Gracias a la vida...

Guajalote: A short colectivo ride took us much farther from the city than it appeared. We stuck our fingers deep into fluffy, black soil, the earth, and plucked small hierbas from the places where they were not wanted. This was how we spent our morning, by volunteering in an organic garden outside of San Cristobal, where we weeded marigold and pea patches (Pea plant leaves are so very soft), planting little onions, and spending an hour and a half cleaning soil by grabbing clumps and pulling slimy pink earth worms out. At one point, the garden owner showed up and told us about their fermenting fertilizer project. "Super mugra" or "shit tea", as they called it, consists of lots of fresh cow manure, milk, sugar, and trace minerals that are necessary for the soil but very difficult to obtain in organic form. Thanks to this recipe, invented by a Brazilian farmer, after a few months the farm will have enough to last all year.

Between our tasks, we sat and conversed with the garden attendants, Esteban and Salvador. We talked about what foods grow in Michigan, how the weather is, how much people are paid there and how much is the rent, the wall being built on the border between Mexico and the U.S., different types of life and work. We all decided that work is good.

Because God is great, our playing in the dirt and sitting around in a garden was rewarded with a complimentary feast. The garden belongs to a fancy vegetarian, mostly organic, restaurant in downtown San Cris, and for a few hours of work we were able to enjoy a grand buffet. With dirt under our fingernails and down our necks, we ate and thanked the universe for it.

Mira: Here are some of my pictures, updated as can be: http://picasaweb.google.com/andreanvogler

Sun spots, light gaps

Shine on: Luck in her many forms has followed us to San Cristobal. Of course, we've already found that free places to stay are easy to come by (over 2 months and haven't paid for a bed yet), especially when it comes to floor space and cramped couches, but now we're staying in a glowing, sunny hotel room smack in the downtown of San Cris. Our (own!) kitchen is constant entertainment for us, first thing we did was stock up the refrigerator and invest in some cooking oil. The feeling of having one's own place is a beautiful one. We invite friends over for dinner, keep our toothbrushes on the sink (rather than in our backpacks), kick off our shoes wherever we want, move around freely in space that, though only very briefly and tentatively, we can call our own. Eternal thanks for this.

Disco ball: Dancing the pasito duranguese is harder than I remember. Kick up your heels and jump, should be easy right? Well, perhaps the bright, flashing lights and smoke were distracting but really I was also nervous and inexperienced. Salsa is feeling more comfortable to me, banda is still pretty new territory but right now I feel that I have a good reason to learn.

Sorpresa: We were able to find and wander through the forest twice already this week. Fresh air and green are still always surprises to me here after spending so much time in cities, despite the fact that even the cities are still not exactly like the cities I know back in the states. Oaks, pines, utterly tall trees that stretch through the remnants of a cloud forest, trees that are not cut into funny shapes, trees that carry entire ecosystems in their lofty branches, trees that deny the presence of picnickers and the military, all of these we walk beneath. There is constant discovery in twisted trunks and cave formations. There is constant beauty in fresh fruit, friendship, and laying on the ground watching the sky. What happened years ago feels like yesterday, what happens today feels like forever. Time moves like the clouds sometimes, wispy and rushing past, and other times like the sway of treetops, slow and steady.

Mujer afortunada

Ojos: These past several months I have had a nice bit of fortune to have been able to re-meet folks that I haven't seen for several months or nearly years. Almost awkward laughs, what counts as small talk, dredging up or releasing memories, hugs, laughs no longer nervous or strained. There's almost a routine because we make it up in our minds that time changes things. But, eyes, eyes never change.

Yet, sometimes they do reveal new things- Alfredo says I have los ojos de una mezcalera.

Bocas: The 3 things I most associate with Oaxaca: Chocolate, Mole, and Leo's laugh. All of which I already miss.

Manos: Our last afternoon in Oaxaca and Leo drives us out to the Presas, just outside of the city. It's called the dams, but there are no dams. Leo calls it the laguna or lagito (little lake) but it is more like a rapidly moving river, hurried along by constant gusts of wind. Leo asks if I've ever had my palm read, and I haven't. He takes a pen, begins marking mi linea del destino, mi linea de la vida, mi linea de inteligencia, mi linea de suerte. Tengo mucha suerte y mucho valor. Thus, I will travel a lot, seek adventure, meet good people everywhere I go. I realize I am in my future already but that time is hard to tell on the palm of one's hand anyhow. He also told me something that few, if any people, in my life have ever told me (hence I find it a little difficult to believe at this point)- that I have las manos de artista. Artist's hands. Well, I suppose I should start developing skill then if the talent is lying already in my hands, waiting for something to pull it to the surface. Leo is an artist, too. Leo and I have similar hands yet very different lives. Our hands are covered in lines that fill our minds with possibilities of what may have happened already and what will surely happen now. We become less certain of the past and more certain of the future. Leo laughs and assures us that he will only tell us the nice things.

Muchos leones

Tiempo tormentoso: Every Oaxaqueño that I've met so far talks about Oaxaca in terms of how things were before what happened last year and how things are now. Time is now split here in this way, a split that cuts deep into the hearts of the people of Oaxaca. Depending on the person, they name the events of last summer and fall as "los problemas que tuvimos", the problems we had, "el conflicto," "la guerrilla," the little war. Some people don't like to talk about and others do. And when they do, usually the topic comes about indirectly but with questions the person will open up and describe where they were, how the streets looked, their emotions and thoughts about the events, the consequences or the government. Everyone asks if we heard about it in the states and how. The streets appear tranquil here but people confide in me that organizing is still going on, that right now the resistance is resting, taking its time. Others are grateful for the tranquility and for being able to again work and leave their homes at night, though most Oaxaqueños that I've talked with still are nervous about being in the streets too late at night, mostly because of the memories and for not any actual, direct threat. Yet people remind me that if a police officer assumes you are part of the APPO or a sympathesizer that it could lead to problems, and they also mention that there are many more police in Oaxaca than before the events of last year happened. The memories and the present relating to the political situation are like a conversation that everyone is having in private, in hushed voices, behind closed doors, never knowing who to trust or with what information. The local government works hard to cover up political art work and spray painted slogans as soon as they appear on walls and doors, they strain themselves to clean up this city for tourists and language students. Certainly, everyone wants Oaxaca to be safe for all, but the type of calm in the air right now doesn't signify safety to me, but more like the calm before a storm, one that is quietly brewing under our feet and behind cement walls. Oaxaca, te llevo en mi corazón.

Suerte: However my improvement in luck coincided with my Abigail returning to Oaxaca, I am happy about it. Through a series of lucky accidents and coincidences, we were able to have our own room, free of charge, in a 5 (no less) star hotel, complete with swimming pool and endless breakfast buffet. People treated us not as backpackers or hippies but as important dignitaries, no matter that we ran around in our barefeet and didn't bother combing our hair before breakfast (we were just going to jump in the pool anyhow). And not only all of this, but we ended up making new friends, mostly musicians from el DF, and having a great night of playing music, singing and conversation. At times I found myself thinking, "I do NOT belong here," but then I would remember the incidents that led to that moment, and they clearly indicated otherwise.

Que onda: Last night I got to meet one of the organizers of a network of community radio stations in Oaxaca and over coffee, we discussed the state of community radio in Oaxaca. He told me that Oaxaca has the most community radios of any state in Mexico, but that after the events of last year more and more radios are facing repression and closings on the part of the government, with extra pressure put on by Televisa, the media giant who already controls 68% of radios in Mexico. He mentioned that one thing he thought particularly scared the government and CEOs was when the women's movement took over some radio stations in Oaxaca and, with the help of university students, even elderly women learned how to broadcast in a matter of hours. He said that event in itself destroyed the myth that radio is expensive, complicated and better left to the media corporations. Knowing that people can truly take the media into their own hands, communicate their own stories and news based on their own needs, is inspiring to me- and dangerous to others, but especially to those in power. The spirit of the people of Oaxaca continually amazes me.

Que bonito es volar: Aprendimos a bailar, bailando juntos. Que lindo. We've also met several folks from the states and more musicians from Oaxaca, mostly trovalistas. Folk singers and they mostly sing Cuban songs or other popular Latin American folk songs and are buena gente all around. We have incredible luck in meeting people, generous people who expect nothing in return, talented people who share their skills, interesting people that share their stories and ideas. It's nice knowing so many wonderful people in this world exist. I will surely miss Oaxaca but hopefully will return on my way back up through Mexico. Tomorrow night we are hopping on a night bus to San Cristobal de las Casas, Chiapas, leaving us with one more night of trova in Oaxaca.

Mezcalando

Biznaga: Sometimes I look around at the other travelers, swirling around me in comfortable walking shoes and sun-blocking hats, guidebooks and cameras in hand, a supportive backpack on their backs, their eyes anywhere but where their feet are falling, and I try to imagine myself traveling like this young couple or that lone elderly woman. It's quite difficult. Once I did travel hostel by hostel, utilizing a guide book to locate museums or parks on a little map that I would later tear out and stash in my pocket, filling my days with activities and photographic opportunities. This trip has been very different and now I can't imagine traveling in any other way. We set out to arrive in a city, find folks on couchsurfing or Hospitality Club, and after a series of emails and phone calls, we seek out a perfect stranger's home for our free housing. For food, rather than even bother to seek out cheap cafes or restaurants, we instead head to the local market and buy fruits, vegetables and tortillas, or even more simply, a tamal or a quesadilla (or a tlayuda, in oaxaca). For filling up our time, we make friends with our hosts and their friends, wander around and meet strangers in the street, or look for the cheapest live music venues we can. Also, our talks about the Bee posters connect us with folks in almost every city we visit. I suppose speaking the language helps some but I can't help but wonder why more folks don't travel this way. It's far less stressful (except for perhaps with the lodging), at least for me, especially in terms of not having expectations for how the day will go and only expecting that good things will come of setting out each morning and relying on instinct and the knowledge that each day is a new day. On this trip each day has not only been just a new day but often a new adventure in itself, a new life, or a new way to see the world. Is it as easy to be transformed by traveling without having this sort of freedom? How do other people find ways to truly connect with the lands through which they pass? And with the people they meet? These questions run through my mind but then I realize, to each their own. I prefer to move along at the speed of the energy around me with patience and curiosity and asi ando de maravilla.

Mapa: Oaxaca has been an interestingly difficult city to navigate for all of us, though its relatively small size should be simple. Yet, it has been incredibly easy to find things we are looking for in another sense, such as a spontaneous desire for a certain taste or a warm bed to sleep in. I feel very comfortable here in that sense because I can move around knowing that I ultimately don't have much to worry about. I suppose I should have this feeling in all places I am in but sometimes I don't and here I do, and it feels nice.

Preguntas: People keep asking me what things I've seen in Oaxaca or done. Nope, in my week in a half I haven't visited a single museum or lugar turístico, other than Monte Alban. Then they ask, well what do you do each day? Although they don't say it, they implicitly also ask, "What's the point of traveling if you won't spend money or take pictures?" So, what have I been doing? Well, I've been to the market enough time to know exactly where to go for either a tamal, a pair of pants, or a piece of sweet bread. I've met Oaxaqueños from many different walks of life and had good talks over beer or coffee or a home cooked meal. We did 2 pláticas about the Bee posters with, mostly, folks from the states who are here volunteering with various projects. We've seen an amazing guitarist whose laugh and smile could change anyone's life. One of our friends, whom we met while traveling, was brought on stage en La Nueva Babel to sing some of his own songs and the intercambio in that cafe will always be a bright memory of this trip. Mole and chocolate in themselves have been worth waking up in the morning for. Pleasant surprises meet us at every corner and even unpleasant surprises just push us towards other things we could not have expected but end up fine or good or wonderful in the end. I spent two days just moving around between visits to the organic market where I saw almost every person I've met in Oaxaca so far, worth it for both the food and also for the women who makes the tostadas there who asks every woman who approaches her, Que te doy, mi reina. What can I give you, my queen. My, the people in Oaxaca are some of the nicest I've met.

Oaxcolores

Casa: In less than a week in Oaxaca, I've traveled with 3 different combinations of friends, bought dinner in 3 different markets and stayed in 3 different homes. One with a hammock, one with a creepy labyrinth, and tonight's lodging has a beautiful garden smack in the middle of it, causing no interruption. Climbed some pyramids a couple days ago but mostly I have recollections of sweet breezes and tall grass, no pictures. The walls are covered with art and political spray paint, mostly about the APPO.

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.