It never ceases to amaze me, the kinds of things that the media determines as newsworthy. I take for granted the news delivered in the daily paper or on the evening newscast until they inevitably turn their attention to some inane story. Take Obama and the fly for instance.
They said he was odd. Why? Because he killed a fly. I killed a fly. I kill them all the time. In fact, I kill mosquitoes, shadflies, wasps, spiders and ants. I probably slaughtered more than 100 of these annoying little beasts over the weekend alone. CBC didn't come to cover the story. So far as I know, PETA is completely unaware of my killing spree and I fully expect to get away without any fines or, worse, incarceration.
It's a reflex, I figure. A creepy-crawlie catches my attention and I turn into a murderous predator. It's what we do. We swat stuff. I would argue that most living beings swat stuff. Horses swat flies. In fact, they stand together face to ass to help each other out with the swatting. I've had cats that kill flies as they bounce mindlessly against the window in an effort to escape to the outdoors. We swat flies. That's what we do.
I draw the line at bees unless someone is in peril due to an allergy. With all the attention given to the value of a bee, I figure it's my moral responsibility to try and keep as many of them alive as possible. They say that we can't live without bees and there has been a lot of press about their dwindling numbers so I generally try to help out by curbing my swatting habit to help postpone the end of the world.
Can you imagine what would have happened if Obama killed a bee?
Monday, June 22
Saturday, June 20
On Regrets
Maybe it's the fact that my 40th birthday is fast approaching, or maybe it's the series of events that have unfolded over the past two years that have prompted me to spend hours of my time in quiet introspection. Normally a healthy practice towards achieving self-awareness, over time it has become a slug fest of sorts where I ultimately end up picking at the scabs of my regrets.
At one level, I recognize the futility of regret but at another level I secretly wonder about the lessons that hide themselves in the messiness of my bad choices. "Everything happens for a reason," seems like a license to dig through my unfortunate failures in a desperate hunt for meaning.
My son is on a crash-course and I feel absolutely helpless as I witness one bad decision after another. My heart breaks as I calculate this growing number while he works towards his own long list of regrets. How do you explain to someone so young that he is changing the course of his life with each choice he makes? How do you convince someone that as they age, the things that seemed important in high school fade into the shadows of new goals and responsibilities? Things that seem important today won't even register as an afterthought as he navigates his way through adulthood.
I attended a session years ago and afterwards I wrote letters to the important people in my life as a way of making peace with some of my old regrets. It seems now like such a simple task, but it essentially erased any guilt I was feeling about old decisions and behaviours. It gave me the absolution I was seeking and expunged those old regrets so I could free up energy to build better relationships with the people I love. It released me.
My son, I believe, will need to search for his own panacea for peace. Maybe a letter, maybe not. First, I suppose, he needs to feel regretful and I am not certain that he has arrived at that place. I think to get there, he first needs to feel the results of his many actions and how they have limited him from achieving what is most important. Only then will he begin to dig through the aftermath in search for meaning. The best I can do for now, is to hope that when that time comes, he finds what he is looking for.
At one level, I recognize the futility of regret but at another level I secretly wonder about the lessons that hide themselves in the messiness of my bad choices. "Everything happens for a reason," seems like a license to dig through my unfortunate failures in a desperate hunt for meaning.
My son is on a crash-course and I feel absolutely helpless as I witness one bad decision after another. My heart breaks as I calculate this growing number while he works towards his own long list of regrets. How do you explain to someone so young that he is changing the course of his life with each choice he makes? How do you convince someone that as they age, the things that seemed important in high school fade into the shadows of new goals and responsibilities? Things that seem important today won't even register as an afterthought as he navigates his way through adulthood.
I attended a session years ago and afterwards I wrote letters to the important people in my life as a way of making peace with some of my old regrets. It seems now like such a simple task, but it essentially erased any guilt I was feeling about old decisions and behaviours. It gave me the absolution I was seeking and expunged those old regrets so I could free up energy to build better relationships with the people I love. It released me.
My son, I believe, will need to search for his own panacea for peace. Maybe a letter, maybe not. First, I suppose, he needs to feel regretful and I am not certain that he has arrived at that place. I think to get there, he first needs to feel the results of his many actions and how they have limited him from achieving what is most important. Only then will he begin to dig through the aftermath in search for meaning. The best I can do for now, is to hope that when that time comes, he finds what he is looking for.
Monday, December 1
Intermission
I've been gone a long time. I've struggled the last little while trying to decide whether to finish this travel diary or move along. A lot has changed in my life...many things I need to purge though probably not online...others would be best forgotten altogether...but this trip was an important part of my transformation and so - I suppose -- the story deserves its telling.
I need to collect my notes from the house or from storage, or try to find them in the boxes I brought with me. It will be my Christmas project.
I need to collect my notes from the house or from storage, or try to find them in the boxes I brought with me. It will be my Christmas project.
Monday, April 28
This Guy Walks Into a Bar
Sally, Annie, Sharon and I stood in the lobby of the hotel for a few minutes deliberating how we would spend our time waiting for the group to return. This evening we were supposed to meet with Julio Cesar of CAPISE and tomorrow we were leaving for the mountains so it would be a few days before we would have time to look around San Cristobal. Annie and Sharon wanted to get some money changed so we agreed that it would be a great opportunity to run our errand and see the city…by foot.
We gathered up our things and headed back out to the street. We walked west down Francisco Leon to Insurgentes Avenue and then turned north towards the Zoccola. The Zoccola is a building facing the street where Diego de Mazariegos and Francisco I Madero meet and it spans the entire block between Insurgentes and Crescencio Rosas. The terrace is several hundred feet long with about a dozen doorways that lead to various shops and restaurants that have made their home in this historic building. A tall railing separates the terrace from the street – the only way on or off the terrace is at either end.
We found the currency exchange office that we had visited the night before. Sharon and Annie went into the office to exchange their travelers’ cheques while Sally headed to a bank of payphones to try calling home again. I waited on the terrace watching the pedestrians dance with traffic in the city’s busiest intersection.
I could not get a sense of the city’s inhabitants. Most of the people on the street appeared to be natives of Mexico heading to or from work, home or school. The few non-natives I saw were young bohemians from across the globe identifiable by dreadlocks and an absence of underclothes speaking a plethora of languages – German, Swedish, French, and various other languages I did not recognize – though they all walked with a speed and purpose that suggested that they were something other than visitors. As hard as I looked, I could not locate the “conventional tourist,” with his fat wallet and leather camera bag combing the small shops that littered the city for souvenirs as his painted wife chases after their spoiled and defiant globe-trotting toddlers.
To my left, a small group of young men made their way noisily across the terrace. I noted the jackets and jeans and figured that they were locals. It was “winter” in Mexico and the natives tended to dress warmly. It was another easy way to distinguish the residents from the visitors. Behind the group of men, three armed soldiers entered the terrace looking into each shop as they slowly made their way across the terrace. It was unnerving for me to be in such close proximity to high-powered automatic weapons and I could not keep my eyes from them despite the fact that their presence wasn’t even on the radar screen of anyone else on the terrace.
“Ever’body’s fine at home,” Sally said as she found her way back to my side. “My li’l girl is so excited, She’s goin’ to a dance with ‘er daddy this week. He’s takin’ her to pick out a dress tonight.”
“Oh, that’s so cute,” I said, “where you talking to her?”
“Yeah. She wa’nt feelin’ too well when I left and I felt pretty bad. I was worried ‘bout her y’know?”
“Sure,” I said. “It’s hard to leave home with little ones at home.” I watched as the soldiers exited the other end of the terrace and felt my tension ease.
“OK, we’re all ready to go,” said Annie as she and Sharon approached us. “Let’s take a different way back to the hotel though, I want to check out some of the shops.”
We left the terrace at Francisco I. Madero and turned south onto Benito Juarez. Jewelry shops, bakeries, clothing stores, souvenir shops, restaurants, Internet Cafes, and travel kiosks offered a bountiful feast for our senses. The intensity of the colours and scents faded as we walked further away from the city’s centre. Open shops gave way to closed doors that led to bars and then private residences. Before long – too soon I thought, we found our way back to the hotel. We parted company to get ready for our dinner meeting with Julio.
By 6:30 pm, the group arrived back at the hotel and we were there to meet them as they entered the lobby. Our travel companions were greatly relieved to see us safe and sound and we all shared a laugh at our misadventure. We were back on the street in minutes, heading to dinner and our meeting with Julio. I followed mindlessly as Chris and Jody wove their way through the city and ushered us through an open doorway into a restaurant/bar southeast of the city’s centre. Long paper lights fell from the ceiling lighting up the entrance so that visitors could read the hundreds of pamphlets and posters that littered its walls.
A few steps took me through the entrance to a large, open room. I stepped down into a large dining area and pulled out a wicker chair taking a seat at an old wooden table. Sharon sat across from me and Sally, Annie and Joe pulled up chairs at the table beside us. The waitress came for our order and I clumsily asked for a cerveza and was pleasantly surprised to learn that they had Corona at the bar. Sharon ordered a beer and nachos while Sally and Joe deliberated over a bottle of red wine.
To my left was a raised bar with no barstools. Across from the table and up a set of stairs was a store that sold fair trade products from a woman’s cooperative and a leather shop. Behind me and up a set of stairs were a paper shop and a gift shop. To my far right was a gentleman setting up some equipment for what I guessed was going to be tonight’s live entertainment. Sharon explained that Chris and Jody came here often because the money earned at this establishment went to support the Zapatistas.
We chatted over nachos and beer and watched as people came and left the restaurant. Chris and Jody set up their computer and checked emails while we waited for Julio to arrive. Live entertainment man did his sound check and tested his computer equipment and projector. I did my own check. The Corona was cold. Check. The nachos were hot. Check. I was feeling relaxed and happy. Check. Life was good. Check.
Julio arrived about 1 ½ hours later and quickly found Chris and Jody. I considered draining my Corona in preparation for our meeting and then reconsidered as I watched their exchange. Something was a little “off” about the conversation. I sensed that plans were going to change. A few minutes later, three men entered the bar and took a seat to our left. Julio joined them and ordered drinks.
Chris made his way around to our tables with an update. Julio had another meeting. The fellows at the table were from the Al Jazeera network and they were interested in doing an article on the human rights violations at Boolon Ajaw. Our meeting was going to have to be rescheduled. I don’t know for sure but I’m betting that my mouth dropped open.
“Are you kiddin’ me?” I asked
“The Zapatistas can’t get the attention of world press. Al Jazeera will give them a podium and a voice. Their news is broadcast all over the world.”
“Well the Zapatistas need a PR person,” I said. If the powers-that-be decide that this group of oppressed aboriginals is a terrorist group, they will lose their fight for freedom and independence. They will have their rights stolen from them in the name of national security and the great media machine will make sure that North Americans are fed slanted stories that keep them complacent in spite of the injustice. I’m not certain Al Jazeera is a credible news source and I thought that the partnership was likely to cause more damage than good. Let’s say Al Jazeera IS misunderstood, let’s not pretend that their very name doesn’t instill mistrust in the common man.
I suddenly felt a deep desire to research Al Jazeera. Could I be wrong about them? I felt sick.
We gathered up our things and headed back out to the street. We walked west down Francisco Leon to Insurgentes Avenue and then turned north towards the Zoccola. The Zoccola is a building facing the street where Diego de Mazariegos and Francisco I Madero meet and it spans the entire block between Insurgentes and Crescencio Rosas. The terrace is several hundred feet long with about a dozen doorways that lead to various shops and restaurants that have made their home in this historic building. A tall railing separates the terrace from the street – the only way on or off the terrace is at either end.
We found the currency exchange office that we had visited the night before. Sharon and Annie went into the office to exchange their travelers’ cheques while Sally headed to a bank of payphones to try calling home again. I waited on the terrace watching the pedestrians dance with traffic in the city’s busiest intersection.
I could not get a sense of the city’s inhabitants. Most of the people on the street appeared to be natives of Mexico heading to or from work, home or school. The few non-natives I saw were young bohemians from across the globe identifiable by dreadlocks and an absence of underclothes speaking a plethora of languages – German, Swedish, French, and various other languages I did not recognize – though they all walked with a speed and purpose that suggested that they were something other than visitors. As hard as I looked, I could not locate the “conventional tourist,” with his fat wallet and leather camera bag combing the small shops that littered the city for souvenirs as his painted wife chases after their spoiled and defiant globe-trotting toddlers.
To my left, a small group of young men made their way noisily across the terrace. I noted the jackets and jeans and figured that they were locals. It was “winter” in Mexico and the natives tended to dress warmly. It was another easy way to distinguish the residents from the visitors. Behind the group of men, three armed soldiers entered the terrace looking into each shop as they slowly made their way across the terrace. It was unnerving for me to be in such close proximity to high-powered automatic weapons and I could not keep my eyes from them despite the fact that their presence wasn’t even on the radar screen of anyone else on the terrace.
“Ever’body’s fine at home,” Sally said as she found her way back to my side. “My li’l girl is so excited, She’s goin’ to a dance with ‘er daddy this week. He’s takin’ her to pick out a dress tonight.”
“Oh, that’s so cute,” I said, “where you talking to her?”
“Yeah. She wa’nt feelin’ too well when I left and I felt pretty bad. I was worried ‘bout her y’know?”
“Sure,” I said. “It’s hard to leave home with little ones at home.” I watched as the soldiers exited the other end of the terrace and felt my tension ease.
“OK, we’re all ready to go,” said Annie as she and Sharon approached us. “Let’s take a different way back to the hotel though, I want to check out some of the shops.”
We left the terrace at Francisco I. Madero and turned south onto Benito Juarez. Jewelry shops, bakeries, clothing stores, souvenir shops, restaurants, Internet Cafes, and travel kiosks offered a bountiful feast for our senses. The intensity of the colours and scents faded as we walked further away from the city’s centre. Open shops gave way to closed doors that led to bars and then private residences. Before long – too soon I thought, we found our way back to the hotel. We parted company to get ready for our dinner meeting with Julio.
By 6:30 pm, the group arrived back at the hotel and we were there to meet them as they entered the lobby. Our travel companions were greatly relieved to see us safe and sound and we all shared a laugh at our misadventure. We were back on the street in minutes, heading to dinner and our meeting with Julio. I followed mindlessly as Chris and Jody wove their way through the city and ushered us through an open doorway into a restaurant/bar southeast of the city’s centre. Long paper lights fell from the ceiling lighting up the entrance so that visitors could read the hundreds of pamphlets and posters that littered its walls.
A few steps took me through the entrance to a large, open room. I stepped down into a large dining area and pulled out a wicker chair taking a seat at an old wooden table. Sharon sat across from me and Sally, Annie and Joe pulled up chairs at the table beside us. The waitress came for our order and I clumsily asked for a cerveza and was pleasantly surprised to learn that they had Corona at the bar. Sharon ordered a beer and nachos while Sally and Joe deliberated over a bottle of red wine.
To my left was a raised bar with no barstools. Across from the table and up a set of stairs was a store that sold fair trade products from a woman’s cooperative and a leather shop. Behind me and up a set of stairs were a paper shop and a gift shop. To my far right was a gentleman setting up some equipment for what I guessed was going to be tonight’s live entertainment. Sharon explained that Chris and Jody came here often because the money earned at this establishment went to support the Zapatistas.
We chatted over nachos and beer and watched as people came and left the restaurant. Chris and Jody set up their computer and checked emails while we waited for Julio to arrive. Live entertainment man did his sound check and tested his computer equipment and projector. I did my own check. The Corona was cold. Check. The nachos were hot. Check. I was feeling relaxed and happy. Check. Life was good. Check.
Julio arrived about 1 ½ hours later and quickly found Chris and Jody. I considered draining my Corona in preparation for our meeting and then reconsidered as I watched their exchange. Something was a little “off” about the conversation. I sensed that plans were going to change. A few minutes later, three men entered the bar and took a seat to our left. Julio joined them and ordered drinks.
Chris made his way around to our tables with an update. Julio had another meeting. The fellows at the table were from the Al Jazeera network and they were interested in doing an article on the human rights violations at Boolon Ajaw. Our meeting was going to have to be rescheduled. I don’t know for sure but I’m betting that my mouth dropped open.
“Are you kiddin’ me?” I asked
“The Zapatistas can’t get the attention of world press. Al Jazeera will give them a podium and a voice. Their news is broadcast all over the world.”
“Well the Zapatistas need a PR person,” I said. If the powers-that-be decide that this group of oppressed aboriginals is a terrorist group, they will lose their fight for freedom and independence. They will have their rights stolen from them in the name of national security and the great media machine will make sure that North Americans are fed slanted stories that keep them complacent in spite of the injustice. I’m not certain Al Jazeera is a credible news source and I thought that the partnership was likely to cause more damage than good. Let’s say Al Jazeera IS misunderstood, let’s not pretend that their very name doesn’t instill mistrust in the common man.
I suddenly felt a deep desire to research Al Jazeera. Could I be wrong about them? I felt sick.
Thursday, April 3
Hurry Up and Wait
We were headed back down the mountain towards San Cristobal. In the back seat, I leaned over and whispered into Sally's ear.
"I remember reading that you are supposed to negotiate the taxi fare BEFORE you get into the cab."
"Well's too late now," said Sally, "but least we're off the street."
The streets slid by our little Nissan taxi in colourful blurs. I loved the colours of the houses that lined the streets. I loved the simple architecture of the houses and the complicated lines of the city's historical buildings. I believe that you find the heart of a city in the homes of its residents. San Cristobal was no different. The easy feeling of a corrugated roof; the invitation of a colourful doorway; the mystery of a flowering vine winding its way down the outside wall; the oppressive weight of a window locked in iron bars.
Soon we found ourselves within a few blocks of the hotel. We began to collect ourselves as the driver turned onto our street. He slowed the car as he pulled up against the curb in front of the hotel. The driver smiled at Annie in the front seat and said, "Ciento y veinte."It would seem that it would cost us $12 to return from our $5 cab ride out of town. Ouch! This, I understood, was why you negotiate the rate before you climb into the cab. Annie paid the driver while we emptied onto the street. Once she had paid the driver, we all went into the hotel.
Our innkeeper seemed relieved to see us and started talking quickly in Spanish. I caught Senor Chris and aqui and thought that she was saying that Chris did not know that we were at the hotel.
"We got lost. Perdido," I tried to explain.
"Si," she replied. "Senor Chris telefono," she tried again. "Senor Chris quisiera que usted esperara aquí."
"Aaaah," we said in unison as we realized the Chris had anticipated our return. We were to wait at the hotel until the group returned from the cupping at Maya Vinic.
(Doorway photo taken by Chelsea Bay Wills)
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