been below.

It will get better mañana. I promise.

:-)

NOTE: This entry is also posted on a fantastic site called The Truth About Mexico. The site offers "real" perspectives from expat-type people living in Mexico, countering a bit of the sensationalism we're all seeing in the mainstream media. Give it a read, leave your feedback, and please spread the word!!

Ants in My Pants

2009-04-27T10:09:00.006-06:00

As the rainy season approaches here in Oaxaca, I've been comparing my apartment (pictured above -- isn't the garden pretty?) to Noah's Arc.

There are lots of, um, species, aboard.

They come inside to escape the torrential rains outside.

And they travel in pairs.

But let me make some clarifications. The aforementioned species aren't the of the cute, cuddly, illustrated Bible variety -- they're mostly larger-than-life cockroaches, nightmare-inducing spiders and large quantities of ants. And they're not just in my apartment to escape the rain. They've been kicking it there for the past 10 months -- for as long as I've been there (I've blogged on their presence before. Their numbers seem to be increasing with the rain factor). And while the cockroaches and spiders seem to travel in pairs, the ants -- oh, those damn ants -- like to hang out in the hundreds.

Hundreds. No lie. But I'll get to that in a minute.

That pretty little garden in front of my apartment (again, see the picture) is a breeding ground for all things creepy crawly. The problem is that the insects don't actually stay there --they make their way into my apartment via the doors and windows on the first floor. And they usually stay on the first floor. This is a double-edged sword because it means that there have been several, um, surprise encounters with insects in my ground-level kitchen and bathroom. But the good news is that my second-level bedroom is usually bug-free.

So I proceed with caution when I'm downstairs. I'm afraid of a run-in with the seven-legged spider that taunts me from my ceiling, or with the cockroaches that like to hang out behind my bathroom door. Yuck. Yuck. Yuck. (This, from a girl who enthusiastically hunted bugs n' butterflies during her youth. A girl who proudly co-won The Biggest Bug in Riverton Contest at age seven. What have I become?)

I'm cockier when I'm upstairs. There's never any bugs. I prance around like I own the place (I may pay the rent, but I certainly don't "own" my apartment -- the wildlife calls all the shots).

This was my mindset when I opened the bottom drawer of the dresser in my usually-bug-free bedroom a couple of days ago. I wanted to pull out a pair of sweatpants to go for a jog. I've painted my dresser a cheery yellow. (I like the color. It goes well with the lime green of my interior walls and the very subdued peach of the exterior. Read: sarcasm). But that day, that yellow hue contrasted eerily with what was inside the drawer...

...a seething black mass of ants. Hundreds and hundreds of ants. Crawling all over my pants.

I literally had ants in my pants. (My grandmother pointed this out when I was recounting this disturbing story to her on the phone over the weekend.)

I didn't know how to react. I was too shocked to scream. So I pulled out the entire drawer and threw it out on the balcony outside my bedroom. Pants and shorts and neighbors be damned. I then ran down the stairs and out of my apartment.

OK. I overreacted a little bit.

I steered clear of my apartment for several hours. With a clearer mind, I thought through what would have been smarter reaction scenarios, like calmly carrying the drawer downstairs to the garden, away from my bedroom, and letting the critters crawl out freely. But I didn't do that. And, because I'd overreacted, I'd likely return home to a bedroom full of ants. D'oh!

When I finally did make it back to my apartment, I crept up the stairs to my bedroom. I gingerly flicked on the lights, expecting to see my walls teeming with tiny black ants. But my bedroom was empty.

I carefully opened the door to my balcony, again, expecting to find dark masses crawling all over the floor. No ants.

I hesitantly stepped out on the balcony, reached down to pick up one of the many pairs of pants scattered all over the floor, and shook them. No ants.

I picked up the discarded drawer. No ants.

So I stuffed ALL of my pants into three big plastic bags and dropped them off at the laundry mat the next morning. Eight kilos of clothes. Quite the laundry bill. The clerk looked at the pile of pants with a raised eyebrow. I tried to explain myself, but somehow, the "ants in my pants" idiom kind of got lost in translation...

Shamelessly Stereotypical in Guatemala

2009-04-13T12:12:00.014-06:00

It's the stuff stereotypes, the subplot of every bad Hollywood film ever made about life South of the Border: The sombrero-clad, big-moustached, gold-teeth-sporting Mexican taxi driver/police officer/souvenir vendor are supposed to trick the silly, fanny-pack-wearing, camera-laden, map-consulting gringo tourist out of his every last peso. The Mexicans are the rip-offers and the gringos are the rip-offees. And that's the way it is.

Now, I don’t usually subscribe to such stereotypes. I don’t consider myself a fiscally clueless gringa, nor have I ever had a problem with getting ripped off in Mexico. Nonetheless, when traveling with three street-savvy Mexican guys through Guatemala last week, the last thing I expected to be was ripped off. After all, with the Mexicans, there'd be no language barrier to overcome, no tourist traps to avoid, and, of course, the green-eyed, blonde-haired, freckle-faced factor wouldn't apply in their case.

But, at the end of the day, despite our attempt to avoid the touristy, we were all -- three Mexicans and an American -- foreign tourists in Guatemala. And, at the end of the day, we got ripped off. Really ripped off. Milked for our every last quetzal. (FYI, the Quetzal is a very colorful bird, and is also the name of the currency in Guatemala, which I will denote with a “Q” moving forward.)

There were the usual tourist snares: The shop owner in Flores who charged us Q10 for postcard stamps whose actual price was Q4. The restaurant in El Relleno that delivered a bill for Q80 (that’s $10 USD, folks!) for a few stale tortilla chips served with lukewarm beans. The tour boat operator in Livingston who stalked us mercilessly on his scooter, finally convinced us to take his boat, and then left us sitting on the dock for 40 minutes.

But the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back was Hotel Suli, a complete dive of an accommodation located along a hot, smelly, traffic-ridden street in Rio Dulce, a coastal city we found ourselves in at about 1 am on Friday morning. Foolishly, we’d rolled into Rio Dulce without a hotel reservation on one of the busiest travel weekends of the year. Homeless and sleepy, we crowded around a dingy map posted on the side of the road, thumbing through our guidebooks and calling hotels, increasingly disheartened to find that everything was full.

We met a cab driver (who, for the record, was a saint of a man, a refreshing change from other Guatemalan cab drivers we’d met in our journey who’d overcharged us mercilessly). The taxista drove us around the town, stopped to help us inquire at hotels, lent us his cell phone, and then, when all options seemed to be exhausted, offered us a place to stay in his home.

We should have taken the cab driver up on his offer to sleep on his floor.

Shoulda coulda woulda.

But, as (bad) luck would have it, we pulled into Hotel Suli at about 2:30 am, shortly after four guests had apparently left the hotel without paying. This left their room free and the hotel clerk anxious to fill it to recover his losses -- and unfortunately, with no housekeeping staff available to clean the room, this also left us with dirty sheets and a soggy bathroom floor. But, at the time, it seemed better than sleeping on the street -- or inconveniencing the poor cab driver. The hotel clerk cut what seemed like a deal --charging us a three-person rate for four people -- and we sprawled out in the room, sleeping like babies.

That is, sleeping like babies until we were woken by banging on the door at 7am.

It was the same clerk, sent by the hotel owner to inform us that the price of this particular room had increased by Q100, and that, if we’d like to stay another night, we needed to pay him them and now.

Looking back on the scenario, the situation was laughable. But in the moment, sleep-deprived and fed up -- the memories of overpriced stamps and nachos and taxi rides still fresh in our minds -- we let him have it. What, exactly, kind of hotel was this? What kind of hotel tells its customers one price, and then, not five hours later, shamelessly raises that price? And what kind of hotel wakes its guests at 7am to demand payment for the next day?!?

We threatened to leave, and the clerk backed down. In the end, we were able to negotiate a fair price on two smaller rooms -- complete with clean sheets and towels. But just as the stereotype of Mexicans as the proverbial rip-offers didn’t hold true, the stereotype of Guatemala being a dirt-cheap country didn’t pan out either. Don’t believe the hype. You’ll spend quetzales like you'll drink (bottled) water.

There is one stereotype that I did find to be true: Despite the glitzy tourist brochures and bloated prices and throngs of travelers, there is, sadly, still heartbreaking poverty in Guatemala. Most of the positive things I experienced in Guatemala -- the charm of the cobblestone streets of colonial Antigua; the breathtaking views of the volcano-ringed Lake Atitlán; the magic and mystery of the Mayan ruins of Tikal; the thrill of riding a zip line over the jungle; the things I've included in happy snapshots here -- will never be experienced by many Guatemalans in their own country because they can't afford the obscenely high prices.

I think this is why I was so upset about getting ripped off. I didn't feel angry. I felt guilty. A nagging feeling of shame clouded my every financial transaction. It wasn't an issue of an extra Q100 here and there. It was an issue of lining the pockets of the already-well off (much of the tourism industry in Guatemala is foreign-owned) when their neighbors (native Guatemalans) had nothing. (Note: I did find it refreshing that the Guatemalan government offers a radically reduced "national" fee of Q25 for nationals to visit Tikal. The price for foreigners is Q150, or about $30 USD. But, despite the discount at Tikal, you'd still have to pay the bloated bus prices or be wealthy enough to have a car to get you there.)

Damn you, stereotypes! At the end of the day, despite the best-laid plans, I was the stereotypical gringa tourist getting ripped off in Guatemala. Riding the stereotyptical tourist bus and snapping the stereotypical snapshots of the stereotypical poverty-stricken countryside. The situation would have been kind of a buzzkill, had my cynical side not gotten a kick out of seeing my Mexican travel companions getting un-stereotypically ripped off, too. At least we were in it together.

Shoulda, coulda, woulda. Next time, we're staying with the taxi driver.

Shit! Sheet!

2009-03-31T16:38:00.004-07:00

I get hit up to buy stuff all the time. Glasses of fruit-flavored water off carts in the street. Cups of arroz con leche out of a basket on a woman's head on the sidewalk. Chopped-up cactus from little old ladies. Plastic plug-in crucifixes with flashing lights from corner shops. Couches, refrigerators, doorknobs and you-name-it out of the backs of trucks.

"Hey güera! Do you want to buy [insert name of product I don't have any use for]?"

Usually these sales pitches come from strangers, most often when I'm walking down the street, going to or coming from work. So I was surprised when a student stopped by my office to hit me up at work last week.

Scratch that. It wasn't the location that threw me. It was the language. Here's what I heard as the student stepped through my office door:

"Hi teacher! Do you want to buy a shit?"

Potty mouth. Now obviously, the student was NOT selling feces. But his unique sales pitch certainly caught my attention. I wasn't quite sure how to reply:

"Ummm, are you sure you're selling shit?"

He turned red. Our students here at the university usually don't speak a lot of English before they come to study with us, but by the time they're ready to graduate, they know enough to be dangerous -- enough to know that "shit" is on the list of words that you don't use with your professors.

"No?" He meekly showed me his wares: pictures of sheets and blankets that his mom had sewn.

Now, it's full-on summertime here. Well into the nineties (F) in the morning. The last thing I wanted to buy was more things to sweat through on my bed. But I didn't turn the student away. I needed to make sure that he didn't pitch shit to his next potential customer. So I shut my door, ready to get down to business.

"Look at my mouth. Listen and look at how I say these words."

The good teacher that I am, I carefully pronounced 'shit' and 'sheet' for him a few times. He got the idea. He packed up his pictures, thanked me, and left my office.

I could hear him walking down the hall with his friend, who had been waiting outside my office door for him. Their words bounced off of our building's concrete walls. They were practicing their vocabulary.

Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit. Shit.

Sheeeeeeeeeet. Sheeeeeeet. Sheet.

Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.

Sheeeeeeeeet.

Funny as shit, eh?

El Gobernador

2009-03-19T16:12:00.005-07:00

I put a little spritz in my hair and a little gloss on my lips this morning.

The university where I work here in Oaxaca was expecting a visit from the state governor, Ulises Ruiz Ortiz, and the staff here at the Language Center was instructed to look extra-sharp for the occasion. (Or at least to don something besides the grubby jeans and t-shirts that we usually wear to teach. Sloppy gringos.)

Ruiz Ortiz was supposed to stop by our Language Lab to check up on some new hi-tech language equipment, equipment that the state had funded. The time for his visit was set for high noon today, and we were notified of the visit yesterday.

The thing was, all of the equipment for the new lab had just arrived and was still packed away in boxes as of yesterday. University staff spent the entire afternoon setting up the new computers and desks to make the lab look like it was up and running…but as we’ve yet to receive the actual language software that will eventually be used in the lab, none of the computers was actually, you know, operational. We hoped and prayed that the governor wouldn’t ask for a demonstration.

PR at its finest.

So, at noon today, we received word that the governor was on his way. All 15 of us language staffers, dressed in our Thursday best, filed out of our offices to the entrance of our immaculate-but-useless language lab. A news crew scurried up the walkway. A photographer showed up with a huge camera.

We waited anxiously for el gobernador to arrive.

And we waited.

And we waited some more.

After about 20 minutes, our secretary got a call. The governor would be there in 10 minutes. We should wait. Un poquito más, por favor.

So we waited some more.

And some more.

Another 20 minutes rolled by. No sign of the governor, nor of his entourage. The midday sun beat down on us. The sweatier we got, the more restless we got.

I, having worked five years in PR in Chicago (and by “worked in PR,” I mean, “stood around for hours, waiting for important people to show up for their damn photo opps”), had a sinking feeling that the governor wouldn’t be coming by for a while (what given that we were dealing in PR time, compounded by the infamous phenomenon that is Mexican Time.)

So I went back to my office to catch up on email. I worked for an hour, interrupted by two false alarms where I was informed that the governor was on his way, and that I should hurry back to the lab and get ready to greet him.

Lies! There was no sign of the governor. We waited some more.

At about 1:50 pm, almost 2 hours after the goveror was supposed to show up, the Vice Rector’s office called to say that he was terribly sorry, that Señor Ruiz Ortiz wasn’t going to be able to come after all, and that we should feel free to go to lunch.

So about 10 of the 15 Language Center staffers left. I stayed back for a few minutes to finish my email. I shut my office door at about 2:01 pm, only to be greeted by a rush a university staffer rushing toward me with a walkie-talkie.

The governor has arrived! Hurry, hurry, hurry! Put on your lipstick and go greet him!

So, I rushed into our Language Lab, accompanied by the three other teachers who hadn't been smart enough to get out while the getting was good. We lined up to shake hands with el gobernador and his crew.

Upon meeting me, he asked if I was a student.

Fabulous.

His visit lasted approximately three minutes, long enough to smile for a few photo opps and ask all the foreign staff where we were from. He barely looked at the lab, which is just as well because none of it actually worked anyway.

And then he was off. Riding into the sunset (or, rather, into the blazing afternoon sun), earpiece-weilding bodyguards in tow, in his shiny black government-issued SUV, complete with tinted windows and Mexico City license plates.

The university's tech crew is going to come this afternoon to dismantle our fake language lab. We need the space for classes and exams, so we can’t justify using filling it up with faux lab stuff until the software is actually, you know, installed.

Yes, I’m rolling my eyes as I type this. Silly me, I thought I left all of this PR ruckus behind me when I left Chicago. But a friend, an old colleague, has just reminded me: PR is like the Mafia. Every time you think you're out they pull you back in. (Thanks, Kritty!)

That final sentiment is especially fitting when you consider I’m an ex-PR staffer who lived (scratch that...survived) two months in the Mafia-filled city that is Culiacán, Sinaloa. The ex-governor of my home state of Illinois is currently in the slammer. And Mr. Ulises Ruiz Ortiz doesn’t have the most stellar of track records, either. (There’s a clock in the main square in Oaxaca City that is actually counting down the number of days left in his term. Serious.)

Long live the photo opp!

The wheels on the bus go 'round and 'round

2009-03-12T17:42:00.005-07:00

I've been stuck on the bus.

That’s my excuse for not updating my blog this month. Now normally, I’d roll my eyes at that kind of reasoning. Kind of like when a guy blew off at date with me because he claimed had an ingrown toenail. Lame.

But in this case, it’s the truth. I’ve been on the road (read: on the bus) EVERY SINGLE WEEKEND for the past 15 weeks. I’ve been to the beach (20 hours, round trip). I’ve been to Mexico City twice (14 hours round trip, each time). I’ve been an invited guest at a wedding in Tequistitengo, Morelos (12 hours round trip), and I’ve also managed to crash a random 25th wedding anniversary in Tlaxiaco, Oaxaca (6 hours, plus big congrats to Tere and Mario!). I dressed up like cookie monster in Putla (10 hours). I’ve spilled wine at a birthday party in Querétaro (20 hours). And I’ve been stranded on the side of the road in The Middle of Nowhere (2 hours).

So, I’ve been to lots of places. But mostly, I’ve just been on the bus.

My Spanish neighbor seems to have caught the same travel bug that I have. She’s joined me on several of the aforementioned marathon trips, each time fearing that she’ll return to Huajuapan with “nalgas planas” (a flat ass) from so much sitting on the bus. And it’s kind of proven true: Our butts are looking smaller these days. Maybe it’s from all of the dancing we’re doing in salsa class.

But the "flat butt factor" is something you have to take into account when you live on top of a mountain. EVERYTHING takes forever to get to. There’s no talking about distances “as the crow flies” here in Oaxaca: What should be an easy 120 kilometers (75 miles) to a neighboring town is a hellish 2.5 hours through winding roads and switchbacks. What I wouldn’t give to be that crow sometimes…

So I’m planning to travel to Guatemala in a couple of weeks. I had all of these romanticized notions of traveling through the jungles of southern Mexico by bus. Of dozing off with my iPod and waking up Central America. Of walking across the border. The ultimate roadtrip, as it were.

But all of that will take about 30 hours. Each way. Minimum.

So I’m going to be the crow, damnit. I’m going to fly. Just hit the "purchase ticket" button on good ol' Orbitz to confirm it.

To bad it’s still 7 hours to the airport -- you guessed it -- on the bus.

C is for Cookie

2009-02-24T09:43:00.013-07:00

Despite six-plus months of salsa lessons, unfortunately, I’m (still) not much of a dancer. Though I've improved a lot -- I’m at the point where I can twirl and dip my way through a 10-minute Ricardo Arjona song -- my “gringa” DNA works against me. I don’t seem to have the coordination in my shoulders, hips, and, um, rear area that allows my Mexicana classmates to move so gracefully.

I usually blame my lack of coordination on the “gringa” factor. But this weekend, at a Carnaval celebration in the tiny town of Putla, Oaxaca, Mexico, I had a better excuse for not having rhytm:

I was wearing a glorified Cookie Monster costume. (See the very flattering pic above.)

Yessir. I was weighed down by about 30 meters of bright blue fabric, cut into strips and sewn into a button-up shirt and pair of second-hand pants that were too big for me. I was crammed into a tiny plaza with hundreds of similarly-dressed folks (decked out in bright yellow, green and red fabrics that made them look like Big Bird, Oscar and Elmo…the Sesame Street comparisons continue). We all wore cotton masks and straw hats. Some had strapped pillows onto their backs for a hunchback effect.

When I asked about the origin of these very unique Carnaval costumes, nobody seemed to know, happily brushing off the subject by pouring me another shot of tequila.

Putla's usually-sleepy, tiny streets were flooded with tourists who had flocked to town for the Carnaval celebration. An unexpected rainstorm had cut the town's power supply. And the throngs of cell-phone wielding revelers overloaded the circuits in the area, paralyzing phone service.

So we paraded through the pitch-black streets, following the sound of drums and guitars and trumpets, sweating bullets (the heavy costumes, coupled with Putla's sticky tropical climate and, well, all the booze, had kind of an oven effect).

It was Mardi Gras à la Sesame Street. It was chaos. And it was hella fun.

A picture is worth...

2009-02-16T17:07:00.007-07:00

Most of my blog entries describe experiences instead of single pictures. But these pics, in my humble opinion, deserve their own entry. After lazy waterfall gazing in Apoala this weekend, my travel companion and I rented bikes and trekked a hellish 45 minutes up the side of a very steep mountain to a mirador (not sure how to translate this one -- my English is failing me -- maybe viewing spot?) from which we could see all of the valley.

Being "city folk" (yes, Huajuapan would like New York City next to Apoala) we'd underestimated the demanding bike ride and had failed to pack enough water. Once we'd reached the top of the mountain we were dead thirsty and were happy to spy a house on the side of the dusty road.

We biked up, pulled off our helmets and shook out our sweaty hair, and were greeted by a family -- five women (all sisters) and a man -- who were sitting around a picnic table, drinking bottled beer and homemade pulque (a liquor made from the maguey plant). We asked if they'd sell us some water -- but they did even better, offering us free pulque, guiding us up to the mirador, and chatting us up with lots of quirky conversation. (One woman told me I looked like a Barbie doll -- a very sweaty, smelly Barbie doll, perhaps. But I digress.)

I asked if I could take their pictures. These are the results. The woman in green is my favorite.

She wouldn't put her beer bottle down long enough to smile in the first picture, but I think I've caught her "essence" in the second picture. She was a character. She didn't speak Spanish (just Mixtec), but she giggled all the way through our conversation with the others. She stayed behind when the other sisters guided us out to the mirador. When made our way back to the house, the woman in green had curled up on the ground, beer bottle at her side.

She was snoring.

I have a thousand words, but I'll let the pictures do their own talking.

Eden à la Oaxaca

2009-02-16T16:12:00.008-07:00

Santiago Apoala Nochixtlán, Oaxaca, Mexico has a pretty big name, considering it's home to only 230 people.

But what it lacks in census data, Apoala more than makes up for in importance. The area is known as the cuna (birthplace) of the Mixtec culture. It's an oasis of green -- a lush, cool valley criss-crossed by a clear river -- hidden away between the peaks of the dry, brown Oaxacan sierra. As the story goes, two trees growing along the side of the river fell in love and linked their roots and branches, thus producing the first Mixtec man and woman. In this sense, it's not unlike the proverbial Garden of Eden, a breathtakingly beautiful place from whence a people supposedly came.

Apoala is, like most things in this part of Oaxaca, "un poco retirado" (a little far) from, well, civilization. Apoala got electricity the year I was born: 1980. Today, the town has, like, one car, one store and a few stray turkeys running along its dusty roads. I guess that's what makes it special. But the "retirado" factor also makes it a pain in the a** to get to. My seven-hour journey to (and from) Apoala this weekend included a suburban van, a runaway taxi, and a bumpy, two-hour ride in the back of a converted cattle truck.

But the cliché about the journey being more fun that the destination doesn't hold here: The highlight of the weekend was, hands down, Apoala itself. More specifically, the highlight of the weekend was La Cola de Serpiente (The Serpent's Tail), a words-and-pictures-can't-do-its-beauty-justice kind of waterfall that I slept about 50 meters from on Saturday night.

After a bout of car trouble on Saturday, we arrived in Apoala late and trekked into the woods with the help of a local guide and a few flashlights. We stumbled to the place where we thought the waterfall was (we could hear it and smell it, but couldn't see much of it) set up our tent using the lights from our (signal-less) cell phones, the moon, and a zillion stars. Falling asleep to the sound of cascading water was better than the best lullaby and made sleeping on the rocky ground almost bearable.

Unzipping the tent in the morning, I felt a bit like a kid on Christmas Day: I knew a surprise was waiting for me. The crystal-clear water from La Cola glittered in the morning light as it cascaded from a 60-foot peak just above our campsite. I felt like I was dreaming, but the mist from the fall hit my face and slowly woke me up. I stared at the waterfall, sunned myself on a rock, stared at the waterfall some more, stretched a bit, took approximately 3,000 pictures, and then stared at the waterfall again. And, thusly, passed an entire morning.

Beautiful. The stuff of fairy tales and soap commercials. I'll definitely be braving the suburban and renegade taxis and glorified cattle trucks to visit Apoala again.

You can't miss it...

2009-02-04T11:36:00.012-07:00

I visited a friend in his hometown of Juxtlahuaca, Oaxaca this weekend. Juxtlahuaca is even smaller than Huajuapan -- it’s a sleepy little village tucked away in the Oaxacan sierra. But what Juxtlahuaca lacks in cosmopolitanism, it makes up for in unspoiled nature. We spent most of the weekend biking, running and hiking through breathtaking mountain vistas.

But when we weren’t doing that, we were lost in the car, looking for fish.

Let me explain: My friend had heard about a new restaurant in town. The restaurant supposedly sold fresh fish. Yum. We inquired with a friend of a friend of a cousin of the alleged restaurant owner (such is Juxtlahuaca) and were told that the restaurant was about 60 minutes away, straight up the side of a nearby mountain.

“It’s near the radio antenna on the top of the mountain. You can’t miss it.”

You can’t miss it. Famous last words.

Already hungry in anticipation of a delish fish dinner, my friend, myself, his parents, and his brother all piled into a tiny car and began the journey up the mountain. We were optimistic that we'd eat fairly quickly. After all, we could see the radio antenna from the town below –- how long could the journey really take?

But the dirt roads were awful and multiple switchbacks made our ascent slow. At the 60-minute mark, we were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dust and trees and rocks.

At the 80-minute mark, we were still in the middle of nowhere, but spotted another car pulled over on the side of the road. We stopped to ask for directions. The driver was asleep.

After about 90 minutes, we were still in the middle of nowhere, but had finally reached the radio antenna. Unfortuantely, there was no restaurant in sight.

At this point, there was discussion about turning the car around. We were really really really hungry. There was obviously no restaurant there. And where, exactly, were we going to find fresh fish on top of a mountain, anyway?

But we pushed forward, finally arriving in a tiny, dusty mountaintop town called El Mesón. We continued creeping along the dirt road, slowing to allow a woman with her herd of sheep to pass in front of us. We rolled down the window to ask for directions.

“Do you know of a restaurant that sells fish around here?”

She looked at us as if we all had two heads. What a crazy question. There were no restaurants around here, she said. We’d have to keep driving, she said. Past a church, she said. We should ask a guy named Fidel, she said.

It took us another 10 minutes to find the church. It was deserted. No Fidel.

We kept going, eventually crawling up to a house with a couple of women standing outside.

“Buenas tardes. Does Fidel live here?”

Fidel wasn’t around. However, the women thought they had heard about a fish farm about 10 minutes up the road. But the fish were sold fresh, not cooked.

No Fidel. No restaurant. No dinner. Bummer.

We piled back into the car, hungry enough to contemplate eating the fish raw. (Had I learned how to make sushi in Japan?) We kept driving. 10 minutes turned into 20 minutes. 20 minutes turned into 30. After taking a wrong turn, we finally saw tarps and people and smoke in the distance.

Fish!

The road was too muddy and bumpy to continue driving, so we abandoned the car and walked about 800 meters to where the people were standing. They were Mixtec, members of an indigenous community whose ancestors were part of a pre-Columbian civilization that stretched through Oaxaca and several neighboring states.

We walked up to the crowd. The lively banter in Mixtec stopped. Wide-eyed children hid behind their mothers, not knowing what to think of the motley crew before them. But two Mixtec men stepped forward and offered handshakes and friendly greetings in Spanish.

Then they saw me, the green-eyed gringa.

“Ummmm…you’re not from here, right?” They asked in Spanish.

“No, I live in Huajuapan,” I answered in Spanish.

They looked at me, confused. "But you're not Mexican, right?"

"No, I'm from the United States. I'm gringa." I smiled.

“Ah, I know the United States well. I lived there for about twelve years,” a woman replied in perfect English with almost no accent. She leaned over to explain who I was to an older woman, switching between English and Spanish and Mixtec flawlessly.

The men led us up to four large pools that they'd constructed out of cinder blocks. They threw some feed into one of the pools, and hundreds of hungry grey fish swarmed to the surface. They’d been raising truchas (trout) here for the last two years, they said. The land had belonged to the Mixtec people for generations, they said. They’d tapped a fresh-water mountain stream to fill the tanks, they said. Everything was clean and natural, they said. They’d be happy to make us some dinner, they said.

And would we like a beer while we waited?

¡Si, por favor!

They handed us bottles of Corona and set up a makeshift table -– two big planks of wood suspended across four tree stumps. They pulled about a dozen big fish out of the tank, cleaned them right before us, and fried them up in a big metal pot over a campfire. They cooked potatoes and warmed handmade tortillas and chopped tomatoes and chiles and onions for fresh pico de gallo. We all chatted away -– in English and Spanish and Mixtec –- through this process.

Turns out the English-speaking woman had worked in the U.S. as a coyote. She helped undocumented Oaxacans cross the U.S.-Mexican border to find work. As she related her stories to us, one of the Mixtec men looked at me.

“Please don’t judge us,” he said. “Now that you know Oaxaca, you can see that we face a desperate situation here. We want to work, but we have nothing except for these fish.”

I assured him that I understood completely. While almost any gringo is aware of the 12 million Mexican immigrants living in the United States, many don't know that about half a million of those folks are indigenous Mexicans -- and that the latter usually have a pretty rough time in los Estados Unidos, considering that many don't speak Spanish, let alone English. But this gringa was informed. He was preaching to the proverbial choir.

“Let’s see how el negrito (the black man) will welcome us in your country,” he said, affectionately referring to Obama.

I found myself at a loss for words. But I assured him that many estadounidenses were also ready for big change, and that our election of Obama was a sign of that.

“And let’s make sure that we take a picture with you. Nobody will ever believe that a güera (white girl) was on top of this mountain with us!”

I could barely believe that I was there myself, having been lost on winding dirt roads for the better part of 2.5 hours. Sure, we could take a picture, I assured him. (You can see the results above. I'm only 5'6," pretty average by U.S. standards, but I literally towered over the tiny Mixtec women.)

Dinner was amazing, but the conversation was even better. When it was time to go, we packed up gifts of extra fish and tortillas and mountain herbs and reluctantly said our goodbyes.

"Please come back soon. But come earlier next time."

You can’t miss it. I’m glad I didn’t.

Babel Babble

2009-01-27T14:42:00.005-07:00

日本語. Español. English.

Never before have I crammed the three into one weekend.

And never before have I been so utterly exhausted.

Let me do a bit of explaining. Before I became the GRINGA CULICHI, I worked as an English teacher in Japan. It was an amazing year, one that I still can’t quite put words to when people inevitably ask, “So, how was Japan?” Not sure if I’ll ever get the elevator speech down for that experience, but you can get the scoop here.

As part of my duties as a token 外人 (foreigner) living in the tiny community of Maruoka-cho, Fukui-ken, a place that might best be described as the Huajuapan de León of Japan, I taught a Thursday night English class at a community center near my house. My students were several decades older than I was, but age wasn’t an issue. We had a blast together, and reflecting back on the experience, I learned more from them than they could have ever learned from me.

Living in Japan was tough, but leaving Japan was even harder, mostly because of the finality of it all. Tears flowed freely for my last couple of weeks in 日本. Moving to Mexico, an ocean away, I thought I’d never see any of my Japanese friends again.

Happily, I was wrong.

Hiromi and Noriko, two students from that Thursday night class, came to visit me in Oaxaca last weekend. And with their visit, my two worlds, my two identities – the gringa in Mexico and the 外人 in Japan – came (or is it crashed?) together.

There was the language issue, of course. Hiromi speaks a little Spanish and Noriko speaks pretty decent English, but neither proved sufficient for haggling with vendors in Oaxacan markets or understanding the rapid-fire language spoken by tour guides. I, much to my chagrin, discovered that I had forgotten about 99.9 percent of the little Japanese I amassed during my year in Fukui, meaning that the three of us were reduced to communicating via a long, painful, exhausting game of charades for most of the weekend. Thank God that the word for bread – pan – is the same in Japanese and Spanish.

There were little cultural things. Like how Japanese folks will wait at red stoplights for ages, even if there aren’t any cars in sight, because in Japan, you follow the rules, but in Mexico, people walk into oncoming traffic without giving it a second thought. Or how the Japanese value of cleanliness made for some pretty interesting visits to ramshackle Mexican mountain bathrooms with no running water or toilet paper. Or how Japanese food, save for 山葵 (wasabi), is pretty darn bland, and Mexican food is known for its spiciness. (“My stomach became hot!” exclaimed Noriko, fanning her hand in front of her mouth, after trying green chile salsa for the first time.)

So the weekend wore me out (I was in bed, linguistically and culturally exhausted, by at the granny-esque hour of 9pm on Sunday night), but it was totally worth it. I’ve hosted friends and family in Mexico before, but my past visitors have all come from the United States, where we’re somewhat acquainted with Mexican culture (or at least the Taco Bell version of it). It was really fun to see how curious and excited Hiromi and Noriko were about the little things that I take for granted – tortillas served with every meal, cheesy mariachi music, even the cacahuates japoneses (Japanese-style peanuts, as they’re called here in Mexico – a type of peanut that, curiously enough, isn’t even eaten in Japan).

At one point in the weekend, the ladies caught a glimpse of the tattoo on my foot – it’s a series of four Japanese kanji that read "一期一会" (“one time, one meeting,” or ”once in a lifetime”). I got the tattoo done in Japan, but for a variety of reasons, kept it carefully hidden while I was there. Now that I’m in Mexico where tattoos aren’t so taboo, I’m not as cautious about covering it up. I cringed when I’d realized they’d seen it, assuming that they’d think less of me because I was "inked," but instead, they responded positively.

“This is 一期一会,” Noriko said, referring to our weekend together.

A 28-year-old American girl climbing pyramids, shooting mezcal and singing along to mariachi music with two 60-something-year-old Japanese ladies? Two 60-something-year-old Japanese ladies she thought she'd never see again? In Oaxaca, Mexico?

Definitely 一期一会. Una vida, una vez. Once in a lifetime.

Bodega Blues

2009-01-22T08:25:00.006-07:00

Tuesday's blog entry was a personal mini-manifesto of sorts, and writing it was pretty darn cathartic. Perhaps the highlight (for me, anyway) was the brief rant about Bodega Aurrera, the Wal-Mart-owned retail megastore that arrived in Huajuapan three years ago and has been closing down local independent shops ever since.

I think that some of Sam Walton's folks might be Gringa Culichi readers, because Bodega took its revenge on me yesterday.

Let me explain, first with an admission. There's a saying here in Mexico: "Mira el burro hablando de orejas." It translates to "look at the donkey talking about ears," kind of the Spanish version of the "pot calling the kettle black" line we English speakers pull when someone is being, well, hypocritical.

I bring up the topic of hypocrites mainly because that's what I am. Yesterday found me standing smack dab in the middle of Bodega Aurrera.

Yes. I know: Pot, kettle. Donkey, ears.

As part of my paycheck here at the university, I get about $200 pesos worth of vales, which I think might best be described as glorified food stamps, each month. The vales can be applied to the purchase of foods and goods at only a select number of locations here in Huajuapan. And by "select," I mean they can only be applied to the purchase of foods and goods at Bodega Aurrera.

Now, I do consider myself to be a principled person. But I'm also broke. Really broke. I'm not in a position to "throw away" $200 pesos worth of "free" food. The way I see it, so long as I'm not spending "my" money at Bodega, so long as I only spend the vales, I'm at taking some kind of small stand. It's a grey area. Go with me, folks.

So, I marched into Bodega yesterday, vales in hand, hoping to get the shopping done quickly before anyone saw me in Satan's Layer...err, the store.

I was angry at myself for being in Bodega.

I was angry at the stupid vale system that caused me to be in Bodega.

I was angry at the forces of global economics and politics that caused Bodega to be in Huajuapan in the first place.

And, later, I got really really really angry at Bodega itself.

I had gotten my groceries in record time and was at the checkout. I had worked my way up to the front of a long, long line of people (apparently other Huajuapeños do not share my poor opinion of Bodega) and was waiting for the cashier to finish scanning my stuff. Because I had spent so long in line, I was in a hurry to get back to work on time. I took out my booklet of vales (they come in denominations of $100 pesos to $20 pesos are tightly stapled into this little paper book) and prepared to pay.

I tried to take out the $100 peso voucher, but in my rush, accidentally tore the corner. Not thinking twice, I handed it to the cashier anyway. Money (or faux money) is still money.

She looked at my torn vale disdainfully. "Esto no sirve." That won't work.

Turns out the damn vales lose all value if they're torn. Essentially, I'd just thrown away $100 pesos, or half of my ration. Ugh.

Now, after nearly six months in Mexico, my Spanish is decent. I find that I'm able to express myself pretty well in most situations. Standing in line at the pinche Bodega, what I really wanted to say was, "I thought you soulless capitalist corporate pigs took money in any form!"

But the words wouldn't come to me. And, of course, the situation wasn't the cashier's fault. In fact, she is one of the few people that actually benefits from having Bodega in town -- she has a decent job and a decent wage, at least by Huajuapeño standards.

So, I sighed, resigned the damaged $100 peso vale to the deep recesses of my wallet, and grudgingly took out a hard-earned $100 peso bill to replace it. Yes, I spent my own money in Bodega. Real money. I broke my own rule. It was either that or hold up the long line further while I figured out which groceries I could afford with my remaining vales.

Mira el burro hablando de orejas.

Pinche Bodega.

Changes & Clichés

2009-01-20T16:49:00.006-07:00

I, like most of the United States and much of the rest of the world, took 20 minutes out of my day to listen to Obama’s inaugural speech this morning. From Huajuapan. I tuned in via a fuzzy connection to NPR’s internet site that rebuffered continuously throughout the address, often at the most critical parts (argh!). I was unable to connect to anything that would provide video, so I didn’t get to see the visuals that everyone’s been talking about -– Michelle’s dress, Sasha’s cute thumbs-up to her dad, the monstrous crowd that had gathered in Washington DC. And I was interrupted a couple of times by passing students and noise in our office.

But I got the message anyway.

For the most part, I liked what I heard -- Obama’s message of change and hope and national and global solidarity certainly resonated with me. I got chills (or, ‘my skin freaked out like a chicken,’ as an ESL student once described the phenomenon of goosebumps to me) at various intervals throughout his address. But even I, enamored with Obama as I am, raised an eyebrow at one part of his speech. It was when he said: “We will not apologize for our way of life.”

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not going to join the scores of detractors who have already posted negative critiques of Obama’s speech all over the internet (haters). To me, the address wasn’t “lackluster,” “fluffy,” or “pie-in-the-sky.” I thought it was inspirational.

But I’d like to make a point on his point: I think we do need to take a long, hard, critical look at our way of life. If not to apologize for it, at least to make some serious changes -- there's that word again -- to it.

Now, I’m not going to try to take Obama’s remark out of context. At this particular point in the speech, Obama was referring to terrorism, and saying we’d defend our nation against it. Right on.

But, the picky linguist that I am, I didn’t like the wording. Our way of life. What exactly does that mean? Freedom? Baseball? Apple Pie? All things worth defending, for sure. But the other side of our way of life, the dark underbelly -- the consumerism, the disproportionate wealth, the strip malls, the SUVs, the Wal-Marts, the obscenely huge carbon footprint -- is causing serious problems across the planet.

I’ve seen the effects of our way of life here in Oaxaca with my own eyes. Local farmers who have lived -- for generations and generations -- on their corn crops are forced out of work because NAFTA has flooded the market with cheap, US-grown, heavily-subsidized, genetically-modified corn. Lands inhabited by Oaxaca’s indigenous communities are drying up and eroding because of global warming. Scores of little pueblos throughout the state are left without fathers, sons, brothers –- any able-bodied man of working age –- because they’ve all gone to El Norte in search of decent-paying jobs. And the Wal-Mart here in Huajuapan (thinly veiled with a different name -- Bodega Aurerra -- it’s still owned by Sam Walton’s folks) is putting the local mom-n-pops out of business while sending the profits back up to Arkansas.

Now, most folks I know back home (e.g. most of the folks reading this blog) are at least vaguely aware of these goings-on. I don’t want to rant, and I certainly don’t want to preach (to the choir, as it were). We are all, slowly, as a nation, becoming aware of the fact that America’s proverbial piece of the pie (apple or not) is too damn big –- we’re taking more than our share.

And I know that Obama agrees. He's a fairly intelligent guy, after all. Later in his speech, he said:

To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds. And to those nations like ours that enjoy relative plenty, we say we can no longer afford indifference to suffering outside our borders; nor can we consume the world's resources without regard to effect. For the world has changed, and we must change with it.

(My skin freaked out like a chicken here.)

Obama’s whole campaign platform was about change. (See the last sentence taken from his speech above – Hey! Change! There it is again.) He managed to get a lot of Americans -- more than ever I’ve seen in my short 28 years -- talking about change. And his election means that, now, the whole world is expecting change.

But, despite the clichés, one man cannot change the world. Let me rephrase that -- one man cannot change the world alone. He needs some help. And we, as a nation, are individually responsible for making the small changes that will, cumulatively, create the big change we all seek.

It was easy to wear the cool “Yes We Can!” campaign buttons in the months leading up to the election. It was easy to check the “Obama/Biden” box on November 4. It easy to talk about how glad we are that Bush is finally out of office today. But how many of us, when faced with the prospect of rolling up our sleeves and actually CHANGING our way of life, will actually do it?

Whoa.

Are we willing to swap our gas-guzzling cars for a bicycle or public transportation? Are we willing to stop supporting monstrous global US-based corporations until they get their corporate social responsibility policies in order? Are we willing to spend a little bit more to buy fair trade (careful –- that’s NOT the same as free trade) products? Are we willing to stop consuming so much -– buying so much damn stuff –- and invest our money elsewhere?

If we say we want change, then -- gasp! -- we have to change.

Even if it hurts a little bit. As the clichés go, the best medicine tastes bitter. The best things in life aren’t easy. Change is a good thing.

But I think we can do it -- I think we can change. Wait -- one more cliché: Yes We Can!

Topes

2009-01-06T14:39:00.012-07:00

The word tope best translates to 'speed bump' in English.

Topes may seem like a strange subject for a blog entry, but they actually played quite a large part in my recent trip back to Oaxaca's Pacific Coast (you'll recall my inaugural trip to the beach, a kinda drugged-out adventure, back in November).

The pace of life down along the coast -- a string of beaches called Zipolite, Mazunte, San Agustinillo and Puerto Angel -- is slow and relaxed (and, thus, somewhat analogous to a giant speed bump in our oft-hurried lives). The beaches are connected by dirt roads that are best traveled in the back of a truck. They're dotted with ramshackle beach huts and restaurants that serve super-fresh fish straight from the sea and super-cold beer straight from the bottle. And they're home to a somewhat international community of hippie-dippie, mota-lovin', half-naked beach bums that have come in search of a tope (some temporary, some permanent) in their daily grind.

And this is where my personal experience with topes begins. We -- a group of Huajuapeño friends that spent last week on the coast in celebration of the New Year -- met a guy who embraced this coastal lifestyle so fully that he actually changed his name to Tope.

Serious.

Tope is a local legend, a sunburnt gringo who whiles away his days at a beach-front bar. Tope can't seem to recall his real name or how long he's been in Zipolite. Tope moseys -- he doesn't walk -- when he heads up to the bar to order yet another bottle of beer. Tope speaks Spanish (and English) so slowly that listening to him tests your patience.

Tope, clearly, is living the dream.

I thought a lot about Tope on our way back home from the beach this weekend -- and not just because I was jealous that he got to stay in 'speed bump' paradise and we had to head back to the reality of work. Rather, Tope (the guy) was top of mind because literally hundreds of topes (the things) dotted the two-lane highway that connects the coast to our mountain-top home.

These topes made a 500-kilometer journey (about 300 miles) take 10 hours. For real.

Now, where I come from, a 300-mile journey would take an easy five-ish hours. If that. But where I come from, roads are flat, well-paved, and often of the six-lane variety. In Oaxaca, the (sometimes) two-lane "highway" is a glorified mix of uneven pavement, rock and dirt that winds its way along the coast, up through the mountains, and through tiny villages. The views from the car would have been spectacular (deep blue ocean, lush green forests, bright orange sunset -- the stuff of legendary road trips) if the damn journey hadn't taken half a day and induced vomiting.

(Our dosage of Vomisin, the magic motion sickness medicine that was so helpful during my last trip to the beach, wore off about halfway through this killer journey.)

And let's talk about the topes. Every time we approached one of these damned little speed bumps, we had to slow to a stop, creep our way across, and cringe as the bottom of my friend's car scraped across the surface (my buddy's poor little Spanish-made Seat was a bit overloaded with three gringos, two Mexicans, a couple of coconuts, and all of our beach gear).

Now, part of me respects the tope: I get that safety is important, that speeding is dangerous, and that topes are cheaper than stoplights. But c'mon people. While we didn't keep count (I will next time -- if there is a next time), I'd swear that there were like 587 topes planted (like little misery-inducing mines) along that 500-km stretch of highway. And even by the most generous estimates, I doubt that 587 people call that same stretch of lonely highway home. So perhaps a tope every 2 kilometers is a bit excessive. Just sayin'.

Anyway, we pulled away from the beach -- happy and sunkissed (see the picture above) -- at about 2 pm, and we arrived -- groggy and carsick (no pictures taken for fear of mutiny from my grouchy car mates) -- at our destination just before midnight.

Damn you, Tope, for being able to live the dream.

Damn you, topes, for making that dream so inaccessible for the rest of us.

Speaking Mexican

2008-12-16T15:00:00.003-07:00

"Oh, so you must speak really good Mexican."

That phrase -- usually uttered by a well-intentioned family member/neighbor/co-worker/acquaintance/would-be friend after learning that I was traveling to/living in/coming back from/moving to somewhere in Mexico -- used to make me cringe.

"Mexican" is NOT a language, people.

At least that's what I used to think.

Spanish is the official language of Mexico. (Nerdy linguist note: There are hundreds of deliciously fascinating indigenous languages spoken here, too.) However, español's "official" status doesn't mean that the Spanish spoken in Mexico is the same as the Spanish spoken in, say, Cuba or Argentina or Nicaragua or even Spain.

(Perhaps English speakers can best appreciate this phenomenon when comparing the very-different brands of inglés spoken in the USA, England, Australia, New Zealand, India and South Africa. To be "pissed" or to put something in a "boot" or to ask for a "rubber" mean very different things, you know, depending on which side of the Atlantic you're doing the talking.)

Anyway, the possibility of "Mexican" as its own language became very clear to be this past weekend, when I found myself in a bar in Oaxaca with a friend we'll call "V." V is from Madrid and is my next-door neighbor here in Huajuapan. She works at the same university as I do, doing research for her thesis. She's a smart, funny girl, and we've become fast friends.

V is endlessly delighted by the "mexicanismos" she's learned while living here in Oaxaca. Mexican slang, it turns out, is very very very different from Spanish slang. And because I learned to speak Spanish in Mexico, I don't appreciate all of the differences because, well, I just don't know any better.

So, V and I are in the bar, accompanied by three other friends of V's, also from Spain. We're laughing and chatting and drinking lots of beer. Some live music starts (trova, for all of you acoustic fans) and the guitarist announces that we should all give a round of applause to Leticia, seated at the next table, who was celebrating her birthday that night.

So we all clap for Leticia. We're all so happy for Leticia. Birthdays are so exciting, Leticia.

Just as the applause starts to die down, V shouts out, "¡GUÁCALA, LETICIA!"

Now, it is important to note here that "guácala" roughly translates to "disgusting" in Mexican Spanish, meaning that V had essentially screamed:

"DISGUSTING, LETICIA!"

So, of course, all heads in the crowded bar turn toward the direction of this bizarre insult, to our table. Who said that to Leticia? And on her birthday? What had Leticia done to deserve this? Poor Leticia!

Of course, such a stupid comment could have only come from a gringa, and I, the only blonde-haired person seated at the table full of Spaniards, was the likely culprit. I was beet red, partially out of embarrassment, but mostly because I was laughing so hard at V.

Me: Why the [insert choice curse word en español here] did you say that?!?

V: What?!? Doesn't 'guácala' mean 'congratulations'?

Me: No! It means 'disgusting.' Didn't you know that?

V: No! I've heard you say it before. I could've sworn it meant 'congratulations.'

The idea that I -- an Illinois-born, blonde-haired, freckle-faced gringa -- could possibly teach any kind of español to a native speaker of the language is mysterious enough. But the idea that V would have thought that 'guácala' was a good thing -- especially when I'd used the word in reaction to seeing dog poop or eating nasty-to-me food or walking through the bloody meat aisle at the market -- is even more mysterious. And kinda funny.

We apologized to Leticia. We cleared up the misunderstanding. We all had a good laugh. But the next time someone remarks on my ability to speak really good "Mexican," I'll probably accept the compliment with a smile. ¡Guácala!

The early bird makes lots of noise

2008-12-03T14:24:00.013-07:00

Back when I was living in Chicago, I sometimes had trouble getting to sleep at night. My old neighborhood, Wrigleyville, was what some people might call acoustically interesting. The neighborhood surrounds Wrigley Field, home of the Chicago Cubs baseball team, and thusly is a mecca for late-night baseball, crowded post-game bars, screeching sirens, big buses, and, of course, the occasional pair of drunk Cubbie fans engaged in a rowdy rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" in the street. It's noisy.

During my stay in Wrigleyville, I was going to grad school and working a full-time job, so I wasn't getting that much sleep anyway. I was already awake at 3 am, studying or working or otherwise stressing myself out, so what was the bother in a little extra noise? I kind of liked the company, the thought of someone else awake at that God-forsaken hour.

Now I live in Huajuapan, a city that seems to go to sleep by about 8:30 pm. Long gone are the days of police sirens and drunken serenades. The place is dead quiet at night, save the chirping of crickets or the occasional dog bark.

Mornings, however, are a different story. On my first Sunday in Huajuapan, I woke up at about 6am to the sound of what I thought were gunshots. Big, explosive gunshots fired off at five-minute intervals. Given the fact that I'd moved to Huajuapan to escape a drug war in my former home of Culiacán, I was less than thrilled with the notion that the narcotrafficantes had followed me to Oaxaca. I lay stiffly in my bed, paralyzed by fear, anxiously waiting for the shooting to subside. Later that morning, when I worked up the courage to leave my apartment, I asked my neighbors about the noise.

Turns out it was coming from the church.

Wait, gunshots at the church?

Nope. It's actually fireworks. At 6 am. The folks running the show at the cathedral here in Huajuapan use fireworks (called cohetes -- rockets -- in Spanish) to call people to Sunday services. Something about the tradition dating back to the Spanish conquest, when the conquistadores used 'em to call folks down from the indigenous villages in the mountains.

Okay. But c'mon people. It's 2008, and the Spanish conquest wrapped about four centuries ago. Don't we have church bells to do that job now? Or maybe a simple, quiet announcement that church services start at 6am? But I'm here as an outsider. I'm here to learn, not to judge, so whatever. Fireworks at dawn is just dandy. At least it's the weekend, so I can roll over and fall asleep again when the fireworks wrap.

But lately, there's been more: Following the fireworks, there's now a full hour of loud organ music, singing and clapping at the church. Hymns at 100 decibels. Every Sunday for the past five weeks or so. So much for sleeping in on Sunday morning, but still, I can't judge.

This week, however, brought on the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. December 12 marks the celebration of Virgin of Guadalupe (Mexico's Virgin Mary), so now there's a fair going on in the street, building up to the big day. Normally, I'd be pleased with the prospect of a street fair -- it'd add some excitement to this little city. But the thing is, the fair starts up every morning with fireworks, a parade, and singing.

And by 'every,' I mean every day until December 12.

And by 'morning,' I mean 4:30 am.

Now I'm all for people celebrating their faith. I'm happy that they're happy, singing in the streets and banging drums and shooting off fireworks and whatnot. I'll even ignore the irony that all of this noise is coming from a religious celebration, instead of from drunken revelry like it was back in Chicago.

But 4:30 am?!? It's not even light outside, folks. And the drums wake up every damn dog in Huajuapan, so you have barking and howling on top of the parade noise. Wouldn't the Virgin be just as honored by a celebration at a more civilized hour, like 9:30 am? Or better yet, noon?

As the cliché goes, the early bird gets the worm. But not if you've made so much damn noise that you've scared all the worms away. La güera needs her beauty sleep, y'all.

The Photo Opp

2008-11-28T17:35:00.007-07:00

There was the time when I was in the back of a limo with John Leguizamo. And the time I ran into Tommy Hilfiger at what used to be Marshall Field's in downtown Chicago. And then there was the time when I met Michelle Kwan in the press room at a Champions on Ice event.

Those were times when I really wished I had my camera. Yes, even the most jaded, cynical ex-PR gal is sometimes a sucker for the token photo opp.

But these lame celebrity run-ins pale to the time when, two years ago, I was doing an interview at a little storefront church on the west side of Chicago. The interview subject was Elvira Arellano, an undocumented Mexican immigrant who, defying deportation orders, took up sanctuary in a church instead of reporting to INS. She wanted to stay in the United States to care for her then-7-year-old, US-born son, Saul. After all, deporting her would mean deporting him, because she wasn't leaving without him.

I really, really, really wanted my camera. But I'd forgotten it.

Arellano's not a celebrity, per se, but her story inspired me. No matter how you feel about the United States' immigration policy (or lack thereof), you have to admire Arellano's courage to stand up -- as an individual, as a worker, as a mother -- against what she thought was unjust.

I decided to do my M.A. thesis on Elvira Arellano's story, and how it was covered in the media in Chicago. Writing a thesis is kind of like having a baby -- it takes about 9 months, it makes you emotional, it keeps you awake at weird hours and it makes you gain weight. And then, when it's all over, there's this strange letdown. Postpartum depression, if you will.

Anyway, the thesis began (and, thus, my 'normal life' ended) at that little church, back in October 2006. By the time May 2007 rolled around, I'd written 170 pages on the woman. I'd darted all over Chicago collecting interviews and data. The walls of my tiny studio apartment were covered with newspaper clippings. My fingers were permanently black from newsprint. My back and wrists ached from being hunched over my little laptop. I'd developed a slight twitch in my left eye from staring at a computer screen.

At that point, I'd thought more about Elvira Arellano than can probably be considered healthy (as a friend so delicately put it, I am "neurotically obsessed" with the poor woman) . But I'd missed the photo opp.

Fast forward two years, to this week, and I'm attending an immigration conference in Mexico City. I'd heard that Arellano -- who has since been deported, despite her very public struggles -- was also going to be there. Arellano is still on my mind because I'm working on an article for a journal. And I'm still jumping through hoops to interview her: This time, instead of taking a bus across Chicago to meet her at a church, I've taken a bus across four Mexican states -- a 13-hour-round trip from Oaxaca -- to talk to her.

But I met Arellano. Again. We had lunch. We talked about her son. We shared a few laughs. She gave me her email address. And, two years, 170 pages, and 13 hours on a bus later, I finally got my photo. Woo-woo!

Thanks for everything, Elvira.

Magic Pills

2008-11-18T17:31:00.008-07:00

What blog entry on a trip to the beach would be complete without (1) envy-inducing pictures of beautiful oceanside sunsets and (2) thinly-veiled references to drugs?

I've included the requisite sunset pics here in all of their golden-hued glory, snapped surfside from the almost-virgin oaxaqueña beaches of Zipolite and Mazunte this weekend. Both beaches are located on Oaxaca's coast, so some friends and I decided to take advantage of our long holiday weekend (November 20 is Revolution Day here in Mexico) to soak up some sun. We did all of the lovely things you do on the beach. Namely, we did nothing. It was wonderful.

Now, onto the drugs.

Zipolite is famous for two things: (1) nudity and (2) marijuana. Given that my grandmother will be reading this blog entry, I need to clarify that I did not participate in either activity. There were plenty of other things -- sand, sun, snorkeling, and, well, beer -- to keep me occupied.

But I did take drugs of another kind: Vomisin is amaaaaaaaaaaazing, man.

Vomisin is a magic little pill that I popped on the way home from Zipolite. It's an aptly-named motion sickness medicine that was absolutely essential for the trip. You see, standing between Huajuapan and the beach is a tiny little obstacle (read: sarcasm): the Sierra Madres, a mountain range that turns a would-be easy 300-km trip into a vomit-inducing, six-hour odyssey through switchbacks and dangerous curves and bumpy roads.

I braved the trip sans-Vomisin on the way down to Zipolite and literally wanted to die. This, coming from a girl who drives with a lead foot and jumps out of planes and dances herself dizzy -- namely, a girl who generally does not have a problem with motion -- should illustrate the intensity of the journey.

My travel companions and I, having learned our lesson, popped the happy little pills right before our return trip on Monday morning and enjoyed drug-induced, drool-dripping, head-bobbing slumber all the way back to Oaxaca City.

Vomisin, I heart you.

¡Viva la Muerte!

2008-11-06T18:11:00.014-07:00

All week I've been meaning to write about my very first über-Mexican holiday, Día de los Muertos, but a history-making U.S. presidential election and a quasi-stalker incident involving a taxi driver-slash-television news producer have gotten in the way. You know, just another busy week here in thrill-a-minute Huajuapan.

But I digress. The title of this entry translates to "Long Live Death," which would be a pretty morbid sentiment if I were anywhere in the world except Mexico. Last weekend, I celebrated death as part of Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) in Oaxaca City. Though I've visited Mexico more times than I can remember, ironically I've never actually been in the country in the fall, or more specifically, on November 1 and 2, when DDLM is celebrated. And Oaxaca is to DDLM as Las Vegas is to Sin and Chicago is to President-Elects...it's where you go for the crème de la crème. So you can imagine my delight at having the opportunity to pass the holiday here locally.

Some equate DDLM with Halloween, but they're oh-so wrong. DDLM has a bit more meaning behind it than the American squeeze-yourself-into-a-costume-and-stuff-your-face-with-candy holiday. The 'day' is actually two days, set aside to honor, well, the dead. November 1 has traditionally been reserved for children, while November 2 is for adults. Mexican families honor deceased family members by building amazing altars -- stocked with food, flowers, photos, beer, anything that the deceased enjoyed during his or her lifetime -- in their homes. Then, at night, they go to the cemetary to clean and decorate graves. Some families even have a meal there. The idea is to celebrate death as a part of life, so it's a really festive holiday.

I spent most of Saturday wandering through Oaxaca's amazing markets, taking in the sights: row after row of altar-buildin' goodies. Sugar skulls. Wooden skeletons. Flowers. Pan de Muertos (Bread of the Dead). Candles in every shape and size imaginable. And then, when night fell, our group sojourned over to Oaxaca's General Cemetery, where local families had gathered to decorate loved ones' graves, eat a giant meal, and pray together. The presence of something like 4,000 camera-wielding, Lonely Planet-reading gringo tourists detracted from the experience somewhat, but that's part of the deal when you celebrate Day of the Dead in Oaxaca City, I suppose...

Sunday, however, couldn't have contrasted more with Saturday's tourism overload. We took a bus out of the city to a tiny village called Teotitlán, home to a textile-weaving industry and the former host family of one of my friends and co-workers. The bus dropped us off on the side of the dusty highway, far, far away from the village itself, so we were faced with two options: We could either hoof the 15 kilometers into "civilization," or hitchhike our way there. Opting for the latter, we stuck our thumbs out and managed to snag a ride in the back of a passing truck.

The journey was worthwhile. Upon our arrival, our gracious hosts treated us to a shot of home-brewed mezcal, a tour of their weaving facilities, homemade tamales and traditional Oaxacan hot chocolate and pan. Their hospitality was very generous, especially considering we weren't the family's only visitors that day: They'd constructed a giant altar in their dining room, full of flowers and bread and photographs and even a few bottles of beer. They left the door open all afternoon so the spirits could enter the room easily. And, as we gringos gorged ourselves on tamales, they discretely stepped away to place two heaping plates of food on the altar.

When the dead come to visit, they bring their appetites.

After lunch, we made our way back to the dusty highway, only to find that city-bound buses had stopped running because of the holiday. Giddy from all of the sugar we'd eaten in Teotitlán (or maybe it was the mezcal?), we hitchhiked our way back into town, reflecting on death with smiles on our faces.

Translation (gracias, Pato) of the pic above, taken at the gate of the General Cemetery in Oaxaca:

"Postraos: Aquí la eternidad empieza, y es polvo aquí la mundanal grandeza."

"Kneel: Here eternity starts, and dust is here all wordly greatness."

¡Arriba Obama!

2008-11-05T08:11:00.009-07:00

My generation saw its proverbial man walk on the moon last night.

Just as folks from my parents' generation will never forget where they were when Neil Armstrong took his "giant leap for mankind," I'll never forget where I was on November 4, 2008. I watched my country elect its first black president -- in a sense, also a "giant leap" -- via CNN on a slightly-delayed cable connection in a tiny bar in Huajuapan de León, Mexico.

Our little expat community -- which included seven Americans, a couple of Brits, a girl from Spain and the local Mexicans who love us -- gathered in Sagrario's Bar -- the only place with cable TV in all of Huajuapan -- after work to watch the election returns. When we walked in the door, Sagrario's staff graciously flipped the channel from a soccer game to CNN en inglés and brought over some complimentary nachos.

They must've sensed that it was going to be a long night.

We hunkered down for our four-hour political fix. There was lively banter around the table as we watched states turn blue and red. The Americans in the group attempted to explain our country's hard-to-explain electoral college system -- a daunting task in one's native language, let alone in broken Spanish. The Brits in the group balked at CNN's audacity to spin their exit-poll projections as gospel. And the women in the group admired Anderson Cooper's, well, everything.

It was a great way to watch the election. And, personally, having observed the campaign unfold from overseas (including, of all places, in Obama, Japan), I couldn't have imagined a more appropriate way for me to witness American history in the making: far, far away from home, in the company of folks who aren't, as they say in Spanish, estadounidense.

It's this mish-mash of countries, languages and people that has shaped my political views. I've spent the last 18 months traveling, meeting folks of sorts of political persuasions, engaging in long, passionate, late-night discussions and, frankly, doing a lot of apologizing on behalf of my country for our dismal foreign affairs record. I've been asked -- by Japanese junior high students and Cambodian taxi drivers and Korean bartenders and Mexican supermarket clerks -- how I planned to cast my vote (how's that for a sense of responsibility to make sure I sent my absentee ballot on time?). I've been the recipient of verbal assault when folks in far-away lands have taken their political frustrations out on me, the only American in the room. And, sadly, because of the latter, I've done my fair share of claiming to be Canadian -- or Irish or Argentine or French, or, well, anything but American to avoid potentially heated situations.

And after all of these conversations and lessons and observations, what's my take on the whole thing? The watered-down, blog-compliant, 50-words-or-less version is this: For the USA to have any chance to be respected internationally, to have any hope of salvaging diplomatic relations, to truly show that we've learned from the last eight years of failed leadership, we'd have to put Obama in the White House.

And that's exactly what we did last night. For the first time in a long time, I was proud of my country. So proud.

I got chills when I watched the crowd erupt into cheers in Grant Park in Chicago (I wanted to be there with y'all, Chi-Town!). I thought of Kenyan friends when CNN coverage panned to images of celebration in Kongelo. I smiled as Mexican pals sent me text messages, offering me congratulations for my country's smart choice for president. And I got misty when I heard Obama thank his family, remember his grandmother, speak about how far we've come as a nation, give us hope for the long road ahead, and, most importantly, talk about change.

Change is a good thing.

So, ¡arriba Obama!, and thank you, my fellow Americans, for giving me a reason to be proud, even if it is from thousands of miles away.

Karma

2008-11-03T10:17:00.005-07:00

His name is Yamasaki.

Yamasaki is a Japanese name (it means "mountain top," more or less), but the guy's Mexican.

But that's not the only interesting duality in Yamasaki's life: He's a taxi driver, and he's also a TV news producer. Go figure.

I met Yamasaki this morning. I was running and he was driving his cab. The first time Yamasaki waved at me, I turned up the music on my iPod and ignored him. I've had enough less-than-desirable incidents involving Mexican men yelling at me from vehicles to know better. Just ask my friends in Querétaro.

But Yamasaki was persistent. He followed me in his cab. He kept waving. I thought that perhaps he needed directions, but then thought better: Why the hell would a taxi driver need directions? From a freckle-faced, blonde-ponytailed gringa gal who is so obviously not a local? At 7 a.m.?

I ran faster.

Finally, curiosity and Yamasaki's persistence got the best of me. I stopped, paused my watch, and pulled out my earbuds. I was sweaty, out of breath and irritated. You don't stop me in the middle of a run for no good reason.

"Good morning. Sorry to bother you," he said pleasantly, getting out of the cab to cross the street, presumably to be able to talk to me without yelling. "Maybe you're in a hurry? I just want to ask you a quick question."

"I AM kind of in a hurry," I said shortly. The skeptical Chicagoan in me was rearing her ugly head. What, exactly, did this guy want from me? He'd better talk fast.

Yamasaki explained that when he isn't moonlighting as a cab driver, he actually reports for a local TV news channel. He's been working on a segment on physical activity. He sees me running in the mornings and wonders if jog daily...

My eyes widened. This guy has been following me every morning. What a creep.

Sensing my alarm, Yamasaki quickly backpedaled.

"It's just that my taxi route seems to be your running route..."

Okay, yes, I run every morning. So what? I made a mental note to change my running route. STAT.

"So I'm working on this segment. I've already interviewed a cyclist, a soccer player, a gymnast...but I'm missing a runner."

Oh God, did he want me to be The Runner?

He gave me his card. "It's just that people here in Oaxaca don't really exercise, and the station is trying to put together this public awareness campaign about health and fitness, and we'd really love it if you could give us a hand..."

He didn't just pull the "give us a hand" line, did he? My mind drifted back to my PR days with the American Heart Association, putting together similar public awareness campaigns, and to all of the people -- our volunteers -- that I'd desperately suckered into doing crack-of-dawn TV interviews with Chicago news stations, using that exact same line. What goes around comes around...it's called karma, baby.

"Will the interview be in Spanish? It's just that my Spanish isn't so good..." I said, laying on the thickest gringa accent I could, my last hope for possibly getting out of this.

"Yes, but I love the North American accent. And your Spanish is very good."

Ah, linguistic flattery. He got me there. I gave him my email address, figuring if the guy was making the whole thing up, I'd still give him major points for creativity.

So it looks like I'm going to be on Huajuapeño TV, folks. Will keep you posted on the segment shoot and air date. If you tune in, we can double Huajuapan's market rating in one night.

Fish Story

2008-10-31T16:08:00.006-07:00

The sign above roughly translates to "En Yosocuta, we taste better, okay!"

I snapped the picture in Yosocuta (of course), a village located about an hour from the ever-cosmopolitan Huajuapan. Yosocuta is headquarters for a large dam, and thusly its claim to fame is a 'beautiful' lake and wildlife area. I went to check out the place last weekend with a group of new Huajuapeño friends. It was their first time visiting Yosocuta, too.

Turns out there was a reason for that.

We piled into a collectivo taxi that carried us to our 10-peso-away destination: The 'resort' of Yosocuta, which turned out to be a few lakeside restaurants connected by a dusty road, the latter of which was littered with broken-down, rusted-out cars and random chickens.

(The chickens gave the place a kind of Key West feel, but that's where any comparison ends...)

Needless to say, this was not exactly the spot we had in mind for our little Saturday rendezvous.

However, the aforementioned fish billboard inspired us to at least have lunch, seeing as how we'd made the trip all the way out, and seeing as how the fish is supposed to be so 'tasty' in Yosocuta and all.

We piled into the closest of Yosocuta's three restaurants and, despite the fact that there were only two other people in the entire place, enthusiastically ordered: fried fish for a Mexican friend, garlic-crusted fish for my Idahoian co-worker, and foil-wrapped fish por moi. We sat inpatiently, mouths watering, anxiously awaiting the infamous sabroso Yosocutan fish.

The fish was delivered. And by 'the fish,' I mean all of it. Head, eyeballs, fins. Mine, by virtue of being grilled in foil, still had all of the slimy scales in tact. Yum. I thought that my year in Japan had made me quite intimate with all things aquatic, but my reaction in the picture above says it all.

(Insert 'Fish Heads' song here: fish heads, fish heads, roly poly fish heads, eat them up, yum...)

But after I got past the head and the eyeballs and the fins and the scales, and then past the exactly 1,567 microscopic bones contained therein, the fish actually tasted pretty good. Had a unique -- what's the word?-- tasty flavor. Especially when accompanied when fresh tortillas and salsa and a few swigs of mezcal.

Our bellies full, we decided to check out the 'beautiful' lake that had apparently spawned our 'tasty' fish. The Idahoian negotiated a killer rental rate (40 pesos/hour) on a wooden rowboat, and we paddled out into the crystal blue water...

...which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be more of a greenish-grey color and was suspiciously foggy. And it had a strange odor. Did we seriously just eat fish from here?

The punch line is this: The 'beautiful' lake is actually super polluted. It's basically a giant toilet bowl for the dozens of Mixtec communities that live in the surrounding mountains. Their sewage ('greywater,' I think it's called, in polite speak) flows downhill and ends up right there in Lake Yosocuta. Guess that explained the unique, 'tasty' flavor of the fish.

Radioactvity. Or something like that.

The good news is that my stomach has officially adjusted to Mexico: I didn't get sick. And neither did either of my fish-eatin' dining companions. The bad news is that that was my first -- and last-- experience with the infamous "tasty" Yosocuta fish.

Don't believe the hype. Stick to the quesadillas.

Bugs à la Oaxaca

2008-10-23T17:16:00.010-06:00

There are two kinds of insects here in Oaxaca.

There's the picture-perfect pretty variety. And then there's the nightmare-inducing kind. I've included photos of both for your reference.

I snapped the picture of the former while camping at a canyon called El Boquerón a couple of weekends ago. The canyon's just a quick hour-long drive from my apartment, and comes complete with calendar-ready views of gurgling rivers, rolling green mountains, dramatic cacti....and butterflies. Lots and lots of butterflies. It's a beautiful place that I plan to return to regularly.

The picture of the latter comes courtesy of Google, but I could just as easily have taken it in my apartment. Every night, when the sun goes down and the lights go off, the creepy crawlers emerge from the hidden crevices of my home. Larger-than-life cockroaches. Hairy spiders. Huge furry centipedes.

They hide behind my shampoo bottles when I take a shower. They scurry out when I open a door. They hang out on walls and ceilings, just out of my reach. They mock me. It's like they know I'm so scared that I won't kill them. And I swear that they surround my bed at night, watching me sleep. I wake up in the morning, sit straight up, and look around before I'll tentatively put my bare foot on the floor, for fear of stepping on something creepy.

Ack.

I could go on and on about the creepy bugs here. Oaxaca seems to be a breeding ground for over-the-top insects. So much so that the local folks have figured out a way to capitalize on the surplus of critters here: They actually EAT the bugs.

So I guess there are actually three kinds of bugs: the beautiful, the creepy, and the edible. Chapulines (grasshoppers) are a local delicacy. They're hawked all over the streets of Huajuapan, sold right alongside the tomatoes and tortillas and doorknobs and God-knows-what-else in the road-side markets and food stalls. Apparently, chapulines are "harvested" in the summer, stock-piled, roasted with salt, lemon and garlic, and then consumed by oaxaqueños and the daring gringo looking for the photo opp.

Um, yum?

I apparently don't fall into the category of "daring gringo," at least not gastronomically speaking. I tried chapulines once -- by accident -- back in 2001 when I was visiting Oaxaca City with a friend. The little grasshoppers adorned a salad I'd ordered, and I'd mistaken them for croutons. It took just one bite for me to realize that there was something awry with the "crouton," namely that it was an insect. I tried to slyly brush the chapulines off my salad. I remember the waiter shooting me a knowing look when he came to collect my otherwise-clean plate.

It's not that I'm against trying the local fare. It's just that Oaxaca has so many more delicious-to-me things to eat. Like to-die-for chocolate. And cheese. And mole (no, people, not "mole," the rodent, but mole, a sauce painstakingly made with dozens and dozens of different ingredients). I'm definitely eating well here, even if I am keeping insects of out my day-to-day diet.

But, my peso salary only stretches so far, and I will be needing some holiday cash here in a few weeks. Looks like I may have to start collecting some of those insects that share my apartment and set up shop in the food market. I'd make a killing, if only I could bring myself to kill them...

Dance Lessons

2008-10-22T15:58:00.006-06:00

Sometimes I think I'm little too gringa for a little place like Huajuapan de León.

And by gringa, I mean American female -- specifically the stubborn-as-hell, raised-to-be-independent-and speak-her-mind, grew-up-playing-in-the-mud-and-building-tree-forts, drinks-tequilla-straight-from-the-bottle, likes-to-outrun-boys-and-laugh-about-it kind of American female that I consider myself to be.

Gals like me are a dime a dozen back in the States. We're sometimes a lot to handle, but we're usually (albeit sometimes begrudgingly) accepted. But it ain't that way in the rest of the world. Gender roles are still a bit more traditional in other places. And here in Mexico, especially here in small-town Mexico, where machismo is alive and well in some aspects of society, most women are raised to be more quiet, reserved, and -- let's face it -- well behaved.

I'm different. I stick out. And it gets me in trouble sometimes.

The kind of things that I wouldn't think twice about doing at home -- for example, going on my morning run in shorts (not short-shorts, mind you, just regular old shorts), dancing a little too close to a good friend at a wedding reception (it was hip-hop, come on people), and speaking my mind (or just forgetting to keep my mouth shut) -- have drawn some rather unwanted attention here in my new digs South of the Border.

Cat calls in the street and some dirty looks. Nothing I can't handle.

But I want to nip this stuff in the proverbial bud. The way I see it, living abroad is a two-way street. You've got to give a little to get a little. That means I've got to respect the local culture and act right, but at the same time, nobody's asking me to compromise so much of myself that I lose my identity. I'm here to learn about my host country and culture -- and to offer whatever I can from my own country and culture. We're different, but we're also more alike that we realize. Blah blah blah.

But lately, I feel like I've been a little too gringa. Maybe it's because, for the most part, I feel pretty comfortable in Mexico. I've lived here before. It's a helluva lot closer to Chicago -- geographically and culturally and linguistically -- than Japan was. I -- despite what my Mexican friends might say to me in jest -- do speak the language. It feels so much like home that sometimes I forget I'm not home.

And that's where the problem begins.

This struggle -- between being my gringa self and trying to fit in a little bit -- came to a head last night at salsa class. A lovely man named Moises has become my regular dance partner, God bless him: He's either a glutton for punishment or extremely charitable. Moises started classes just a week before I did, so we're both technically still beginners. But, being Mexican and, apparently, having the ability to dance pre-programmed into his DNA, Moises has a leg up on me.

(This stereotype goes both ways. A Mexican friend of mine recently remarked on his observation of the Caucasian American's inability to dance, prompting what eventually led to the aforementioned hip hop showdown at the wedding reception, but I digress...)

Moises has threatened to start charging me 10 pesos for every time I step on his toes. At this point, three weeks into the class, I basically owe him my next paycheck. But, overall, he's a good sport. We laugh a lot at what are usually my mistakes. He's patient when I ask him to drill the same three moves over and over because I can't seem to get them right.

But even laid-back Moises draws the line somewhere: I can't try to lead.

No! No! No! No! No! The female lead is one of the Seven Deadly Sins of salsa dancing. If you think about it, dance is kind of a microcosm of the macho aspect of Mexican society: Gender roles are strictly defined here. Black and white. I'm the girl. I'm supposed to smile and look pretty and spin a lot. Moises is the boy. He gets to tell me what to do. Period.

As might be expected, the stubborn, shorts-wearing gringa in me struggles with this concept a bit. And it's not just because I'm a crappy dancer -- I mean, all that spinning makes me dizzy! (Read: Sarcasm.) It got so bad last night that Moises stopped me mid-dip last night to deliver a stern reminder:

Acuérdate. Yo manejo la orquesta. (Remember. I conduct the orchestra.)

Touché. Point taken. I need to loosen up. I need to go with Moises' flow. We'll both dance better.

And I need to go with the flow. Period. No more mouthing off -- in English or in Spanish. No more running in shorts. No more swilling tequilla from the bottle (I'll use a glass!). We'll all get along better. I'll be happier here. And Huajuapan will be happier with me.

I'll let the man drive (or lead or conduct or whatever). No problem. Now, I just need to prove that I'm not so gringa that I can't learn how to salsa...

Friends in Unlikely Places

2008-10-15T17:42:00.006-06:00

The bells in Huajuapan's cathedral (see above -- it's cute) ring every quarter-hour, marking the s-l-o-w passage of time in this little city that has become my new home. I've been here for just over two weeks -- unemployed for more than half of that time (I finally started work late last week, but that's a blog for another time) -- so I've had plenty of opportunities to embrace the relaxed pace of life here. I've settled into a little routine, surrounded by an unlikely cast of characters that have become my new friends.

There's the tamal vendors that are out on the street in the mornings. They've jerry-rigged three-wheeled bicycles to accomodate big pots of steaming tamales, which they sell for 6 pesos (60 cents) a pop. Sometimes they'll cycle past me when I'm out on my morning jog, prompting lots of shouts of the word "güera." "Güera" translates roughly to "white girl," lest I forget that I am a freckled, blonde-haird anomoly in a sea of short, dark-haired, Mixtec-descended Mexicans. Depsite the catcalling, they're always happy to sell their treats to the sweaty, iPod-clad gringa who approaches them right after her run for her breakfast each morning. De-lish.

There's a woman named Sonia who sells me delicious Oaxaca-cheese-filled quesadillas for lunch at the market. Sonia's quesadillas are made with lots of love -- and cooking with love takes a lot of time. She painstakingly makes her tortillas by hand, adds cheese and veggies (extra 'shrooms for the gringa) and grills them up slowly. We've had lots of time to chat about my work visa woes, and Sonia has suggested that perhaps it would just be easier for me to marry a Mexican and get my visa that way. She thinks that her 26-year-old brother would be a viable option. We'll see.

There's Leo, the guy who runs the local hardware store. I've bought some odds and ends from his shop and he's curiously asked me what a big-city girl like me is doing in a little place like Huajuapan. Leo's brother lives in Chicago, so we've chatted all about the Windy City. I hit Leo up for help when my water heater busted last week. He spent his lunch hour dismantling the contraption, a labor for which he refused to take any money. Instead, I paid him with a six pack of Indio beer. We've been best pals ever since.

There's Carmen, my landlord, who keeps a pristine garden in the middle of our apartment complex. She's up with the sun -- and coos of caged doves that live amongst the plants -- raking and weeding and pruning and potting. The garden boasts lime and pomegranate trees, tons of ferns and flowers, and, most recently, Halloween decorations which she's ostensibly added to help her American tenants feel more at home as the all-important holiday approaches.

There's the crew that assembles for the salsa dance class at the community center on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays. At first they weren't sure what to make of the gangly, uncoordinated gringa who clearly had never danced a (sober) step of salsa in her life. During our first classes together, I felt like proverbial last pick for the dodgeball team, standing lonely on the sidelines as guys and gals paired off to perfect their dance moves. But now, two weeks into the course, I'm a popular pick as men seem to like to practice their, ahem, English with me.

There's the octogenarian couple who sells chile-powder-covered corn on the cob in the evenings on the zócalo. The elotes really hit the spot after I've worked up an appetite with salsa dancing. They're impressed with my ability to tolerate all of the spice that the señora sprinkles on the corn. Not too shabby for a gringa -- or a güera, as it were.

So the Gringa Culichi has made a home for herself in the tiny, sleepy little town of Huajuapan de León. Who knew that unemployment could be such fun? Lemons to lemonade, as the saying goes.

Pinche Migra

2008-10-02T11:05:00.003-06:00

Those who know me best know that I've had an interest in the United States' immigration policy for some time now. I've worked with immigrants -- of all shades of the "legal" spectrum -- as an English teacher back in Chicago. I spent nine very painful months writing my MA thesis on immigration. Since I've been in Mexico, I've heard stories from dozens of brilliant people who, for lack of other options, came to the United States without the proper papers and were unceremoniously deported. Artists. Doctors. Lawyers. Students. So I continue to follow the headlines on US immigration policy with hopes that someday, maybe in the not-so-distant future, my country's government will be able to work out a way for folks who want to come to the United States to make an honest living will be able to do so without having to put their lives on the line to cross the border "illegally."

But I digress.

Knowing how difficult and even unfair the United States' immigration system can be for many people, I feel a bit unjustified in blogging about my recent problems with the Mexican migra. But the last couple of days -- actually, every day since I've arrived at my new home here in Oaxaca -- have been a big lesson for me in what a headache the process can be, even on the other side of the border.

To make a very long story short, I don't have the proper papers to begin work at my new job in my new state. I have to wait for papers to come from my old state. And until I get the papers, I have to sit and wait. I can't begin work. I can't make money. I can't really do anything. And I have to keep going back and forth to Oaxaca City -- the state capitol and home of the immigration office -- until I get my 'em. It's a six-hour round trip to the city, one that involves sitting in the back of a suburban as it winds through mountain roads. Carsick, anyone?

I fully recognize that this is nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to what many of my Mexican counterparts must go through to be able to work in the United States. They'd most likely happily trade a bit of carsickness for what is often their only option, which involves paying coyotes obscene amounts of money to lead them across the border, into the desert, where some either starve or freeze to death. And while I'm allowed to wait here in Mexico -- with a place to stay, money to buy food, even access to internet -- for my papers to come through, many of my Mexican counterparts would have already been deported.

I know that I'll eventually get my visa if I wait long enough. The reverse isn't always the case.

In essence, I'm getting the royal treatment. I fully recognize this. So I'll sit here and wait as patiently as I can until my papers come through. And I'll be happy about it. I'm learning a valuable lesson. The best medicine doesn't always taste good.

Pinche migra.

Feels Like Home

2008-09-28T20:36:00.002-06:00

In the past year, I have lived in three different countries. I have changed apartments four times. I have had three different jobs. And counting. The Spanish word for folks like me is vagabunda. My grandma calls me a gypsy. I like to think of myself as a traveler.

But even the most hard-core travelers get tired sometimes. They grow weary of packing and re-packing their few wordly possessions into backpacks/suitcases/garbage bags. They get tired of juggling bus schedules and plane tickets and waking up in different time zones and speaking different languages. They want a place to hang their proverbial hats.

In short, they want a home.

Up until last week, I thought that my home was going to be Culiacán. I arrived in the city in late July and did some serious nesting very quickly. In a matter of weeks, I rented an apartment. I bought a washing machine. I made fast friends with an amazing crew of 20-something Culichis. But, as you well know, my plans changed very quickly.

This week, I'm back on the road, suitcases and bus ticket in hand. The thought of starting over again (again) in a new city is exhausting. Learning the ropes at a new job. Looking for a new apartment. Buying a new washing machine. Making new friends.

So it was nice to get a little dose of home this weekend. On my way to Oaxaca, I stopped to visit some old friends in Mexico City. From Mexico City, we traveled together for another friend's wedding in Querétaro, the city that served as my home when I was an exchange student back in 1999. Despite the fact that nearly a decade has past since we all lived in the same city (or the same country, for that matter), we've been able to keep in tabs on each other. I've visited them here in Mexico. They've come to Chicago. And we've shared pictures, emails and the occasional international phone call.

I can't describe how nice it was to see everyone -- in person. How nice it was to be back in a familiar city. How nice it was to kiss and hug and laugh together. I'd forgotten how good it feels to be with old friends -- people that know your history and can appreciate all of the twists and turns of your path in life. It was just what my travel-weary soul needed. A little dose of familiarity in what has otherwise been a time of contstant flux. A little reminder that there are folks here in Mexico who really know me (and love me anyway). A little boost to get me through what will certainly be lonely and frustrating times ahead as I transition (yet again) into life in a new city.

It felt like home.

Coming Clean

2008-09-19T21:20:00.015-06:00

Okay, I need to come clean: I haven't been exactly, um, forthcoming with all of the details of my life here in Culiacán. It's not that I've lied to you in past postings. It's just that I've omitted what some people might consider rather significant parts of what my day-to-day is like here in Sinaloa. The thing is that Culiacán isn't all cheery blog posts on Chihuahua dogs with pink nail polish and wacky city buses and raspado addictions. The truth is that Culiacán is actually kind of a dangerous place.

No -- scratch that -- it's a very dangerous place.

For years, Culiacán has been headquarters to the Sinaloa Cartel, one of the biggest drug cartels in Mexico. They supply the US market with cocaine from Colombia, marijuana from Mexico, and opium from Asia. The boss, Joaquin "El Chapo" Guzmán is one of the most wanted men in North America. Mr. Guzmán is a man of two faces, one part Al Capone -- infamous outlaw -- and one part Robin Hood -- responsible for much of the prosperity in this would-be-poor region.

It's this dichotomy, this two-faced nature of the drug trade, that causes the narcoculture here. It's ingrained in everyone, the regular people and drug bosses alike. It's the reason that many local folks worship a would-be saint called Jesus Malverde. He's an outlaw who died in the early 1900s, but people go to his shrine -- located by the cathedral here in the city -- to pray for safe travels, especially when taking, ahem, journeys "up north." It's the reason that Culiacán's streets are clogged with flashy Hummers with narcocorridos (kind of like gangsta rap en español) blaring out of the speaker systems. It's the reason that even honest folks speak of the narcotraficantes as "good people" who "do a lot for the community" and have "nice families."

For a long time, these two sides of the city co-existed in a delicate peace. Guzmán used to live right here in Culiacán. His kids were students at my school. The rumor mills churned with seemingly-benign stories about seeing Guzmán out and about in the city -- there's a famous tale about his bodyguards locking down a huge famous restaurant called Las Palmas this spring. Nobody was allowed to leave while "The Boss" and his family dined there, but at the end, he picked up the tab for everyone in the entire place that night.

So everything used to be fine in Culiacán. Regular folks went about their business, felt safe in their city, and turned a blind eye to the not-so-legitimate enterprise that fueled much of the local economy. But then the proverbial mierda hit the fan this May: One of Guzmán's sons got gunned down by a rival cartel at a shopping mall. So "El Chapo" himself went into hiding, the rest of the family fled to somewhere in Europe, and Sinaloa braced itself for Guzmán's revenge. At the same time, the new-ish Mexican President, in his ongoing plight to crack down on drugs throughout Mexico, sent the army here to weed out all the narcotraficantes.

These two events disrupted the illegal-but-peaceful status quo that previously existed here in Culiacán. Now, there's a three-way conflict between the two cartels and the federales. This means that big army trucks patrol the streets and a trip to the supermarket involves walking past armed soldiers with big machine guns while picking out your breakfast cereal. Newspapers are full of headlines about drug raids at homes in "nice" neighborhoods and cartel bosses being gunned down in the streets.

And this is the scene I arrived at in July. I knew a little bit about the violence before I came, but naïvely thought that if I went about my business, living my little English-teaching life -- full of past participles and verb conjugations and stacks of essays to grade -- that'd I'd be safe. That I could avoid the violence. That because I've traveled -- unscathed -- to places like war-ridden Nicaragua and landmine-filled Cambodia, I'd be just fine.

But two weeks ago, I found myself hiding under a table at a restaurant with $200 stuffed down my shirt as men with ski masks walked through with big guns, demanding that customers surrender their wallets, watches and cell phones. Terrifying. I'd gone out to dinner -- to a sushi restaurant of all places -- that night to celebrate a co-worker's birthday. Her 70-something-year-old mother had come with us. So the three of us hid our valuables and trembled together under that table, quietly reminding each other to breathe, trying to seem as inconspicuous as possible.

I'd never been so scared in my life. Upon hearing the men enter the restaurant and start screaming for us to get down and cooperate, I'd braced myself for bullets to start flying. I thought that a narco boss was in the restaurant, and that he -- and likely, the rest of us -- were going to unceremoniously meet our ends. So, in a sense, I was strangely relieved when it became apparent that the incident was "just" an armed robbery, probably prompted by the fact that drug trafficking isn't quite as lucrative as it used to be, given that the army's in town now. (Read: jaded sarcasm. Maybe I'm more Culichi than I realize.)

In the end, the three of us got very lucky. We weren't hurt, and the men left the restaurant before they got around to robbing our table. But the incident was a serious wake-up call. I'm not immune to the violence in this city. There is nowhere to hide from it -- especially not underneath a table in the back of a restaurant.

So now I'm acutely aware of the reality of life here in Culiacán: Armed soldiers patrol my neighborhood as choppers fly overhead. An acquaintance barely misses a stray bullet while driving down the street in his car. My Mexican friends speak of being involved in armed assaults like my pals in Chicago talk about yet another dismal baseball season for the Cubs. It's an everyday annoyance, just part of normal life.

So I'm throwing in the proverbial towel. Today was my last day at work. Early next week, I'm taking a bus 1500 kilometers across the country to Oaxaca, a state on the south Pacific coast that has offered me a new job and a new start. The decision was difficult and the transition has proven stressful -- I've had to break a work contract, wiggle out of my apartment lease, and scramble to sell all of my new furniture.

But what has proven most difficult is saying goodbye to all the amazing Culichi people I've met during my time here -- honest, hard-working folks who don't have the option to pack up and ship out like I do. People like Dora. My landlords. Maricruz and Fidel. Señora Cucqui. The folks in my kickboxing class. The members of the mariachi band that practices down the street. My students. My work colleagues. The steady stream of folks who have responded to the "Furniture For Sale" ad I put in the local paper, who come to my apartment and look at my things and ask why I'm leaving, and then shake their heads in frustration at my response.

They think I'm doing the right thing. They're supportive. They're embarrassed that this has been my impression of their city. They'd like to leave, too, they tell me, except their families are here. Their work is here. Their lives are here.

I will think about these people long after I leave their city. I will miss them, but more than that, I will worry about their safety.

And I will think hard about what drugs mean to this community. In a way, it's difficult for me to hate the drug trade. I see the opportunities it gives to people here, to better themselves, to have access to good healthcare, to afford to feed their families and to send their kids to school. Without drugs, this place's economy would just be tomatoes, and folks likely wouldn't be able to make ends meet. But at the same time, I can't condone the violence and death that the narco trade brings. An average of 100 people die each month in Culiacán as a result of drug-related violence. That's in a city of under 800,000 people. Culiacán is the most violent place in the whole country, a dubious honor when you consider that Mexico is home to crime-ridden communities like Tijuana, Ciudad Juarez and, of course, Mexico City.

So, that's my been my life for the past two months. One part Hollywood action movie, one part terror flick. Now that I know that I am definitely leaving this place, I feel like I can come clean. A little piece of me will always be the Gringa Culichi, so I'm going to continue blogging at this web address, even from Oaxaca. Stay tuned for my next entry from my new home, but in the meantime, keep your eyes peeled for the headlines from Culiacán.

And please keep my dear, dear Culichi friends in your thoughts.

¡Viva México!

2008-09-16T16:11:00.009-06:00

What better way to spend Mexican Independence Day than crammed into the back of a Nissan with your belly full of Japanese sushi?

There is no better way, at least in my opinion. That's exactly how I passed last night, the eve of Mexican Independence Day. Today, September 16, is the anniversary of Mexico's break from Spainish rule. It's kind of like the Fourth of July back in the good ol' USA.

Normally, celebrating independence goes down something like this: Folks gather in the streets and in bars on September 15 to partake in what is called the Grito de Dolores. The Mexican President leads the entire nation in yelling "¡Viva México!" at 11 p.m. The grito (shout) is followed by lots and lots of fireworks and mariachi music. Then, on September 16, families get together to barbecue outside and eat lots of food.

But it is raining today. And last night, as mentioned, I ate sushi and rode in the back of a Nissan.

Maricruz and I had planned to end our Copper Canyon adventures by celebrating the Grito with some of her friends in a town called Los Mochis last night. But, true to Mexican Time, the Chepe train was running behind schedule. So we ended up disembarking a bit early and snagging a ride with a family from Culiacán that we'd met aboard. A guy from Mexico City also joined the fun -- he needed to get back to Sinaloa to catch his flight home. So there were seven of us crammed into Señora Cucqui's tiny Nissan. I shared the front passenger seat with her 13-year-old daughter, while Maricruz squeezed into the back with her two sons and the guy from Mexico City.

The trip from Chihuahua back to Culiacán was supposed to take about three hours -- quite a long time to spend shoehorned into a car, arms and legs falling asleep because they're pinned in strange positions. But then it started to rain (read: pour, Noah's Arc style), which slowed us down even more. We opted to break up the trip by stopping for dinner. And being the eve of the most patriotic of Mexican holidays, Señora Cucqui's kids opted for the most Mexican of all cuisines: Sushi.

Cucqui's family admired my chopstick skills as we chowed on sushi a la mexicana. Red, green and white banners adorned the Japanese-themed restaurant, and a large sombrero provided by our waiter made for an interesting photo opportunity. Turns out Cucqui had visited Japan a couple of years ago to participate in a business conference, so we compared notes on Tokyo and all of the weird things that we'd eaten. Her kids practiced their English with me. We sucked down pitchers of Mexican-style green tea.

We may have missed El Grito, but we had a great time anyway.

Ever the generous hostess, Cucqui not only bought dinner for Maricruz and me, but also refused to take the gas money we offered her when she finally dropped us off at my front door at 1 a.m. I was absolutely humbled by her kindness. ¡Qué viva México!

Sheer Laziness in the Copper Canyon

2008-09-16T14:46:00.021-06:00

'Twas Mexican Time at its finest. We'd biked just three kilometers in four hours. It was already 2 p.m. and we had about 19 kilometers left to go on the trail. We needed to return the bikes by 7 p.m. At least our bellies were full of peanut butter and tortillas. We'd need the energy.

A bit of a backstory is required here. We were in Copper Canyon (Barranca del Cobre), a massive series of mountains and valleys that's about four times the size of the Grand Canyon up north. The "we" in this scenario is myself and Maricruz, one of my dearest Culichi friends (and the only other person I could convince to join me on this crazy adventure), along with two random-but-lovable backpackers from London that we'd met along the way.

Copper Canyon is located in Chihuahua, a state that's famous for little dogs and amazing cheese, which lies just to the east of Sinaloa. The canyons themselves are only about 200 kilometers away, but the only way to access them is via the Chepe, the Chihuahua-Pacífico train, a journey that takes about 12 hours each way. It was on this magical train that the Culichi, the Gringa, and the two Brits formed their unlikely friendship, cementing plans to tackle the Barranca together by bike the following day.

So the four of us found ourselves in the Barranca's infamous Mushroom Valley (Valle de los Hongos), victims to Mexican Time. We'd putzed around Creel, the little mountain town where we'd stayed the night before, spending a good part of the morning stocking up on essentials for our bike expedition: red wine, the aforementioned peanut butter, and the knockoff Notre Dame baseball caps to keep the sun out of our eyes. Finally on the bikes, we'd taken our sweet time getting to our first stop, a cave that was home to the Tarahumara, an indigenous community that's called the canyon home for hundreds of years. And then we leisurely peddled into the Arareko Valley, home to rocks that look like mushrooms, frogs, and, yes, even erect penises.

We paused for pictures approximately 546 times along the way.

We each took a turn falling off our respective bikes.

We stopped to eat bananas.

We climbed rocks and did yoga poses on top.

We giggled.

And then, shortly after our leisurely lunch of peanut butter and tortillas, we realized that it was 2 p.m., and we'd ridden the equivalent of about 1/4-inch on the full-page route map given to us by the bike company in Creel.

Oops.

Maricruz, the only sane one of the group, opted to flag down a passing tour bus to get back into Creel. She'd hurt her knee in an Mushroom Rock-related incident and didn't think she'd be able to keep up with the breakneck clip that would be required of us to get back to Creel on time.

That left me with the two Brits. We peddled the 19 kilometers through the rest of the valley, past pine forests and Tarahumaras, across an old airstrip, and directly through rather large, water-filled potholes in the road that left us mud-speckled but refreshed. We reached Lake Arareko at about 6 p.m., just in time to cut our plastic water bottles into makeshift wine glasses, ready to share the Cabernet that one of the guys had been toting in his backpack the whole day.

We biked back to Creel -- muddy, sunburnt and buzzed off the red wine -- and somehow managed to turn in our bikes just 20 minutes late. Thus ended a wonderfully lazy day. Dear, dear Mexican Time, how I love thee...

Turning Japanese...in Mexico

2008-09-06T21:35:00.008-06:00

I've been away from Japan for about six weeks now, but I don't really miss it.

Maybe it's because Japan is here with me in Mexico.

It shows up in the strangest of places.

For starters, sushi joints are to Culiacán as Starbucks are to Chicago. They're seemingly on every corner, and, despite what would seem like breakneak competition for business, they're all packed. But the only thing that Japanese sushi and Mexican zushi (as it's called here) have in common is rice. While the Japanese stuff has copious amounts of raw fish and minimal amounts of anything else, zushi a la Mexicana actually has very little fish. Instead, it's rice stuffed with cream cheese, avocado, cilantro and jalapeños, and the soy sauce you dip it in is spiked with lime juice and orange juice. I wouldn't exactly call it sushi, but I like it anyway. It's kind of like how Mexican food in Japan was actually nothing like Mexican food in Mexico (or anywhere else, for that matter). Last I checked, fajitas did not involve broccoli, corn or mayonnaise, but I digress....

Sushi/Zushi aside, one of my first culichi (as the local folks call themselves) friends was a guy named Fernando. Fernando is Mexican, but he teaches Japanese at a local language school. He's a pretty unasuming guy (I first met him when I went to inquire about classes at the school, and he was working at the registration desk, backwards baseball cap on his head and chile-tamarindo lollipop stuck in his mouth), but he speaks the language flawlessly. It puts me to shame. You see, Fernando's never actually been to Japan. I don't think he's actually ever been out of Culiacán. I lived in Japan for a year, and still muddle through basic vocabulary and grammar structures. But Fernando's patient with my crappy japonés. I may actually learn more Japanese in Mexico than I did in Japan.

I'm also enrolled in kickboxing classes. The teacher, Fidel, is about 4'6", which would put him in good company with the guys in Japan. He's also been doing martial arts since he could walk, and has a black belt in karate. I sweat through his class three times a week. What I lack in coordination and, well, skills I make up for in determination. I can't describe how cathartic it is to kick and punch and grit my teeth after a long day of dealing with chatty 15-year-olds. I'm hooked.

So, I'm finally turning Japanese. A year behind schedule, but whatever. ¡Que viva México!

Mexican Time

2008-08-18T18:13:00.005-06:00

I'm not the most, um, punctual person.

Those who know me best know that I'm usually about 30 minutes late to most social functions. In Chicago, my tardiness was usually met with a rolling of the eyes or a chuckle. In Japan, where "on time" actually means "10 minutes early", my relaxed sense of time didn't always go over so well. But here in Mexico, I usually fit right in. After all, they don't call it "Mexican Time" for nothing.

But, three weeks in to my new life here in Sinaloa, I'm noticing that "Mexican Time" takes many different forms. For example, upon signing my lease with my landlords about two weeks ago, I was told that I'd be able to settle into my apartment "in a couple of days." They wanted to paint the walls for me, they said. They wanted to replace a few broken panes in the windows, they said. Don't worry, mi vida, it will be ready, they said.

One week later, I went to check on the apartment and was welcomed with piles of rubble on the floor. Literally. Chunks of concrete. The little touch-ups that were supposed to take just a couple of days had turned into a full-on construction project. They were replacing ceilings. They were refinishing walls. They were basically destroying the place, and then building it back up again from scratch.

I finally moved in yesterday, about two weeks late.

Gotta love Mexican Time: A Friday deadline for the electric company to turn on the lights really means Wednesday of the following week. A promise to open a bank account on a Tuesday actually means Friday, two weeks later. Stopping by at 8 p.m. really means waking me up at 11 o'clock at night. I've learned to just laugh and roll with it. I think of it as payback for all of the times I've kept somebody else waiting. If that's the case, I've got a lot more "Mexican Time" coming my way.

But a curious thing happened today: Reverse Mexican Time. I'd ordered internet service for my apartment, and the company said they'd send the technician out to install it at 6 p.m. on Thursday. Now, never did I expect anyone to actually show up at that time -- I'd penciled in 8 p.m. into my schedule for Thursday, thinking that I was finally catching onto the way business is done around here.

So imagine my surprise when the technician knocked on my door at 2:30 this afternoon. It's Monday, y'all. He was four days early!

Of course, I was on my way out the door to head to work (I was at home for lunch, my blissful two-hour siesta time). I had to wait for him to complete the installation. It made me late for class. But I guess that's just Mexican Time.

Guilt Trip

2008-08-15T08:26:00.004-06:00

So I'm feeling a bit guilty after the slightly negative (yet extremely cathartic) blog entry I posted yesterday on my chatterbox students. Why?

Well, I just wrapped up my 7 a.m. class. Usually at that hour, when daylight has barely even broken here in Culiacán, the students are half-asleep and, thus, fairly quiet. I relish it.

Unfortunately, the "Friday Factor" cancelled out the usual tranquility today. Under normal circumstances, the noise would grate on my nerves. But this morning, one student presented me with an ice-cold bottle of Coca Light (the Mexican version of Diet Coke), ostensibly his version of the proverbial kiss-up apple for the teacher.

The kid knows me well, and I've only been his instructor for two weeks.

His little ploy worked: I nursed that bottle through our 90-minute class, and let all of Coca Light's goodness -- the artificial flavoring, aspartame, bubbles and caffiene -- take me to a happy place. A far away, quiet, happy place. There's nothing like a cold Coke at 7 a.m.: The class went off without a hitch.

But now, as I'm coming down from my caffiene buzz, I'm having second thoughts about yesterday's harsh blog entry. These students are not so bad. Just keep feeding me the Coca Light, kiddos, and we'll get along just fine.

Shut up, por favor!

2008-08-14T12:50:00.006-06:00

I am beginning to realize that, as a teacher, I was quite spoiled in Japan.

Now, the school itself didn’t present much in the way of luxury: the building looked like something out of Communist Eastern Europe, freezing in the winter and sweltering in the summer. Each day, I joined my students for our requisite cleaning time, which involved me scrubbing the long hallways on my hands and knees. The classrooms weren’t wired for Internet. The facilities for extracurriculars were located out in a rice paddy. And I had to squat to pee.

Contrast that with the bells and whistles I have at my school here in Mexico -- air conditioned offices, technology-filled classrooms, well-manicured tennis and basketball courts, palm trees, and my very own laptop -- and one might think that I’d hit the jackpot, work-wise.

But that’s not quite the case: Let’s just say that my Mexican students are a little more, uh, verbose than my Japanese students were.

The Japanese kids were the epitome of politeness. They started off every class with a cheerful “Good Morning!” and a bow. They were absolutely silent during class, and always raised their hands when they wanted to talk. When granted permission to speak, they would stand up, push in their chairs, say their piece, pull out their chairs, and then sit back down. If students ever spoke out of turn, they suffered the wrath of their homeroom teachers’ castigation in rapid-fire Japanese. The verbal assault was enough to scare even me into silence, and I didn’t even understand most of what was said.

Now, I realize that, for a variety of reasons, the Japanese scenario could never exist here in the Americas – North, South or Central. But I’d certainly get a kick out of seeing how long my Mexican students would last in a Japanese school. I’d place my bet on about five minutes, because the kids here never seem to shut up.

I'm not having this problem because I'm the new kid on the block here. Even the school's veteran teachers complain about their chatty students. But I hate being that teacher, the one that is always crabby and yelling and shushing. So, this week, I took what I thought was the high road, a creative approach: I asked the students to write me a letter with advice about how they thought I should keep the class quiet.

Their responses were interesting, even chuckle-provoking: Several suggested that I bring tape to cover offending students' mouths, and some thought that I should make talkative students run laps around campus or do push-ups in front of the class. One even advised that I administer tranquilizers! Some apologized for being loud, and many seemed to sympatize with me, including one who closed her letter with this piece of advice:

“Take care, and patience, teacher, you are going to need it.”

Yikes. Guess I will have to bring some duct tape next week.

There's more than tomatoes in Culiacán

2008-08-08T09:54:00.008-06:00

Google "Culiacán, Sinaloa" and you'll likely come up with an article on either tomato cultivation or drug trafficking. I've joked with my new Culichi friends that, upon arrival, I was expecting to be served nothing but 'maters by folks who were full-time narcotraficantes. And this has proved to be kind of half-correct. While I haven't met any narcos (yet -- fingers crossed that this remains the case), the city definitely embraces its tomatoes: Their picture graces the license plates here (it literally puts the 'o' in 'Sinaloa'), the local baseball team is named the 'Tomateros' (seriously), and grocery stores overflow with bright red bins of 'em at dirt-cheap prices.

But a visit last weekend to a little piece of heaven called Nuevo Altata proved all of this wrong: There's definitely more than tomatoes here. Nuevo Altata is a stretch of still-mostly-virgin beach located just an hour from the city. There's even a beach-front restaurant that serves up an absolutely divine fried fish, caught right from the Pacific, adorned with a delicious, um, tomato salsa.

So some stereotypes die hard. But the beach is beautiful. Just thought I'd post a picture in case you needed motivation to book your tickets to come visit me...

Public Relations

2008-08-07T18:25:00.003-06:00

Turns out Dora and I have something in common besides our mutual love of raspados: we both used to work in Public Relations.

Except that my version of PR was the useless kind. Before I saw the proverbial light and became a full-time teacher, my job was to pitch (read: hawk) stories on products -- ranging from sausage to vodka to encyclopedias -- to TV news producers and newspaper journalists who had much better things to do than take my phone calls when they were on deadline. I spent most of my 60-plus-hour workweek beating my head against the wall.

Dora, on the other hand, worked in relaciones públicas, which I have learned is much different than my version of PR. Relaciones públicas is an art, and Dora is an artist. She worked as a receptionist at a bank, and later at an office for one of Mexico's political parties. In this capacity, her job was actually to relate to the public (read: navigate her way through Mexico's infamous bureaucracy on behalf of her customers). She has long since retired and made it her full-time job to spoil her three grandchildren (and me), but her PR skills are still sharp.

This afternoon, Dora called the light company on my behalf. I'm planning to move into my new apartment this weekend, and need to get my utilities up and running. I stood by while she made the phone call, so I can only speculate as to what really transpired on the other end of the line, but I imagine it went something like this:

Dora: Good afternoon, I need to open a new account please.
Light Company Guy: Okay, we need 48 hours to process your order.
D: But we need the lights for tomorrow.
LCG: I'm sorry, ma'am, but there's really nothing I can do.
D: Listen, honey, what is your name?
LCG: Julio.
D: Julio, sweetheart, here's the thing. The account is for a foreigner. From the United States. And you know we need to be nice to people from our neighboring country, don't you, dear?
LCG: (Long pause) Uh, yeah...
D: So how late do your crews work tomorrow?
LCG: Until 8 p.m.
D: Well, see? There's no problem then. That's almost 48 hours from now. So we'll have the lights for tomorrow, right?
LCG: But we need 48 hours...
D: Did I mention that this foreign girl is really cute? She's beautiful. You can't even imagine...
LCG: But we need 48...
D: Oh, Julio, she's really cute! And you haven't even seen her yet. Just imagine! So lights for tomorrow then? Perfect! Thanks so much, Julio, my dear!

Dora hung up and smiled at me.

"You'll have the lights for tomorrow, mi vida."

What can I say? The woman is good.

"...and you're (NOT) fat."

2008-08-06T16:52:00.006-06:00

I've been in Mexico for just two weeks, and already I'm thinking that it's a better fit for me than Japan, which served as my home for the past year. Don't get me wrong; I loved my time in Japan and very much miss all of my friends there, but there's something about this place that just feels, well, right.

It's not just that I speak Spanish a heck of a lot better than I speak Japanese. Or that I like tortillas better than rice. Or that I can actually, you know, read here. Literacy is a good thing.

No, it's much more superficial than that: It's because I'm not fat here in Mexico.

A bit of a back story is required. In Japan, I was a giant, blonde, XL-sized-clothing-wearing gaijin woman who often induced open-mouthed gaping when I walked down the street. The fact that I am much bigger than the average Japanese woman (and, let's be honest, the average Japanese man as well) was once reinforced to me by, of all people, a rather large guy from Miami whom I met in Osaka. We'll call him "B." On that ever-memorable evening, B took me out for drinks, chatted me up, and showered me with compliments ("Sara, you're really cute, I like your personality, and you have a great sense of humor..."). I was eating it up.

And then B broke my heart.

"...and you're fat!" he said.

And then, realizing he'd really f*cked up, B tried to spin it as a good thing.

"...and I like that."

Dude had obviously been in Japan too long. Maybe he should come on down to Mexico to get a reality check. Here in Culiacán, I'm surrounded by curvy women and well-built men who actually weigh more than I do. It's fabulous.

And there are little esteem-boosters everywhere. Like on the bus.

The bus system here in Culiacán merits a blog entry of its own. As I don't have a car here, I rely on it to get around town, and each ride is an adventure. Buses here cost about 50 cents (USD) and are well worth the money in entertainment value alone. For example, on my way into work this morning, I boarded at 6 a.m. The sun wasn't even up yet, but there was a full-on party inside the bus. The interior was dark, lit by blacklights on the ceiling. The driver had installed a serious bass system, and had banda music blaring through the speakers. A strand of Christmas lights adorned the front of the bus, surrounding a spray-painted plaque that said "Martín" (I'm assuming this was the driver's homage to himself). The lights were wired to flash in time with the bass of the music.

It was absolutely hilarious.

I cursed myself for not bringing a camera to caputre the insanity. (Instead, I've stolen a picture of a Mexican bus from elsewhere on the web and have posted it here. It's more or less true to life.) And I cursed myself again this afternoon on my bus ride home from lunch. I wasn't on Martín's bus, so the spray-painted plaque was replaced with something else. It was a different sign, completely random, but seemingly a message made just for me:

"Ni eres gorda tú."

Translation: You're not even fat.

Ha! Take that, B! God, I love Culiacán.

¡Locas por los raspados!

2008-08-02T14:33:00.007-06:00

Those who know me best know that I have a slightly, um, addicitve personality. My vices mostly have to do with sweets: I am practically a walking billboard for Diet Coke. I am obsessed with gummy bears, gummy worms, gummy sharks...the list goes on. And I have been known to chew an entire pack of Wrigley Winterfresh gum in one sitting.

I am not alone in these seemingly-benign addictions. I once worked with an entire office of women who were also hooked on Diet Coke (and my sister calls it the "Nectar of Life"). I have developed fast friendships based on mutual love of gummy candy (you people know who you are). And, when I lived in Chicago, home of Wrigley, I often had trouble finding Winterfresh because it sold out so quickly. Addicts, unite!

As of this week, I can add a new addiciton to the list: Raspados.

And I can add a new kindred soul to my list of fellow addicts: Dorita.

Raspados are a kind of snowcone a la mexicana, made with fresh fruit, real fruit juice, tons of sugar, and, yes friends, ice cream. As luck would have it, some of Dora´s neighbors sell raspados from their front porch. They´re dirt cheap: 12 pesos (about $1 USD). And the stand is BYOC (Bring Your Own Container). The raspado boss, Irma, fills the container, provides a straw and spoon, and sits and chats with customers as they sit on her stoop and slurp away happily.

Dora introduced me to raspados on Tuesday. We walked over to Irma´s, armed with some small plastic containers. Irma filled our cups. I slurped and smiled as Dora presented me to the crew of neighbors assembled around the stand, thinking that a raspado could be a nice treat every once in a while.

But "once in a while" quickly turned into "everyday."

Dorita, who I now know to be a closet raspado addict, drew me right into her web of addiction. On Wednesday, she convinced me to go to Irma`s again. On Thursday, I suggested the trip. And by Friday, I had tried every raspado flavor on the menu. The cups we brought with us gradually grew from small to jumbo (yesterday, Dora busted out two liter-sized containers, which Irma still filled for 12 pesos). After a liter of sugary raspados, we were both completely wired, busting into fits of raspado-induced giggling late into the evening.

We had become addicts, and Irma was our enabler.

Thank God that Irma is going on vacation next week. The raspado stand will be closed until mid-August, and Dorita and I will begin to detox. And we have made a solemn pact to try to control ourselves when the stand does finally re-open. Only one per week. We`ll see how long that lasts.

In the meantime, there`s plenty of Diet Coke here in Mexico...

Forgotten Tips & Pink Toenails

2008-07-30T14:20:00.000-06:00

My first six hours in Mexico were a little rough, the kind of rough that made me momentarily rethink my decision to leave my comfortable life in Japan (for those of you just stumbling onto my little blog, the back story is here) to start all over again in Mexico.

It started shortly after I touched down in Mexico City, when I was settling into my four-hour layover before my flight to my new hometown of Culiacán. I was walking half-asleep through the terminal and heard someone call out "SEÑORITA!!," and turned my head to see a security guard running down the hall in my direction.

Gulp.

A waitress was running right behind him. Fellow travelers stopped to gawk at the spectacle: Turns out I had forgotten to leave a tip after my lunch in the terminal restaurant. While tipping is not a custom in Japan, it is very much alive -- and apparently very much expected -- in Mexico. Having spent the last year NOT leaving tips in Japan, I had forgotten this small but important detail.

Flustered, I handed the angry waitress 20 pesos and apologized profusely. She looked at me funny, not because I hadn’t tipped, but because, in my embarrassed and exhausted state, I had said "I’m sorry" in Japanese.

Japanese continued to corrupt my Spanish throughout the day.

Then my suitcases got lost.

The guy who had agreed to meet me at the airport was 90 minutes late.

And, while I’m whining, let me add that Culiacán is hot as hell.

So the start of my Mexican life was a bit tough. But then I arrived at Dora’s house, and everything changed.

Dora answered the door, wearing a bright flowered dress and an even brighter smile, holding a tiny, quivering Chihuahua in her arms. She greeted me with a warm hug, thus squishing the dog between us, and kissed both of my cheeks, explaining that she had been waiting for me and that she was so happy to see me and that she was so excited to host me in her home (I’ll be staying with Dora until I find my own apartment here) and that I could call her ‘Dorita’ if I wanted to. She then introduced me to Miruña, the Chihuahua, asking if I liked the color of the bright pink nail polish she had meticulously painted on the dog’s toes.

"Lo encanto," I replied, using comprehensible Spanish for the first time that day. "I love it."

In that moment, staring at that dog’s ridiculous toenails, I remembered why I had decided to come to Mexico.

Dora gave me a glass of fresh-squeezed juice to drink as I unpacked my suitcases in my room, a comfortable bedroom that overlooks her plant-filled patio, and then treated me to a delicious dinner of tostadas at an open-air foodstall around the corner. She peppered our lively conversation with little expressions of affection, calling me ‘mamacita’ and ‘mi reina’ and ‘mi corazón,’ and ‘mi cielo,’ as she told me about the other teachers she’d hosted in the past. She took me to the market and together we bought fresh watermelon and papaya and mangos and avocados and chiles and cheese. Dora whipped these ingredients into an amazing batch of chiles rellenos, which she served me for lunch the next day.

"Creo que hemos empezado bien," she said to me during lunch. "I think we’re off to a great start."

I agree, Dorita. I agree.