Sur, Sure

Giros: South again. Out the bus window the agave plants are like dandelions covering the emerging green hills, which also carry shadows of the clouds overhead. The land is yellow and green and brown, looking very dry. We are leaving a small farm in Puebla, where I passed a day mopping, washing dishes, weeding a radish patch, and preparing several baskets of lettuce seed. The farm is in the valley of Puebla, a volcano in each corner, all of which, if not active, are awake. Popocatepetl, a rumbling and powerful giant, Iztaccíhuatl, his sleeping partner, el Malinche, and finally, el Pico de Orizaba, the largest volcano in all of Mexico, whose snowy peak appeared between wispy clouds. They say the land here has a powerful energy and I was only there for a day and a half but I did observe that I continuously dropped things and my mind was a little cloudy.

Our bus continues to round bends and ascend and descend. The ground is grey now, someone is on the side of the road looking out over a cavity in the earth. Cactus stand on the mountains like porcupine quills. Fallen rocks and unsteady mountains sides are out either window, the beauty and immenseness of the south is coming back to me.

A few nights ago we waited on the side of a highway for a woman named Kumara, one of the farm's owners. She picked us up and drove us in the dark to her little "paraiso," as she called it. We bumped along on a dirt road past truck after truck after truck piled high with flowers that are the essence of fuschia and gold. They are the flowers for the ofrendas, the altars to the dead, that are in every home and on the streets, in universities and restaurants, because in these days the dead will be coming back to celebrate with the living. Celebrations are taking place all over the country and these flowers are being rapidly cut, piled in the backs of pick up trucks and transported all over the Republica. Not only for ofrendas, people also scatter them in crosses and other designs with a path that leads the dead right to their front door. The sight is beautiful and the air sweetly fragrant.

The next night we bumped along again in the dark, this time 11 of us were piled into a small, wooden wagon pulled by a small but hardworking horse. We arrive to a pueblo nearby, several boys in the town are blocking off different streets with string, stopping cars to ask for pesos, not candy.

When the sun sets, the clouds look like they are made out of smoke, the pink haze cast by the sun is made purplish by the remaining clear blue of the sky, shadows multiply and distort the landscape and when the sun finally drops past the horizon, I miss it.

Sabor: Now we are in Oaxaca, surrounded by mountains and full of colorful and vibrating energy. This morning I laid in a hammock at our host's house and the smells of chocolate, garlic and chiles, repeatedly washed over me, covered me, so strongly that I felt as if I were in a kitchen watching an experienced woman make mole. Occasionally a cool breezes carried the smells away but each time they returned stronger than before. Later, our host's roommate tells us that their neighbor's mother promised them mole this afternoon. Even the air in Oaxaca can be tasted.

Hielo

Blanco: This cold is bitter, not biting, but uncomfortable and distracting. Today the sun wasn't able to penetrate the thick, white cover of clouds and we shivered, bought warm food and coffee, hid in back corners of book stores, trying to find, conserve, sense some sort of heat. In a country where no one has heaters in their homes or businesses, I almost thought we had no where to go. But, when we arrived to our host, Erick,'s house, with dinner and some card playing, my blood started to circulate again.

Cement blocks: We gave another Beehive presentation on Saturday in Mexico City at the Centro Social Libertario de Ricardo Flores Magon, an activist space a little west of DF's center. We were nervous and all the more so when they started pulling out slide projectors and microphones, but my hastily written index cards helped a lot. Most of our nerves dissipated when we were able to make the small crowd (20 or so?) laugh and I didn't find myself thinking too hard about my Spanish. At the end, people made comments and asked us questions for another half hour. It was another bit of refreshment seeing people throw around ideas, personal stories, half thoughts and profound concepts that the graphics provoked in them. And as we cleaned up, we were bombarded by folks wanting the web page, an email, to give us emails and contacts for groups who might want posters, etc. We left after many hugs and high fives.

Hechos: Thinking we would be 6, we moved to a different host's home on a different end of the city. Erick works for the government, something with the economy, but so far whenever I've seen him he's been listening to loud Polish and Czech music, or watching music videos of the same. His humor is odd but Amolia and I keep being pleasantly surprised at the number of folks we've been meeting who share an affinity for Poland. Our former host taught us a few words and yesterday Erick taught us a few more. Sajam, Dobra, Gupy, those are a few.