Lots of Drama....

What have we been up to? Lots of Drama. And by that I’m not implying a theatrical moment, but certainly some dramatic hills and curves, prompting lots of Drama-mine! Yes, in our travels of the last month, I think we’ve all become semi-addicts of the motion travel mojo. And I'm not talking about the non-sleepy version, but rather the "my eyes may be open but I can't really see you, understand what's happening around me, or move any part of my body" brand. Actually, the roots of our affliction can be traced back to our trip to the Oaxacan coast last month for Ella’s birthday. I, for one, really didn’t believe there was a windy, hilly road I couldn’t handle until we took the 7-hour trip to the coast in a small, but tightly packed van. About halfway there, both the girls and my students were screaming for the Dramamine, and via I.V. drip, if possible! From that date forward, everyone has taken to consuming heavy "pre-emptive" doses before any trip so as not to be caught off-guard.

This month, we justified our Dramamine fix with a 10-day trip to Chiapas. The 12-hour overnight ride wasn’t so bad as far as windiness goes, but was certainly a test of my body’s resilience. Somehow it’s not just the hair that doesn’t bounce right back after a 12-hour trip anymore. Nonetheless, our arrival in San Cristobal de las Casa was a good reminder of why we suffered the ride—a beautiful, high-mountain town, lined with colonial houses and stores and beautiful churches perched atop surrounding hills. San Cristobal is even higher than Oaxaca, so in addition to the picturesque sights, we also enjoyed some cool mountain weather, marked by brisk mornings and downright chilly eves. In addition to the physical landscape, we were perhaps most struck by the difference between Oaxaca and Chiapas’s tourist demographic. We had pretty much gotten used to the wealthy-babyboomer-artist-retirees that dominate Oaxaca’s artistic community these days. Sure, there are plenty of young travelers, and even many well-geared Europeans there, but nothing to match the continental flair of San Crisotbal. And by continental flair, I’ll admit to being a bit facetious. What I mean, in fact, was the abundance of euro-hippies in San Cristobal, replete with dreadlocks, baggy pants, homemade shoes, and aroma du hemp. Now I know, this sounds a bit prejudicial on my part, but the place was really crawling with French and Italian travelers, who it appeared had made their way to San Cristobal purely on the profits reaped off of their macramé jewelry, bike-tire rubber shoes, or homemade brownie sales. No tongue in cheek here. Not even a few hours after our arrival, the girls remarked, “There’s a lot of dreadlocks here!” Maybe it's the mountain scenery, the abundance of marijuana now being grown in what were once flourishing corn or coffee fields, the colorful indigenous culture, or the romantic presence of Zapatista rebel forces nearby (and their images and products on sale in town), but San Cristobal clearly draws a different crowd.

Well, good thing about this particular constituency of traveler is that it tends to bring/attract good bread, so we had more than our share of good bread options in San Cristobal, ranging from some great savory artisan breads to some incredible éclairs. The girls even reveled in their discovery of a bagel store, of all things. What’s more, there was some great wine and Lebanese food in San Cristobal—two things noticeably lacking from Oaxaca. These edible joys were combined with some truly beautiful wool textile handcrafts to make for a wonderful diversion from our now well-entrenched Oaxaca proclivities.

While we were in Chiapas, I spent a lot of my time in sessions with the students (this was one of our program’s official study tours after all), while Josh and the girls did the real sightseeing. They did horseback riding to Chamula and took a boat ride down this amazing canyon (del Sumidero), to capture shots of bathing crocodiles, swinging howler monkeys, hidden Virgin shrines, and even standing kayak paddlers. Clearly, they had all of the fun. Because we wanted to take advantage of Chiapas’ natural beauty, on one our one free “tourist” day we took a hike up the cloud forest of Huitepec for a refreshing romp through the woods and view of the surrounding valleys. The fresh air, amazing greenery, and slippery slope (steep incline, but fun downhill) made for an excellent day—we’d definitely recommend it for anyone headed to the area. We finished the day certainly glad not to have joined the students for another long van trip to Palenque.

But wait. I started this post with a confession of addiction, and I’m afraid my tale so far doesn’t paint a clear enough picture of why. Halfway through our stay in Chiapas, we joined the students on a three-day trip to two rural indigenous (Tzotzil) communities outside of San Cristobal. This trip required another three-plus hour trip around windy mountain roads and then across super bumpy dirt roads to arrive at Tzajalchen—a trip well-plied with Dramamine, of course. Beyond the narcotic effect of the drugs, this was a strange trip. It was designed to give students a taste of rural indigenous community life and also to allow us to interact with some organized groups in the area; nonetheless, since it is organized and run by another group that we work with, its itinerary and method were out of my hands. Suffice it to say that the visit was a true challenge to my anthropological etiquette (see the picture Josh snapped of the very skeptical anthropologist at work observing, rather than participating) ; instead of being a meaningful engagement with the community, it ended up being a lot more like a voyeuristic stop-over with little opportunity for engaging adults (more on this later and in another venue for those of you who are interested—I won’t bore the rest with my rant). Instead, we spent most of the first two days playing with the children of the community. Indeed, the kids LOVED Nayana and Ella, and easily spent the better part of these two days braiding their hair, playing Frisbee, climbing trees, or inspecting their books, sleeping pads, or clothes. Imagine our joy at being awaken at 7:00 each morning with ten smiling young faces peering curiously into the window of the gymnasium (on which floor were all sleeping) to see just how those strange gringos sleep. Once the kids had gotten to know the girls, this peeking was accompanied by not-so-subtle calls through the glass “Ceci” (to Nayana, whose middle name Cecilia was the easier identifier) and “superman” (a referent to the superman t-shirt Ella was wearing). It was really a hoot. Needless to say, the girls left our time there with a strong appreciation for the kids, as well as an intense desire to return to the comforts of their flushable toilets and a non-black bean meal. In that sense, the trip was a success. Hopefully it will last beyond Christmas and provoke a subtle shift in the holiday wish-list, but I’m not sure a dramatic lifestyle change is imminent.

After a few days in Tzajalchen, we took another windy road to visit Acteal, the sight of a horrific massacre of 45 indigenous community members (mostly women and children) at the hands of paramilitary forces in 1997. This was an intense visit, allowing us to see the site and talk to survivors and hear about their efforts to bring the criminals to justice. Their struggle is especially pertinent at the moment, as the government is now releasing many of (few) perpetrators convicted this atrocity, and those criminals (mostly indigenous neighbors who were affiliated with the ruling political party and trained by the military) are returning to their homes in the surrounding communities. Hardly a comforting prospect for survivors, who often share corn fields and coffee fields with these belligerent neighbors. Clearly then, the visit required some intense discussion with the girls about why and how something like this could happen, not just here, but in many places through time and space--again, another great lesson. When we finally got back on the vans and took the curvy trip back to San Cristobal for our last days of processing and meeting with local NGO’s, it was clear that the trip had begun to take a physical and emotional toll on us all.

So, we took the 12-hour trip back to Oaxaca last Saturday, and I’d like to say that all we took with us from this trip was wonderful memories, great photos, and a new understanding of the incredible challenges faced by indigenous communities in Chiapas today; however, I’d be lying if I stopped there. We returned to warm, relatively affluent and peaceful Oaxaca only to find that we’d brought a few friends along—namely, a bacterial infection hitched a ride with Josh and Nayana, provoking our first ever visit to the doctor’s office this trip. Luckily, with a heavy dose of anti-bacterial and anti-biotic prescriptions—or the “gringo cocktail” as I like to call it—everyone has recovered from the throes of their amoebic diet and are on the road to recovery. With that remedy down, we have four more weeks here to break our dependency on travel assistance substances before our return home; otherwise, I’m afraid both my students and we will all be founding a new chapter of DA—Dramaminers Anonymous. Hopefully in three weeks from now, we’ll all be drama-free!

Dead-ly Fun

So, while the rest of you were sitting at home, loading up a bowl of sweets for the trick-or-treaters and tuning into "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown," down in Oaxaca we were getting ready to get a really dead-ly party started. After all, Oaxaca is the true epicenter for Mexican Day of the Dead celebrations, and the festivities start early and last long.

















We began with a mask-making workshop that certainly put our artistic talents to the test. After all, not only did we have to come up with compelling "characters" on which to base our masks—including traditional Oaxacan characters like "the widow" or "the drunk," North American derivations like Josh’s ode to Firestarter, or still other continental variations like my Venetian imitation—but we also had to execute these darn things--a feat which required several days' investment of time and creative energy.

Nonetheless, we were able to tout the fruits of our labor in our first ever comparsa, a costumed, live band-led parade/procession designed to draw the dead back to earth and celebrate their life. Imagine one of those wild New Orleans funeral processions, and you'll begin to get the idea. As you can see, the comparsa relies not only on the fun masks to revive the dead, but also copious amounts of mescal, which is administered throughout the procession from this ominous-looking vessel. (By last count, I think some of our contingent reported indulging in at least 16 mescal stops.) And the journey ends with offerings and a lot of bread and hot chocolate (to take the edge off of all of that mescal.) It was really a lot of fun, but it was only the beginning.

Following these festivities on the 29^th, we participated in the “real” Day of the Dead festivities by visiting local cemeteries during the eve of Oct 31 to see how people camped out at their relatives’ graves to eat, sing, chat, and celebrate their loved one’s lives. Really a wonderful tradition, I must say. These pictures of the beautiful adornments placed on the graves certainly don’t do justice to the tradition—imagine mariachis, streams of people, and a lively fair atmosphere to boot.

Of course, not all cemeteries or tourists are created equal, and we found that some of the Day of the Dead festivities at the older cemetery in Xoxocotlan bordered on the grotesque, not because of the local traditions but because of the voyeuristic intrusion of spring break-style tourists (although of an older age demographic), passing through the cemeteries with beers in hand looking for a party. But I guess my anthropologist is showing here, isn't it? Luckily, as always, the road to perdition was paved with yummy food. Yes, they can make even fried food look great.

Well, lest I sound too self-righteous, there was still more to come for the partier in all of us. On Nov 1, we journeyed to nearby Etla to witness their elaborate comparsa traditions, and we weren’t disappointed. We were totally blown away by the elaborate, very professional home-made costumes (of course nothing that could compete with Andrea's works of art), but also the incredibly lively, inclusive, and celebratory atmosphere there. The music was infectious, the crowd moved from house to house, and each stop featured a frenetic couple of numbers designed to whoop up the crowd and send the costumed masses into a frenzy. We certainly found ourselves caught up in the festivities, and I couldn’t resist when an un-costumed, but very sweet elderly resident brought me into the action. Luckily, my cumbia skills didn’t fail me.

By Nov 2 we, and every other Oaxacan, felt dead on our feet from so much late-night fun and merrymaking. Nonetheless, we did our best to indulge in local tradition and eat even more of the lovely Day of the Dead bread, which at this point was coming out of our ears due to Monica’s reputation as a bread fiend and local traditions of exchanging bread with friends.

All in all, we had a blast during the Day of the Dead festivities and could easily attest to the fact that all of the visiting spirits did as well; indeed, we could have all indulged in even later nights of fun had it not been for the looming realization that the here-and-now, and all of its attendant responsibilities was always right around the corner.

It's a Dog's Life

It’s been a long while since the last post, but reasons abound. Despite the more leisurely pace of life here, seems like we’re always pretty busy (several imminent food and travel-related posts will attest to this shortly, so stay tuned). The days fly by as Josh and the girls plod along with school and homework, and I’ve been busy with teaching, trips with students, and virtual connections with work back home. Small program-related crises or homework crunches now and then, but all in all nothing very dramatic. It’s no surprise, then, that one of the most riveting reference points for our days has long been “the puppies.”

Only a day or so after we moved into our apartment, we noticed three small black puppies living in the grassy empty lot across the street. And I have to admit, they were cute. Having left our much-loved Lena at home, the girls were elated at the prospect of having dogs so close to home, and pleaded daily for permission to go down and “pet the puppies.” While we were able to indulge their desire to watch, their desire to pet the dogs and treat them like domesticated pets would remain a frustration. After all, these very cute dogs were clearly part of a family of street dogs and were in no need of human affection. Still, our fascination with the dogs continued to grow, as did the drama attached to them.

First, it was our growing understanding of the complex dog social world of which these dogs formed a part. Not only were they nightly attended to by “mama”, but mama was usually accompanied by other dogs that we came to identify as Auntie, Dad, and Uncle. While Mama was in charge of bringing them food, the other dogs also joined in the caretaking and playing. And on one especially sleepless night, I was amazed to look out my window and see on the sidewalk kitty-corner to the vacant lot all four adult dogs keeping vigil over the sleeping puppies. To reinforce this fact, Dad would get up and bark at any car that went by. This wasn’t a rabid pack of street dogs, mind you, but a well-organized and social family unit.

But wait. Before you check out with an exasperated sigh saying, “Boy has this blog gone to the dogs. She’s even doing canine ethnography now!” the story gets better. During these last months, the dogs have had their diets supplemented by several Good Samaritan neighbors (including our daughters) who would slip containers of food over to them. As the puppies have grown in size and chutzpah, we’d see them wandering outside of the fenced lot and wondered how soon they might move on to roam the streets on their own. Frankly, we just figured nature would eventually take its course. But that’s when the drama began.

One day we came home to see a back-hoe excavating the lot, followed by a steady flow of close to a hundred new cars into the space. We were horrified at the thought of the puppies being chased out, not to mention the prospect of looking across the street at a car dealership instead of a green space. So, we kept a firm eye on the process and waited to see signs of things to come. Luckily the next day, the cars slowly began to leave. Now, what that quick fill-up and then emptying of hundreds of new cars was about is beyond me; either someone temporarily moved their car dealership to accommodate some repaving or somebody needed to launder a lot of money. But I digress. We quickly noticed that the parade of exiting cars was being closely monitored not only by us, but also by a handful of anxious neighbors who were apparently similarly concerned about the puppies. When the lot was empty and Josh went over to give the newly-returned dogs some food, one watching neighbor came up and said, “Oh wonderful. You know, they’ve had a really tough day.” And that’s when we became a part of the underground vigilante puppy-rescue network. Now, that may sound a bit dramatic given that all we were apparently doing was offering the stray dogs food, but the situation quickly escalated.

Following the re-emptying of the lot, a pair of men began to show up daily to reinforce the chain link fence around the lot. Given the fence’s rickety condition, at first it just looked like they were doing some minor repairs to keep the fence standing. None of this seemed to have much impact on the puppies—and the whole dog family—who easily reentered the lot every evening to loll and lope, snuggling together at the end of the evening to sleep in a bed of hay someone had made them long ago. But then the reinforcement efforts redoubled, and a clear test of wills (and primitive metalwork skills) were at play, as the two attendants would come each morning to patch the new holes opened during the night. To their clear frustration, a new entryway would miraculously open up each night, thanks in part to this subversive neighborhood committee of puppy-lovers. (And we can say that Josh never had anything to do with it, thanks to my camera's night flash limitations.)

Well, I’d like to say that the story has a happy ending, and the lot owner ceded his economic interests in the place to the puppies’ needs, but this isn’t a Disney movie. As a final effort, the two attendants reinforced the chain link fence with a layer of metal sheeting, essentially shutting down access to the lot forever and creating something aesthetically reminiscent of the U.S.-Mexico border in Arizona. Clearly the dog days of free roaming in the empty lot were gone. One neighbor got especially aggressive about intervention at this point and slipped some tranquilizer in the dogs’ food in order to subdue them and deliver them to adoptive homes, but the puppies wouldn’t be had. They ate up the tampered food and kept right on moving, refusing to let the well-meaning neighbor get ahold of them and proving once again that these weren’t no domesticated dogs, thank you very much. Nonetheless, we give a special wink and nod to this neighbor as we pass down the street each day, acknowledging our complicity in this thwarted plan.

Good news is that in the wake of the closure of the cradle of their youth, the puppies seem big enough to fend for themselves these days. We see evidence of this everyday when we catch the puppies sleeping in the tree beds that line the sidewalk just below our window, or in the scattered remnants of trash bags that they have scavenged, or in the early morning bark fests that they engage with their kin. Life goes on and so do the puppies. Now we just wait to see what kind of shady business is set to unfold in the newly-reinforced lot next door and, in the meantime, we hope our girls don’t catch sight of a litter of kittens….

Keeping our heads above water

So, for those of you who are savoring the mild Northwest fall weather or lapping up the hot California September sun, you’ll remember how we taunted you prior to our departure. Yes, the Northwest summer was short and cool this year, but we didn’t mind; we were going to be basking in 80-degree bronzed delight all fall down here in Oaxaca. Well, I’m afraid to report that we remain as white and wet as ever due to a virtual deluge of tropical storm after tropical storm this season. Instead of taking the “normal” form of quick afternoon downpours, followed by balmy eves and intense morning sun, we’ve been subjected to something that looks and feels a lot like Northwest weather—in other words, RAIN! Blame it on Tlaloc or Chaac (Aztec and Mayan rain gods), but we’re soaking.

Of course we can’t complain too much. The heavy rains this season have wreaked real havoc on much of southern of Mexico and already-drenched Guatemala, causing major mudslides, extensive material damage, injury, and death. Luckily, the widely-reported, “Oaxaca mudslide” that took place in the remote (for us) Mixe village of Santa Maria Tlahuitoltepec this week turned out to be not even a fraction as severe as Oaxaca’s governor originally reported to the press. While the damage was extensive and any death or injury is tragic and lamentable, the latest figures of only two houses (instead of 100) buried and 11 dead or missing, instead of the 500-1000 originally reported, have got many here shaking their heads. There is much frustration with what they see as a “boy who cried wolf” tactic, which was successful in bringing in a surge of media and federal support, but at the expense of places which might have had even more need for those resources.

Here in the Oaxaca Valley, we have just had to deal with localized areas of flooding that pale in comparison to the dramatic mudslide news elsewhere. Just last week, for example, formidable Tropical Storm Karl left 3,000 homes damaged here in the valley; the effects of the storm could be seen all over the city, where overflowing street drains and mud covered sidewalks left us with mud to trudge through, and then silty dust to inhale for another week. Certainly inconvenient, but hardly life-threatening.

Perhaps worst of all, the rain has meant not only a continuation but a marked increase in mosquito activity. So even though I escaped the first wave of mosquito bites upon our arrival, I’ve no longer been able to maintain my cocky attitude and have had to confront my own apparent succulence. Luckily I did bring along some of my NW rain gear and some good wool products, and Josh’s dad has restocked our repellent supply. Nonetheless, I can onl y bear to trot our rain gear in the case of severe downpour. After all, it’s bad enough to be a blondie with mosquito bites all down her legs, but being a Keen-wearing, Goretex-sporting rugged NW gringa really pigeon-holes you. So, we keep watching the calendar and waiting for that beautiful “fall” weather to arrive.

Of course, there have been some positive aspects to the rain as well. In our trips back and forth from Mexico City, the interceding countryside was absolutely electric green with its abundant flora and, paired with the blue sky (beyond Mexico City) and the billowing Sirius clouds, the views were breathtaking. This is a big improvement over the last few years when Oaxaca has suffered devastating droughts and hot fall temperatures. Nonetheless, I’m finding myself increasingly waterlogged. I mean, it was fine to give up red wine when the evenings were hot, but now that we’re experiencing this cool, wet weather, an ice cold beer just doesn’t do it. We’re keeping our fingers crossed that the end of September really does bring the end of the official (and unofficial) rainy season, finally giving way to those warm, dry fall days of 80 degrees, cold beers, and bronzed skin. At this rate, I’d even offer to sacrifice one of my daughters to Tlaloc to make it happen; however, after the work that the mosquitoes have done draining them of precious blood, I’m not sure they’d make a worthy offering.