01 December 2007
30 November 2007
So, are we going to the jungle or what?
Are you happy now?: After many visits to archaelogical sites in Mexico, I had pretty much decided that I'd seen enough ruins and pyramids to last my lifetime. So when we arrived to Tikal, in the middle of the Peten jungle of northern Guatemala, and discovered that the price had risen from $6.50 USD to $20, I really wasn't too upset that I didn't have enough money to get in. Instead, I sat down with my book to wait for Abby and Johanna for the day and tried not to think in the wasted money spent on transport. But, as luck (as usual) would have it, after about 20 minutes a young European approached me, offering to sell his already purchased ticket as he was leaving the park. "Well, I'm sure I can get more for it, but it's no problem," he said and walked me to the entrance so that I was certain that the ticket was valid.
After paying him the only 50 quetzales I had to my name, I was confronted with a choice of 3 paths that led into the jungle, with no clear indicators of where I should head. Without thinking much, I took the one to the left and found myself walking for 40 minutes or more though pure, thick jungle without seeing another human being the entire time. All around me the jungle exploded with noises, tree branches falling, screaming monkeys, crying birds, and a constant chirrr, whirrr of insects above and below. The air was dark and damp, the path muddy and slippery and I stepped along contentedly, feeling quite safe despite being in such a wild place.
Eventually I came upon a partially restored, partially crumbling pyramid rising out of a moss-covered hill. I was completely alone, I felt, and in awe of these ancient stones. I know little about the actual history, so I let my imagination roam wild a bit and then continued on. Another 20 minutes of walking in solitude before I took a few turns and came across the main plaza, where the most prominent pyramids are. All of a sudden, people were on all sides of me, climbing up and down pyramids and stone structures, taking pictures wildly, laughing and shouting in a variety of languages, children skipped around and older folks rested on wooden benches- it appeared to me as a playground, a big, archaelogical playground, although they probably don't sell beer at many playgrounds, and at this one they do. It was a little disorienting after being by myself most of the morning, so I found myself trying to step politely away when an entire family ascended the structure I was one, and rather than ask anyone to take my picture, I instead got very aquainted with my camera timer (I'm quite good at it now).
By the time I found Johanna and Abby sitting on the top of one of the temples, though, I was ready for company. We did some exploring in the Mundo Perdido, found the Bat Palace and were looking around in the main plaza again before the entire sky tore itself open and a torrential rain forced us to go running through the jungle. For 15 minutes, we ran as the paths quickly converted into muddy, rushing streams of waters and as great puddles welled up in front of us. The trees did little to protect us and the mud made going too fast a precarious situation. Just as we arrived to the van, the jungle rain dissipated and the sun returned. Typical- we all knew that tropical rains are intense and brief, but perhaps subconsciously we all needed a run through warm rain.
After returning to Flores, a dark, creamy, delicious Moza beer was perfect. The darkest beer we've had in awhile, and worth every quetzal.
After paying him the only 50 quetzales I had to my name, I was confronted with a choice of 3 paths that led into the jungle, with no clear indicators of where I should head. Without thinking much, I took the one to the left and found myself walking for 40 minutes or more though pure, thick jungle without seeing another human being the entire time. All around me the jungle exploded with noises, tree branches falling, screaming monkeys, crying birds, and a constant chirrr, whirrr of insects above and below. The air was dark and damp, the path muddy and slippery and I stepped along contentedly, feeling quite safe despite being in such a wild place.
Eventually I came upon a partially restored, partially crumbling pyramid rising out of a moss-covered hill. I was completely alone, I felt, and in awe of these ancient stones. I know little about the actual history, so I let my imagination roam wild a bit and then continued on. Another 20 minutes of walking in solitude before I took a few turns and came across the main plaza, where the most prominent pyramids are. All of a sudden, people were on all sides of me, climbing up and down pyramids and stone structures, taking pictures wildly, laughing and shouting in a variety of languages, children skipped around and older folks rested on wooden benches- it appeared to me as a playground, a big, archaelogical playground, although they probably don't sell beer at many playgrounds, and at this one they do. It was a little disorienting after being by myself most of the morning, so I found myself trying to step politely away when an entire family ascended the structure I was one, and rather than ask anyone to take my picture, I instead got very aquainted with my camera timer (I'm quite good at it now).
By the time I found Johanna and Abby sitting on the top of one of the temples, though, I was ready for company. We did some exploring in the Mundo Perdido, found the Bat Palace and were looking around in the main plaza again before the entire sky tore itself open and a torrential rain forced us to go running through the jungle. For 15 minutes, we ran as the paths quickly converted into muddy, rushing streams of waters and as great puddles welled up in front of us. The trees did little to protect us and the mud made going too fast a precarious situation. Just as we arrived to the van, the jungle rain dissipated and the sun returned. Typical- we all knew that tropical rains are intense and brief, but perhaps subconsciously we all needed a run through warm rain.
After returning to Flores, a dark, creamy, delicious Moza beer was perfect. The darkest beer we've had in awhile, and worth every quetzal.
28 November 2007
Haze and water
Squint: Finally we made it to Guatemala, one long, dark night of driving and flat tire later. As hard as I tried I couldn't fulfill my duties as the driverside passenger, though I did try feebly to make small talk with Vladimir for a short while before the mountain curves and the darkness lulled me to sleep like a baby. We slept on the border and in the morning boarded a small, wooden boat across the Usumacinta River. At the top of the muddy stone stairs awaiting us on the other side, we jumped right on a bus, made a quick and painless stop at immigration, and we were off on a long, bumpy, dirt road for many hours before reaching the island of Flores. Along the way the streets are filled with chickens and pigs and children who rush to the ends of paths to watch the bus go past. The land is green but the signs of destructive deforestation are all around us- mainly in freshly burnt palm remnants, rows of freshly planted corn, and acres upon acres of cattle farms. Guatemala is also filled with fog, rising up from lakes and valleys, covering the road at times and at others, the sky. Figuring out how much Quetzales are actually worth is making our brains ache and the amount of English on walls and stores is confusing. Maybe for the first time in a few months I feel that I am somewhere very unfamiliar.
24 November 2007
Kitchens
Dull knives: My favorite theme of San Cristobal so far has been dinners. It started with having our very own kitchen to play in, proceeded with the opportunity to cook in Raul's kitchen, and has continued with invitations. In Raul's kitchen, we met some writers from Seattle who invited us to their kitchen for an anti-imperialist Thanksgiving dinner. We showed up with wine and sweet bread and were amazed at the beauty and extravagance of their home, sitting on a hill like a little castle, complete with amazing views of the city and stars. The night wound on with warm wine, a feast of Mexican, cuban and manynation-inspired foods, english and spanish balancing each conversation. In that kitchen Raul ran into an old friend, hence our next invitation. But, with a free night between dinner party invites, what else to do but to cook an amazing dinner in a comfortable kitchen. We now rely on Raul to make the guacamole.
Universal: Maybe a milestone in my Spanish, translating Patsy Cline songs for Raul so he could understand Abby and I's distraught faces and us clutching at our hearts, and somehow I could communicate at least a bit of the sorrow and sentiment.
Universal: Maybe a milestone in my Spanish, translating Patsy Cline songs for Raul so he could understand Abby and I's distraught faces and us clutching at our hearts, and somehow I could communicate at least a bit of the sorrow and sentiment.
22 November 2007
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
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
21 November 2007
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.
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.
17 November 2007
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.
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.
14 November 2007
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.
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.
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