The first person to pick us up as we hitchiked out of Keremeos was a born-again, self-proclaimed "radical Christian" in a green 1975 volvo. To make the 50 km ride to Osoyoos more fun, I told him how interesting and wonderful I thought Islam was and asked his opinion. What could have been a meaningful conversation about the challenges and benefits of differences in religions and just what those differences are instead turned into a tirade about terrorists and the unquestionable and utmost sanctity of Christianity by our driver, his steering wheel suddenly turned pulpit. Eh.
In Osoyoos, we were lucky and got picked up by a engineer in a new rental car and since he liked to speed, we got within 50 miles of our destination before it got dark. Just as it got dark and we were contemplating how many bears our smelly leftover tacos would attract if we slept on the side of the road, a Swiss restaurant owner picked us up and dropped us off in downtown Nelson.
Nelson is kind of like Ann Arbor, similar size and pretentiousness and number of organic co-ops and hemp clothing stores. We knew our money would be sucked right out of our pockets if we stayed to enjoy the food, live music, etc., so after a couple nights couchsurfing, we were again out on the highway with a sign reading: CRESTON.
A DJ from the Shambhala festival picked us up and let us off at the entrance to the festival, where he was going to set up a stage. Within 5 minutes a car stopped, headed right for Creston. We rolled into town just as the sun was setting and opted for a campground rather than lugging our stuff around from farm to farm. Things would be much easier without that electric stove.
07 August 2008
31 July 2008
K-K-K-K-Keremeos.....
We spent 2 weeks in the village of Keremeos, nestled in the valley at the feet of K mountain, alongside the Similkameen River. At the Mariposa orchard, we were given a little plot of land under an enormous willow tree to pitch our tent and even a place to plug in our electric stove ($5 garage sale find!) and the discman. Within a few days we met our neighbors, four solitary men who live in separate cabins in front of where we camped: Joe, a former convict, current "Peace" officer with a booming voice who works in the village of Osoyoos, about an hour from Keremeos, and deals primarily with people's complaints about their neighbors or their neighbor's dogs; Gee, a French Canadian with a 12 year old chihuahua named Titchi, who let us use his stove and bathroom and entertained us with stories about bears and selling Xmas trees in Queens, NYC; Wayne, who we didn't talk to much but saw often talking to himself and rushing around, he was rarely home; and Hart, who we never talked to but saw occasionally crouched down and smoking a cigarette next to his cabin. He's Joe's brother and, according to Joe, highly anti-social. Outside of our neighbors, our interactions with other people were almost completely with other pickers, all either Quebecois or Mexican. I've yet to meet another picker who speaks English as their mother language, but we all manage to communicate whatever our respective levels of French, Spanish or English are.
In Keremeos the laundromat, due to the fact that the owner lives an hour away and is never around, became the hangout place for the small community of pickers. On any given afternoon you could stop by and listen to a Quebecois playing the piano (yep a piano in the laundromat) or take a shower gratis, since no one ever showed up to charge anyone. People would usually move the chairs outside and buy cheap cans of beer around the corner and sit for a while. That's actually how we met the group of pickers we became friends with and got plenty of tips about Keremeos ("shampoo and soap are cheaper in the pharmacy," "this farm's owners are jerks," "Wednesday night is 25 cent 'wing night' at the pub," etc., etc).
We picked cherries almost every day for several days, struggling to get up at 5am, usually getting up at around 7am, and finally filling a few boxes, making a pittance, but gaining experience all the same. Experienced pickers can pick between 30 and 60 boxes a day. We were lucky if we made more than 7 each, but the fact that we're completely new to picking and only worked for a few hours each day actually meant that we weren't doing that bad. Around noon it gets too hot and the cherries turn soft, so picking can be dangerous to the cherries. I had no idea what a fragile fruit they were. You have to move them and drop them carefully as to not bruise them and make sure they are never left in the sun. If they get wet and then hot, they split and are no good. They have to be packed within hours of picking so that they stems don't dry out and fall off. Picking requires lots and lots of patience and care, to not rip leaves off with the cherries and to keep the stems on the cherries and, preferably, the cherries still in clumps. Once you get good, you can get fast, Gee told us. Ay, but by the time we starting getting good we got tired and sick. Allergic reactions and infections are common among pickers, both of which we got, but we were lucky at least that we didn't fall off a ladder (also pretty common and it happened to a couple pickers we met).
In our free time in Keremeos we went down to the river and watched eagles fish or stopped by the free store to see what we could find or tried to get the pizza place to give us free slices of pizza late at night. The local employment office let us use the internet for free so we usually stopped by there every few days. But, finally the work ended and we both felt the need to move on from Keremeos. Our farmer wasn't the nicest either and instead of inquiring about our health when we were sick, he told us we weren't cut out for farm work. Eh, whatever. So, with one last grand story by Gee, this one completely invented for the effect it gave, about him befriending the son of the president of a South American country and going to buy old Soviet missles in Europe, we took off with the advice: Anything can happen if you just believe. Thanks, Gee.
In Keremeos the laundromat, due to the fact that the owner lives an hour away and is never around, became the hangout place for the small community of pickers. On any given afternoon you could stop by and listen to a Quebecois playing the piano (yep a piano in the laundromat) or take a shower gratis, since no one ever showed up to charge anyone. People would usually move the chairs outside and buy cheap cans of beer around the corner and sit for a while. That's actually how we met the group of pickers we became friends with and got plenty of tips about Keremeos ("shampoo and soap are cheaper in the pharmacy," "this farm's owners are jerks," "Wednesday night is 25 cent 'wing night' at the pub," etc., etc).
We picked cherries almost every day for several days, struggling to get up at 5am, usually getting up at around 7am, and finally filling a few boxes, making a pittance, but gaining experience all the same. Experienced pickers can pick between 30 and 60 boxes a day. We were lucky if we made more than 7 each, but the fact that we're completely new to picking and only worked for a few hours each day actually meant that we weren't doing that bad. Around noon it gets too hot and the cherries turn soft, so picking can be dangerous to the cherries. I had no idea what a fragile fruit they were. You have to move them and drop them carefully as to not bruise them and make sure they are never left in the sun. If they get wet and then hot, they split and are no good. They have to be packed within hours of picking so that they stems don't dry out and fall off. Picking requires lots and lots of patience and care, to not rip leaves off with the cherries and to keep the stems on the cherries and, preferably, the cherries still in clumps. Once you get good, you can get fast, Gee told us. Ay, but by the time we starting getting good we got tired and sick. Allergic reactions and infections are common among pickers, both of which we got, but we were lucky at least that we didn't fall off a ladder (also pretty common and it happened to a couple pickers we met).
In our free time in Keremeos we went down to the river and watched eagles fish or stopped by the free store to see what we could find or tried to get the pizza place to give us free slices of pizza late at night. The local employment office let us use the internet for free so we usually stopped by there every few days. But, finally the work ended and we both felt the need to move on from Keremeos. Our farmer wasn't the nicest either and instead of inquiring about our health when we were sick, he told us we weren't cut out for farm work. Eh, whatever. So, with one last grand story by Gee, this one completely invented for the effect it gave, about him befriending the son of the president of a South American country and going to buy old Soviet missles in Europe, we took off with the advice: Anything can happen if you just believe. Thanks, Gee.
27 July 2008
Ah well, somehow I got roped into the exciting rumor that everyone can go to Canada, pick fruit and camp and earn a glorious living. Easy, fun, lucrative. This rumor is running like wildfire among young kids in Mexico and we got caught up in it and here we are.
We arrived in Calgary on the 1st of July and were thoroughly interrogated by immigration to the point where we had to go to a special waiting room while the officers called to verify our Canadian friends' contacts. They asked a lot of questions, even absurd ones (like why Alex's mom would give him money to travel), and checked our bags one more time until they were disappointed to find that they just couldn't find a good reason to send us back to Mexico, thanks to God. Whew.
Thanks to Couchsurfing, a nice Polish lady and her daughter were waiting to pick us up at the airport and take us to their huge home in the Calgary suburbs. Like everyone else in Calgary, Dad works in the oil industry, hence all the luxury. They welcomed us with a backyard bbq (even though they don't celebrate Canada Day, just happened to be the day we arrived) and we stayed for a few days in their house, enjoying the luxury but not the long bus/train commute into the city. So, for our last couple days in Calgary we stayed in another CSer's place who was right downtown, next to the river.
Getting out of the city was nice. We "hitched" a ride off of Craigslist to Kelowna, where another Couchsurfer opened his home to us, despite the fact that he already had 4 other folks crashing with him. Kelowna is much smaller than Calgary but still too big of a city to move around by foot, so a couple days later we moved on to the village of Keremeos. The first night we camped in the city park and the next morning, with some luck and a tip from a Quebecois, we starting working at the Mariposa farm. First some weeding, then some cherry picking. The air is hot and dry in the Similkameen Valley, so the work that we weren't accustomed to was a bit more difficult still. Our fingers turned black and ached and when we tried to sleep we couldn't close our eyes without seeing cherries and stems and leaves and branches. Ay, the life of a migrant fruit picker. I'll never be able to think of cherries like I used to.
We arrived in Calgary on the 1st of July and were thoroughly interrogated by immigration to the point where we had to go to a special waiting room while the officers called to verify our Canadian friends' contacts. They asked a lot of questions, even absurd ones (like why Alex's mom would give him money to travel), and checked our bags one more time until they were disappointed to find that they just couldn't find a good reason to send us back to Mexico, thanks to God. Whew.
Thanks to Couchsurfing, a nice Polish lady and her daughter were waiting to pick us up at the airport and take us to their huge home in the Calgary suburbs. Like everyone else in Calgary, Dad works in the oil industry, hence all the luxury. They welcomed us with a backyard bbq (even though they don't celebrate Canada Day, just happened to be the day we arrived) and we stayed for a few days in their house, enjoying the luxury but not the long bus/train commute into the city. So, for our last couple days in Calgary we stayed in another CSer's place who was right downtown, next to the river.
Getting out of the city was nice. We "hitched" a ride off of Craigslist to Kelowna, where another Couchsurfer opened his home to us, despite the fact that he already had 4 other folks crashing with him. Kelowna is much smaller than Calgary but still too big of a city to move around by foot, so a couple days later we moved on to the village of Keremeos. The first night we camped in the city park and the next morning, with some luck and a tip from a Quebecois, we starting working at the Mariposa farm. First some weeding, then some cherry picking. The air is hot and dry in the Similkameen Valley, so the work that we weren't accustomed to was a bit more difficult still. Our fingers turned black and ached and when we tried to sleep we couldn't close our eyes without seeing cherries and stems and leaves and branches. Ay, the life of a migrant fruit picker. I'll never be able to think of cherries like I used to.
05 July 2008
el dedo gordo...
Tips for folks who want to hitch hike in Mexico:
1. Traveling as a guy-gal combo is not only safer and easier (in terms of getting folks to pick you up), people are even friendlier and may buy you a snack or drink.
2. Get used to semi-trucks or the backs of dirty pick-up trucks- you'll see plenty of folks in fancy cars who are traveling alone, but apparently they've got better things to do. Either that, or they're afraid- one of the two has to explain why they quickly look in the other direction as they pass.
3. Bring just a little bit of money to offer to bus or combi drivers in the event that you get stuck somewhere, but assure them that these are the absolute last pesos to your name. They probably won't believe you but they'll let you on anyhow. Sometimes they're interested in trades.
4. A sign helps, preferably large and lettered by sharpie.
5. When someone picks you up, ask them where they're headed and if it's not your final destination, ask them kindly to drop you off either at the entrance or exit of a city, or somewhere else on the high way so you don't have to walk really far to get a ride again.
6. Chat with everyone- you never know who might just hand you 50 pesos or pay for your bus fare.
7. Truck drivers will know the best places to camp.
8. A week will feel like a lifetime.
1. Traveling as a guy-gal combo is not only safer and easier (in terms of getting folks to pick you up), people are even friendlier and may buy you a snack or drink.
2. Get used to semi-trucks or the backs of dirty pick-up trucks- you'll see plenty of folks in fancy cars who are traveling alone, but apparently they've got better things to do. Either that, or they're afraid- one of the two has to explain why they quickly look in the other direction as they pass.
3. Bring just a little bit of money to offer to bus or combi drivers in the event that you get stuck somewhere, but assure them that these are the absolute last pesos to your name. They probably won't believe you but they'll let you on anyhow. Sometimes they're interested in trades.
4. A sign helps, preferably large and lettered by sharpie.
5. When someone picks you up, ask them where they're headed and if it's not your final destination, ask them kindly to drop you off either at the entrance or exit of a city, or somewhere else on the high way so you don't have to walk really far to get a ride again.
6. Chat with everyone- you never know who might just hand you 50 pesos or pay for your bus fare.
7. Truck drivers will know the best places to camp.
8. A week will feel like a lifetime.
12 June 2008
sensory
The other morning, the gas truck rolled by, dragging metal chains through the streets and playing that familiar high-pitched and generally annoying recording over and over. and over and over. and over and over. Typically, they pass by for the first time in the morning at around 7am. And typically, I think "Pinche gas truck, who needs gas right now? No one! Who needs sleep right now? Me!" But a few days ago, when I heard that sound, waking me up a good 20 minutes before my alarm was set to go off, while my dreams were still disintegrating images at the backs of my eyes, I immediately thought, "Oh, dear, I am going to miss this place."
My time in Mexico is winding down all of a sudden, and very, very quickly. Though I've been here for about 5 months, now it seems like I just arrived on the OCC yesterday, blinking into the early San Cristobal sun, slightly disoriented and lost and confused. I'll probably leave town in a similar fashion but I've gotta lotta faith, at least.
My time in Mexico is winding down all of a sudden, and very, very quickly. Though I've been here for about 5 months, now it seems like I just arrived on the OCC yesterday, blinking into the early San Cristobal sun, slightly disoriented and lost and confused. I'll probably leave town in a similar fashion but I've gotta lotta faith, at least.
10 June 2008
30 May 2008
de raiz a hoja...
Today I was chatting with a dear Nicaraguan friend online and he was telling me how a hurricane hit his city and the neighbors are telling each other, "Oh, my orange tree fell." or "Ay, the poor pecan tree." My friend lamented the fall of the almond trees, which he said he had watched grow up and they had watched him grow up, as well. I told him he should write a poem about it, that the love for trees is as inspiring and powerful as the love for another human, being that we're all part of the natural world anyway.
A few minutes later, a middle-aged man who has been coming to the restaurant every morning for the past week and occasionally making small talk with me excitedly showed me a children's book that he had just bought, La Boda de Chimalistac by Elena Poniatowska. The book was about a lemon tree that fell in love with a Jacaranda and eventually they get married. Ah, tree love.
And my friend was very happy because today is Mother's Day in Nicaragua and I told him that my family always buys trees on mother's day.
Just when I thought the day was already filled with trees and love, I looked down at the bottle of red wine our German couchsurfer left for us and there on the bottle, a little grape vine that looks just like a little tree.
So, in honor of trees and love and beauty, I want to share one of my very favorite poems by Juana de Ibarbourou:
La Higuera
Porque es áspera y fea,
porque todas sus ramas son grises,
yo le tengo piedad a la higuera.
En mi quinta hay cien árboles bellos,
ciruelos redondos,
limoneros rectos
y naranjos de brotes lustrosos.
En las primaveras,
todos ellos se cubren de flores
en torno a la higuera.
Y la pobre parece tan triste
con sus gajos torcidos que nunca
de apretados capullos se viste...
Por eso,
cada vez que yo paso a su lado,
digo, procurando
hacer dulce y alegre mi acento:
«Es la higuera el más bello
de los árboles todos del huerto».
Si ella escucha,
si comprende el idioma en que hablo,
¡qué dulzura tan honda hará nido
en su alma sensible de árbol!
Y tal vez, a la noche,
cuando el viento abanique su copa,
embriagada de gozo le cuente:
¡Hoy a mí me dijeron hermosa!
A few minutes later, a middle-aged man who has been coming to the restaurant every morning for the past week and occasionally making small talk with me excitedly showed me a children's book that he had just bought, La Boda de Chimalistac by Elena Poniatowska. The book was about a lemon tree that fell in love with a Jacaranda and eventually they get married. Ah, tree love.
And my friend was very happy because today is Mother's Day in Nicaragua and I told him that my family always buys trees on mother's day.
Just when I thought the day was already filled with trees and love, I looked down at the bottle of red wine our German couchsurfer left for us and there on the bottle, a little grape vine that looks just like a little tree.
So, in honor of trees and love and beauty, I want to share one of my very favorite poems by Juana de Ibarbourou:
La Higuera
Porque es áspera y fea,
porque todas sus ramas son grises,
yo le tengo piedad a la higuera.
En mi quinta hay cien árboles bellos,
ciruelos redondos,
limoneros rectos
y naranjos de brotes lustrosos.
En las primaveras,
todos ellos se cubren de flores
en torno a la higuera.
Y la pobre parece tan triste
con sus gajos torcidos que nunca
de apretados capullos se viste...
Por eso,
cada vez que yo paso a su lado,
digo, procurando
hacer dulce y alegre mi acento:
«Es la higuera el más bello
de los árboles todos del huerto».
Si ella escucha,
si comprende el idioma en que hablo,
¡qué dulzura tan honda hará nido
en su alma sensible de árbol!
Y tal vez, a la noche,
cuando el viento abanique su copa,
embriagada de gozo le cuente:
¡Hoy a mí me dijeron hermosa!
de repente
Today, as I was getting on my bike and adjusting my bag and scarf to prepare myself to bajar on one of the cobbly streets that connects the neighborhood of el Cerrillo with San Cristobal's city center, I had a sudden rush of remembrance. Kalamazoo, the hills, my bike, the cool weather of fall, even Western Michigan University- I could feel it all so deeply in one profound second, I almost expected to look up and see a familiar Michigan face stroll or bike by. Ah, but then I remembered that I am in a city that I also love, where it is also beautiful to float down hills on a bicycle and feel the wind on my face, where every couple of blocks I do see a familiar face.
I'm going to miss San Cristobal. But, I know I'll be back because it's one of my eternal homes now. I'm very lucky to have so many.
I'm going to miss San Cristobal. But, I know I'll be back because it's one of my eternal homes now. I'm very lucky to have so many.
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