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.
Monday, December 1
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)
Sunday, March 23
Lost and Found
We entered the taxis in groups of four. The taxis in San Cristobal are largely compact cars with standard transmissions and many were souped up with non-standard features including hood scoops, rope lights, duel exhausts and phallic antennas.
While Sharon, Sally, Annie and I got into the taxi, Chris provided the driver with instructions in Spanish and then leaned into the car through the driver's window and said, "OK. I gave the driver directions and we're going to meet you there. Someone will need to pay him $50 pesos before you get out. Just let me know and I'll pay you back."
"'Kay. See y'all there," called Sally from the back seat.
As the taxi pulled away from the curb Annie said, "Sally I hope you have money. I gotta exchange more of my money. I'm already out of pesos."
"I have to drop by a bank too," said Sharon. "I heard Chris say that he would take us to an exchange on the way to dinner tonight."
I opened my purse and took out a 50-peso note and then watched the city slide by as our $5.00 taxi ride took us out of the colonial city and back towards the highway to Tuxtla. We approached a busy intersection and took our place in a long line of vehicles waiting at a red light. I looked to the right and saw a taxi depot where idle drivers with crossed arms leaned against their cars in a long line. Across the intersection to my left was a modern Chrysler dealership in fresh, white stucco with tall palm trees lining the curb. Black, red and silver compacts littered the lot and the showroom begging for buyers.
The moment the light turned green, the drivers began tooting their horns and it made me smile. The Mexican version of the beep-beep-beep signal for blind pedestrians, I thought. It reminded me a little of the person who stands at the elevator bay and repeatedly hits the button to summon the elevator car. The cars all began moving the moment the light turned green but it didn't seem fast enough for the waiting drivers. They continued honking their horns even as they crossed the intersection's point-of-no-return. I turned around to look at my travelling companions in the back seat and realized they were thinking the same thing.
We turned right at the next major intersection and began our ascent up a two-lane highway carved with ruts and potholes. We left the busy commercial properties behind as we began our drive through the poor, residential communities outside of town. The homes were made of cinder block and topped with sheets of tin roofing. The lawns were small and dirty and many were filled with small groups of children playing in the sand. Dogs criss-crossed the street as they navigated their way through the busy line of traffic with extraordinary timing and intuition. These animals are brilliant, I thought.
Our driver slowed and then pulled into a small parking lot on the right-hand side of the road. He turned in his seat and smiled at us as he said something fast and decisive in Spanish. I looked out the window but I didn't see anything that looked like they could be the offices of Maya Vinic. Then again, I recalled how misguided my expectations had been for CIEPAC's offices so I was reluctant to make more assumptions about what to expect in terms of commercial office space in San Cristobal.
"Are you kiddin' me? This don't look like anyplace we wanna be," said Sally. "Ther're caskets in them windows."
I looked to my right and saw a glass showcase filled with caskets lined in velvet.
"Donde est Maya Vinic?" ventured Annie.
"Aqui," replied the driver.
"Here," I relayed. "He says this is the place."
"This is no kinda place," said Sally, "an' I'm not gettin' out."
"No?" questioned the driver.
"No," was our emphatic reply.
The driver gently eased back onto the two lane highway as we all began scanning the street for Maya Vinic's offices. We passed more tiny concrete homes, a few garages and little else. About three miles up the road, a Spanish woman with two small children waved to the driver. He held out a finger to let her know he would be there in "one minute." He continued up the road a little further and turned left onto a lovely cobblestone terrace in front of a terra cotta arch and then turned to us and said, "Aqui."
"Aqui?" I questioned.
"Si."
"Well, he don't know where he's goin'," said Sally. "We might as well git out and try to find someone who kin help us."
I paid the driver, opened the door and stood at a most unlikely threshold. As I looked down the hill in the direction from which we had just come, I saw blocks and blocks of an impoverished community to my right. To my immediate left, I gazed upon the lush green gardens of a spectacular estate surrounded by a high fence and manicured lawns. This very spot, I felt, defined the struggle of the Mexican people as they try to bridge the gap between the classes.
"Well, at least he chose a safe place to dump us," I offered.
"I think I heard about this place," said Annie. "It's a real fancy restaurant. I remember reading about it before I left. Let's go in and ask for a phone."
We walked up the cobblestone drive that wove its way through the estate gardens. Within minutes we found ourselves standing in front of a beautiful open-aired restaurant busy with waiters dressed in very formal black and white. I felt suddenly and conspicuously under-dressed.
"Habla Anglais por favor?" we asked.
No, nobody spoke English, and everybody here was too busy to help out a few ignorant touristas who didn't have the courtesy to learn the local language. They were clearly uncomfortable with our being here and I began to wonder if this place was for private gatherings. A club house perhaps. The reaction we received told me that either this place did not cater to tourists OR at least not our type of tourist.
"I think we shud siddown an' order arselves a drink," said Sally with a big grin.
"I would love a cold drink, but I don't think we fit the dress code," I said returning her smile.
We turned back towards the street and reluctantly left this oasis. When we reached the busy street, we began discussing our situation. We all agreed that we were at a huge disadvantage because none of us spoke Spanish. We also agreed that the distance was too far to even attempt to walk back to the hotel. While I was game to stroll back down the hill towards the busy intersection to hail a cab, my American travel companions did not share my sense of ease.
"Hey!" said Sharon grinning, "Here comes a goat herder."
We turned to look down the hill and watched as a woman in traditional dress headed up the hill towards us. About where the estate property began, the woman eased her goat herd across the road to the sidewalk on the other side of the street. The goats marched along in a perfect little line, never straying. The woman had a purple and pink blouse embroidered across the shoulders and wore a thick, furry skirt cinched at the waist with a colourful, woven belt. The goats were quieted with tiny muzzles and seemed not the least put off by their walk through town. We watched as they continued on up the hill. It was then that we saw the taxi.
While Sharon, Sally, Annie and I got into the taxi, Chris provided the driver with instructions in Spanish and then leaned into the car through the driver's window and said, "OK. I gave the driver directions and we're going to meet you there. Someone will need to pay him $50 pesos before you get out. Just let me know and I'll pay you back."
"'Kay. See y'all there," called Sally from the back seat.
As the taxi pulled away from the curb Annie said, "Sally I hope you have money. I gotta exchange more of my money. I'm already out of pesos."
"I have to drop by a bank too," said Sharon. "I heard Chris say that he would take us to an exchange on the way to dinner tonight."
I opened my purse and took out a 50-peso note and then watched the city slide by as our $5.00 taxi ride took us out of the colonial city and back towards the highway to Tuxtla. We approached a busy intersection and took our place in a long line of vehicles waiting at a red light. I looked to the right and saw a taxi depot where idle drivers with crossed arms leaned against their cars in a long line. Across the intersection to my left was a modern Chrysler dealership in fresh, white stucco with tall palm trees lining the curb. Black, red and silver compacts littered the lot and the showroom begging for buyers.
The moment the light turned green, the drivers began tooting their horns and it made me smile. The Mexican version of the beep-beep-beep signal for blind pedestrians, I thought. It reminded me a little of the person who stands at the elevator bay and repeatedly hits the button to summon the elevator car. The cars all began moving the moment the light turned green but it didn't seem fast enough for the waiting drivers. They continued honking their horns even as they crossed the intersection's point-of-no-return. I turned around to look at my travelling companions in the back seat and realized they were thinking the same thing.
We turned right at the next major intersection and began our ascent up a two-lane highway carved with ruts and potholes. We left the busy commercial properties behind as we began our drive through the poor, residential communities outside of town. The homes were made of cinder block and topped with sheets of tin roofing. The lawns were small and dirty and many were filled with small groups of children playing in the sand. Dogs criss-crossed the street as they navigated their way through the busy line of traffic with extraordinary timing and intuition. These animals are brilliant, I thought.
Our driver slowed and then pulled into a small parking lot on the right-hand side of the road. He turned in his seat and smiled at us as he said something fast and decisive in Spanish. I looked out the window but I didn't see anything that looked like they could be the offices of Maya Vinic. Then again, I recalled how misguided my expectations had been for CIEPAC's offices so I was reluctant to make more assumptions about what to expect in terms of commercial office space in San Cristobal.
"Are you kiddin' me? This don't look like anyplace we wanna be," said Sally. "Ther're caskets in them windows."
I looked to my right and saw a glass showcase filled with caskets lined in velvet.
"Donde est Maya Vinic?" ventured Annie.
"Aqui," replied the driver.
"Here," I relayed. "He says this is the place."
"This is no kinda place," said Sally, "an' I'm not gettin' out."
"No?" questioned the driver.
"No," was our emphatic reply.
The driver gently eased back onto the two lane highway as we all began scanning the street for Maya Vinic's offices. We passed more tiny concrete homes, a few garages and little else. About three miles up the road, a Spanish woman with two small children waved to the driver. He held out a finger to let her know he would be there in "one minute." He continued up the road a little further and turned left onto a lovely cobblestone terrace in front of a terra cotta arch and then turned to us and said, "Aqui."
"Aqui?" I questioned.
"Si."
"Well, he don't know where he's goin'," said Sally. "We might as well git out and try to find someone who kin help us."
I paid the driver, opened the door and stood at a most unlikely threshold. As I looked down the hill in the direction from which we had just come, I saw blocks and blocks of an impoverished community to my right. To my immediate left, I gazed upon the lush green gardens of a spectacular estate surrounded by a high fence and manicured lawns. This very spot, I felt, defined the struggle of the Mexican people as they try to bridge the gap between the classes.
"Well, at least he chose a safe place to dump us," I offered.
"I think I heard about this place," said Annie. "It's a real fancy restaurant. I remember reading about it before I left. Let's go in and ask for a phone."
We walked up the cobblestone drive that wove its way through the estate gardens. Within minutes we found ourselves standing in front of a beautiful open-aired restaurant busy with waiters dressed in very formal black and white. I felt suddenly and conspicuously under-dressed.
"Habla Anglais por favor?" we asked.
No, nobody spoke English, and everybody here was too busy to help out a few ignorant touristas who didn't have the courtesy to learn the local language. They were clearly uncomfortable with our being here and I began to wonder if this place was for private gatherings. A club house perhaps. The reaction we received told me that either this place did not cater to tourists OR at least not our type of tourist.
"I think we shud siddown an' order arselves a drink," said Sally with a big grin.
"I would love a cold drink, but I don't think we fit the dress code," I said returning her smile.
We turned back towards the street and reluctantly left this oasis. When we reached the busy street, we began discussing our situation. We all agreed that we were at a huge disadvantage because none of us spoke Spanish. We also agreed that the distance was too far to even attempt to walk back to the hotel. While I was game to stroll back down the hill towards the busy intersection to hail a cab, my American travel companions did not share my sense of ease.
"Hey!" said Sharon grinning, "Here comes a goat herder."
We turned to look down the hill and watched as a woman in traditional dress headed up the hill towards us. About where the estate property began, the woman eased her goat herd across the road to the sidewalk on the other side of the street. The goats marched along in a perfect little line, never straying. The woman had a purple and pink blouse embroidered across the shoulders and wore a thick, furry skirt cinched at the waist with a colourful, woven belt. The goats were quieted with tiny muzzles and seemed not the least put off by their walk through town. We watched as they continued on up the hill. It was then that we saw the taxi.
Saturday, March 22
Let's Do Lunch
I stood in the courtyard at CIEPAC taking in the fresh air as I enjoyed the sound of the songbirds while tiny circles of filtered sunlight danced at my feet. Chelsea led a small group through a series of yoga stretches to help them loosen up muscles that tightened up during the morning's class.
Jodi was saying goodbye to Miguel as the rest of the group purchased some of CIEPAC's documentaries and posters. While I desperately wanted a "Boycott Coke" poster, I was not sure that it would make it safely back to Canada in my luggage. Then again, I figured, where would I hang it? There were only two places that I thought might be appropriate -- at the coffee shop and in the clubhouse at the golf course. Since I didn't own either of these commercial locations, it seemed a little presumptuous to purchase a poster for both or either store. I enjoyed a short little daydream where I saw myself hanging a poster up in the soda isle at the grocery store and then decided against making the purchase. I'll just make up a few "killer coke" stickers instead," I thought, "I can stick them on much faster than I can hang a poster."
We headed back towards the city centre to grab some lunch. La Casa del Pan Papalotl is a well known restaurant located at 55 Real de Guadalupe near San Cristobal's downtown. It serves a buffet lunch from 2 pm to 4 pm from Mondays to Thursdays. Lunch...from 2 pm to 4 pm. Lunch. As I crossed the threshold of La Casa at just a few minutes before 3 pm, I understood that Mexico's timetable was very different from the one that I was used to.
There were two doorways toPan Papalotl. The first was the door to a small storefront that could not have been any larger than 10 x 12. It was full of fresh bread, dried fruits and nuts and packages of dried herbs. There were shelves on every wall from floor to ceiling full of baskets and jars filled with produce. The other door was a double-wide glass door that opened to a bright and spacious dining room. The plaster on the walls had, I'm sure, celebrated more birthdays than I but lent themselves to the authenticity of the restaurant. Skylights dotted the ceiling 15 to 20 feet above us and were probably the restaurant's most contemporary update. Spaces between table settings made the heavy wooden furniture less imposing and made it easier for the patrons to maneuver through the restaurant and admire the local artwork. The tables were set with light linen and colourful place settings, dressed and ready to receive us.
Past our table was a smaller room with a wait station on the left and a buffet on the right which also seemed to act as a boundary for the restaurant since, on the other side, was space that Pan Papalotl shared with the cultural center El Peuente. El Peuente, I discovered, has a gallery space, a language school and a cinema just behind the restaurant. I chose my seat and leaned my pack against the wall. I could smell old wood behind the restaurant's lunch special and it reminded of the country.
Jodi explained to us that the restaurant was well known for its vegetarian offerings and fresh, organic products. In fact, the owner has a garden where she grows many of the vegetables; the rest she buys from local growers using fair trade practices. The bread is all freshly baked sourdough bread made with organic wheat.
We lined up at the buffet, picked up our plates and chose from a dozen bowls of fresh vegetables. Mixed spring greens in a deep wooden salad bowl, fresh romaine lettuce and sourdough croutons on a ceramic platter, a clear glass bowl full of coarsely chopped tomato dressed with fresh picked herbs, sliced cucumbers tossed in a light dressing with grated carrot and fresh dill, pickled red beets, gigantic red radishes, and slices of avocado arranged neatly on a platter decorated with the zest and the wedges of lemon. There was more. There was much. Too much.
I walked gently to the table with my heaping plate of fresh organic deliciousness. I was famished -- what with it almost being suppertime -- and could hardly wait to enjoy my late, late lunch. It tasted heavenly. Four months of winter had me missing fresh vegetables. The last tomato I bought at the grocery store tasted like water and was the consistency of beach sand and I couldn't even bring myself to pay $3.99 for a cucumber. It was such a treat, I savored every bite. The waiter came around with a pitcher asking us if we would like water.
I looked at his pitcher of pink juice, smiled politely and said, "Agua, por favor."
"Si," he replied as he tipped his pitcher and emptied pink juice into my glass.
I looked around me to measure the reaction of my colleagues. Nobody seemed put off by their pink water so I ventured a taste. It was mild, vaguely sweet and, well, wet. I didn't know what it was and I didn't ask. It would serve the purpose if I needed to dislodge a piece of bread to keep from dying otherwise there was really no need for refills thank you very much.
After we finished our salad plates, the waiter came and collected our dishes before replacing them with small trays of gnocchi. (Gnocchi, I probably don't need to tell you, is not an authentic Mexican dish. It is, in fact, an Italian dumpling filled with potato.) Slices of cactus, perfect heads of broccoli and a generous helping of green beans saw to it that the gnocchi was well presented. Needless to say, it was delicious, but when the waiter came back for our dessert orders, I had no room left. We ordered one of each of the three desserts and passed them around the table. Each of us took a sampling and passed it on.
We left La Casa del Pan Papalotl with instructions to meet back at the hotel at 4 pm where we would take cabs over to the Maya Vinic headquarters. I had not phoned home to let anyone know that I had arrived safely so I was desperate to get to an Internet cafe to make some kind of a connection. Sharon and I headed down Real de Guadalupe and watched for shops that we could visit when we had more time. We turned left onto Diego Dugelay and followed it down to Francisco Leon. Sharon turned left towards the hotel and I turned right towards the Zoccola. I had seen an Internet Cafe just down from the hotel on our way back from dinner the night before. That's where I decided I needed to be.
Three minutes later, I turned into the doorway of a tiny Internet Cafe and took a moment to allow my eyes to adjust to the dark interior. There were six computers turned on and waiting for customers. One of the members of our group was at a computer just inside the doorway so I grabbed a vacant computer next to him.
"Hi Joe," I said.
"Hey," was his greeting.
After a few helpful language and computer instructions from Joe, I was logged into the system. Hmmmm. This could be tricky. I recognized the word Google, but wasn't sure about the "Buscar con Google" or the "Voy a tener suerte." That's OK, I can figure this out. I checked the clock in the bottom right hand corner of the monitor -- 3:40 pm. This would have to be record-speed.
I said:
"At this very moment I am in an Internet cafe located about 3 blocks from the hotel. It is Tuesday at about 3:45 pm and I have to be back at the hotel at 4 pm. I have tried to call home but have had no luck getting a signal which means no phone calls home over the next little while.
I will not bore you with the details about the trip here. All the connections worked out though some were tighter than others. Mexico City Airport is muya grande.We are going for a (coffee) cupping at Maya Vinic at 4 pm today.Tomorrow we go out to Puebla Community for the first of two overnight stays. The second one is Friday night when we travel to Agua Azul.
I just wanted to check in to let you know that i am here, I am safe and I am happily getting to meet the people of San Cristobal de Las Casas. I found out why the hotel is not on the web. I will take pictures because you would not believe me otherwise. As I was taking a shower this morning (waiting on the hot water) we had a small earthquake. No big deal I guess -- they happen all the time. I was kind of relieved because I thought that I was having a dizzy spell. Never thought I would say that I was happy for an earthquake.
I have not taken many pictures yet. I will take some of the countryside and the hotel and the cathedrals here. I have to take as many shots as possible with no people in them -- one of the rules. I promise to take pictures of the streets though. You absolutely would not believe these streets. They are about 25-30 feet wide. Most are one way but not all of them. People park all over the place. Thrill seekers should add driving to and in San Cristobal to their crazy thing to do list.I have to get back to the hotel so I will try to come back here later in the week (after our sleepover).Talk to you soon!Love you all!"
I added email addresses of everyone who I figured may be worrying about me and then I clicked the send button.
It was 3:50 p.m.
I scanned my inbox to see if I was missing anything urgent and then....
Returned Mail, System Administrator. Crud! I opened the email to see which email account was rejected -- my daughter. OK, I can live with that. I close the message. Then came another.
Returned Mail, System Administrator. Darn! I opened the email to see which email account was rejected this time -- my son. OK. He'll be disappointed, but I'll send it again tonight or tomorrow. Must be something hotmail-related. And then...
Returned Mail, System Administrator. Crap!
"Joe, are you having any problems sending email?"
"No," came his reply.
I read all of my rejected messages and discovered that my sister's address was a success. I sent her another quick little email:
"Im getting my email returned to John and the kids. Can you please call them ASAP AND let them know I am fine. There is no cell signal here.I{ll check in again soom. Tell them to send me an email and I{ll reply. Hopefully they will get my emails that way ....or maybe you could relay them for me.
Tahnks,love,Sis"
Yes, it did look EXACTLY like that. Bad spelling and no apostrophes. I almost killed me to send it that way.
I quickly paid the clerk for my time trying to convey my deep apologies for my poor Spanish and rushed manners using facial expressions and hand gestures. I left Joe at the computer and ran up the street towards the hotel. The entire time I was running up the street I was recalling our pre-trip documentation. "Be punctual." It was one of the rules that would help things go more smoothly as we travelled in a big group.
I burst through the hotel door at precisely 4 pm and found myself alone in the lobby. I ran up to the room and knocked on the door. Fortunately Sharon was still getting ready. Good - they didn't leave without me, I thought. I took a look in the mirror, winced at my reflection there and tried to tame my crazy curls. I grabbed my coffee samples for our cupping at Maya Vinic and headed downstairs to fill up my water bottle. By the time I returned to the lobby, the group was starting to gather.
"Hi guys," Chris said as he walked in the door.
"How did it go today, " asked Seth.
"I'll tell you later," said Chris. "We're running a little behind. We're supposed to be at Maya Vinic for a cupping but we're still going to try to meet with Julio at 7:00. I'm not sure if he's going to be able to meet with us. He's got a few meetings this afternoon but if there's time we'll get together."
I recalled another rule from our pre-trip documents. "Be flexible. Things don't always go as planned."
Chris dodged back out the doorway and began hailing cabs.
I filled my water bottle and then walked outside with Sally, Annie and Sharon. We chatted on the sidewalk as the group gathered together under the late afternoon sky. It felt early, I thought. Maybe it's because I had only just finished lunch less than one hour ago.
Jodi was saying goodbye to Miguel as the rest of the group purchased some of CIEPAC's documentaries and posters. While I desperately wanted a "Boycott Coke" poster, I was not sure that it would make it safely back to Canada in my luggage. Then again, I figured, where would I hang it? There were only two places that I thought might be appropriate -- at the coffee shop and in the clubhouse at the golf course. Since I didn't own either of these commercial locations, it seemed a little presumptuous to purchase a poster for both or either store. I enjoyed a short little daydream where I saw myself hanging a poster up in the soda isle at the grocery store and then decided against making the purchase. I'll just make up a few "killer coke" stickers instead," I thought, "I can stick them on much faster than I can hang a poster."
We headed back towards the city centre to grab some lunch. La Casa del Pan Papalotl is a well known restaurant located at 55 Real de Guadalupe near San Cristobal's downtown. It serves a buffet lunch from 2 pm to 4 pm from Mondays to Thursdays. Lunch...from 2 pm to 4 pm. Lunch. As I crossed the threshold of La Casa at just a few minutes before 3 pm, I understood that Mexico's timetable was very different from the one that I was used to.
There were two doorways toPan Papalotl. The first was the door to a small storefront that could not have been any larger than 10 x 12. It was full of fresh bread, dried fruits and nuts and packages of dried herbs. There were shelves on every wall from floor to ceiling full of baskets and jars filled with produce. The other door was a double-wide glass door that opened to a bright and spacious dining room. The plaster on the walls had, I'm sure, celebrated more birthdays than I but lent themselves to the authenticity of the restaurant. Skylights dotted the ceiling 15 to 20 feet above us and were probably the restaurant's most contemporary update. Spaces between table settings made the heavy wooden furniture less imposing and made it easier for the patrons to maneuver through the restaurant and admire the local artwork. The tables were set with light linen and colourful place settings, dressed and ready to receive us.
Past our table was a smaller room with a wait station on the left and a buffet on the right which also seemed to act as a boundary for the restaurant since, on the other side, was space that Pan Papalotl shared with the cultural center El Peuente. El Peuente, I discovered, has a gallery space, a language school and a cinema just behind the restaurant. I chose my seat and leaned my pack against the wall. I could smell old wood behind the restaurant's lunch special and it reminded of the country.
Jodi explained to us that the restaurant was well known for its vegetarian offerings and fresh, organic products. In fact, the owner has a garden where she grows many of the vegetables; the rest she buys from local growers using fair trade practices. The bread is all freshly baked sourdough bread made with organic wheat.
We lined up at the buffet, picked up our plates and chose from a dozen bowls of fresh vegetables. Mixed spring greens in a deep wooden salad bowl, fresh romaine lettuce and sourdough croutons on a ceramic platter, a clear glass bowl full of coarsely chopped tomato dressed with fresh picked herbs, sliced cucumbers tossed in a light dressing with grated carrot and fresh dill, pickled red beets, gigantic red radishes, and slices of avocado arranged neatly on a platter decorated with the zest and the wedges of lemon. There was more. There was much. Too much.
I walked gently to the table with my heaping plate of fresh organic deliciousness. I was famished -- what with it almost being suppertime -- and could hardly wait to enjoy my late, late lunch. It tasted heavenly. Four months of winter had me missing fresh vegetables. The last tomato I bought at the grocery store tasted like water and was the consistency of beach sand and I couldn't even bring myself to pay $3.99 for a cucumber. It was such a treat, I savored every bite. The waiter came around with a pitcher asking us if we would like water.
I looked at his pitcher of pink juice, smiled politely and said, "Agua, por favor."
"Si," he replied as he tipped his pitcher and emptied pink juice into my glass.
I looked around me to measure the reaction of my colleagues. Nobody seemed put off by their pink water so I ventured a taste. It was mild, vaguely sweet and, well, wet. I didn't know what it was and I didn't ask. It would serve the purpose if I needed to dislodge a piece of bread to keep from dying otherwise there was really no need for refills thank you very much.
After we finished our salad plates, the waiter came and collected our dishes before replacing them with small trays of gnocchi. (Gnocchi, I probably don't need to tell you, is not an authentic Mexican dish. It is, in fact, an Italian dumpling filled with potato.) Slices of cactus, perfect heads of broccoli and a generous helping of green beans saw to it that the gnocchi was well presented. Needless to say, it was delicious, but when the waiter came back for our dessert orders, I had no room left. We ordered one of each of the three desserts and passed them around the table. Each of us took a sampling and passed it on.
We left La Casa del Pan Papalotl with instructions to meet back at the hotel at 4 pm where we would take cabs over to the Maya Vinic headquarters. I had not phoned home to let anyone know that I had arrived safely so I was desperate to get to an Internet cafe to make some kind of a connection. Sharon and I headed down Real de Guadalupe and watched for shops that we could visit when we had more time. We turned left onto Diego Dugelay and followed it down to Francisco Leon. Sharon turned left towards the hotel and I turned right towards the Zoccola. I had seen an Internet Cafe just down from the hotel on our way back from dinner the night before. That's where I decided I needed to be.
Three minutes later, I turned into the doorway of a tiny Internet Cafe and took a moment to allow my eyes to adjust to the dark interior. There were six computers turned on and waiting for customers. One of the members of our group was at a computer just inside the doorway so I grabbed a vacant computer next to him.
"Hi Joe," I said.
"Hey," was his greeting.
After a few helpful language and computer instructions from Joe, I was logged into the system. Hmmmm. This could be tricky. I recognized the word Google, but wasn't sure about the "Buscar con Google" or the "Voy a tener suerte." That's OK, I can figure this out. I checked the clock in the bottom right hand corner of the monitor -- 3:40 pm. This would have to be record-speed.
I said:
"At this very moment I am in an Internet cafe located about 3 blocks from the hotel. It is Tuesday at about 3:45 pm and I have to be back at the hotel at 4 pm. I have tried to call home but have had no luck getting a signal which means no phone calls home over the next little while.
I will not bore you with the details about the trip here. All the connections worked out though some were tighter than others. Mexico City Airport is muya grande.We are going for a (coffee) cupping at Maya Vinic at 4 pm today.Tomorrow we go out to Puebla Community for the first of two overnight stays. The second one is Friday night when we travel to Agua Azul.
I just wanted to check in to let you know that i am here, I am safe and I am happily getting to meet the people of San Cristobal de Las Casas. I found out why the hotel is not on the web. I will take pictures because you would not believe me otherwise. As I was taking a shower this morning (waiting on the hot water) we had a small earthquake. No big deal I guess -- they happen all the time. I was kind of relieved because I thought that I was having a dizzy spell. Never thought I would say that I was happy for an earthquake.
I have not taken many pictures yet. I will take some of the countryside and the hotel and the cathedrals here. I have to take as many shots as possible with no people in them -- one of the rules. I promise to take pictures of the streets though. You absolutely would not believe these streets. They are about 25-30 feet wide. Most are one way but not all of them. People park all over the place. Thrill seekers should add driving to and in San Cristobal to their crazy thing to do list.I have to get back to the hotel so I will try to come back here later in the week (after our sleepover).Talk to you soon!Love you all!"
I added email addresses of everyone who I figured may be worrying about me and then I clicked the send button.
It was 3:50 p.m.
I scanned my inbox to see if I was missing anything urgent and then....
Returned Mail, System Administrator. Crud! I opened the email to see which email account was rejected -- my daughter. OK, I can live with that. I close the message. Then came another.
Returned Mail, System Administrator. Darn! I opened the email to see which email account was rejected this time -- my son. OK. He'll be disappointed, but I'll send it again tonight or tomorrow. Must be something hotmail-related. And then...
Returned Mail, System Administrator. Crap!
"Joe, are you having any problems sending email?"
"No," came his reply.
I read all of my rejected messages and discovered that my sister's address was a success. I sent her another quick little email:
"Im getting my email returned to John and the kids. Can you please call them ASAP AND let them know I am fine. There is no cell signal here.I{ll check in again soom. Tell them to send me an email and I{ll reply. Hopefully they will get my emails that way ....or maybe you could relay them for me.
Tahnks,love,Sis"
Yes, it did look EXACTLY like that. Bad spelling and no apostrophes. I almost killed me to send it that way.
I quickly paid the clerk for my time trying to convey my deep apologies for my poor Spanish and rushed manners using facial expressions and hand gestures. I left Joe at the computer and ran up the street towards the hotel. The entire time I was running up the street I was recalling our pre-trip documentation. "Be punctual." It was one of the rules that would help things go more smoothly as we travelled in a big group.
I burst through the hotel door at precisely 4 pm and found myself alone in the lobby. I ran up to the room and knocked on the door. Fortunately Sharon was still getting ready. Good - they didn't leave without me, I thought. I took a look in the mirror, winced at my reflection there and tried to tame my crazy curls. I grabbed my coffee samples for our cupping at Maya Vinic and headed downstairs to fill up my water bottle. By the time I returned to the lobby, the group was starting to gather.
"Hi guys," Chris said as he walked in the door.
"How did it go today, " asked Seth.
"I'll tell you later," said Chris. "We're running a little behind. We're supposed to be at Maya Vinic for a cupping but we're still going to try to meet with Julio at 7:00. I'm not sure if he's going to be able to meet with us. He's got a few meetings this afternoon but if there's time we'll get together."
I recalled another rule from our pre-trip documents. "Be flexible. Things don't always go as planned."
Chris dodged back out the doorway and began hailing cabs.
I filled my water bottle and then walked outside with Sally, Annie and Sharon. We chatted on the sidewalk as the group gathered together under the late afternoon sky. It felt early, I thought. Maybe it's because I had only just finished lunch less than one hour ago.
Sunday, March 16
NAFTA's Passionate Critic
The sidewalks were so narrow and in such disrepair that walking on the street at times offered less risk of bodily injury. The streets are only a few metres wide, barely enough for two cars to pass -- no room in fact, if there are parked cars along the crowded streets -- but this does not affect the behaviour or speed of the motorists. I feel the warm rush of a breeze slap at my jacket every time a compact car races by me. I jump up on the sidewalk to pass by a long line of parked cars and the jump back down onto the street to avoid a hole in the sidewalk filled with rusty rebar. Back up onto the sidewalk to cross an intersection, down to cross the street, up on the other side. My morning workout, I smiled.
I knew that we must be nearly at our destination since there was little of the city left to cross. A few blocks ahead the street ended and a mountain rose into the sky. Tin shacks dotted the hillside and I wondered about their purpose; surely they could not be houses. I looked around for glass office buildings but there were none, just more and more of these colourful houses fashioned from adobe or concrete blocks. Many have large gated entries through which they can drive their cars and nearly every one of these is closed and locked. The city's devotion to household security made me uneasy since it implied that to live well, one must turn their home into a fortress.
"It's to your right," Jody called out from behind us.
I crossed the street and saw the CIEPAC sign hanging in front of a gated entry just below a bouganvillia dripping its blossoms onto the sidewalk. I walked to the gate of CIEPAC and stood beneath the blossoms inhaling deeply as they released their perfume to me. For one instant I remembered the cold winter I left behind and then quickly returned to reprimand myself for leaving the moment. I stood in the shade of the bouganvillia and watched as the rest of our group arrived at the gates of CIEPAC.
Jodi poked at the buzzer to let the staff know that we had arrived.
We walked through the gate and entered the small adobe house that served as the offices of CIEPAC.
"Through the kitchen, out the door and turn left," directed the young dark-haired woman behind the front desk.
The kitchen door opened to a concrete walkway that ran the length of the home. I turned left and headed towards a terrace at the back of the house. On my right was a ten-foot wall that barricaded the property of CIEPAC. At the end of the terrace was a small trailer fashioned into a schoolroom of sorts with two tables arranged end-to-end surrounded by a collection of mismatched chairs. Maps and posters covered the walls. Brochures, videos and piles of paperwork littered the tables and shelves and a large whiteboard defined the front of the room.
Within minutes we were introduced to Miguel who gave us each a copy of Eduardo Porter's article in the New York Times, "NAFTA Is a Sweet Deal, So Why Are They So Sour?"
"Please take a few minutes to read this article and then we'll get started," he said.
Miguel's parents were Americans who visited Mexico during a vacation one winter and decided to relocate there. Miguel and his sister were raised in Mexico he explained, and while he opted to stay, his sister returned to the United States and neither she nor her children are interested in returning. It has been years since they have seen each other. In stark contrast to his sister, Miguel's life in Mexico left him with a deep sense of solidarity for the Mexican people and, in particular, the people of Chiapas. Perhaps this is why he decided to stay and found a life at the Center for Economic and Political Research for Community Action - CIEPAC. The Center was founded in 1998 as a civil organization "that accompanies social movements in Chiapas, Mexico and Mesoamerica, as well as the global struggles that seek to build a more democratic world, with justice and dignity for all. Its principle activities are research, information-dissemination, education, training and analysis."
We began by reviewing the history of Mexico, the influence of the United States of America and globalization. We explored the history of developed countries and how they rose to power and how politics influenced their successes and lesser successes. We explored the struggles of developing countries and the least developed countries and discussed the hurdles they face as the climb the ladder towards "development." In the end, the group was met with the idea that developed, developing and under-developed countries each have a role in maintaining a balance in preserving our planet.
We talked about the influence that developed countries have on other developing nations.
Mexico has a huge population of lower-class families and it is seeing emerging trends in health issues that are normally prevalent in developed nations -- for example childhood
obesity and childhood diabetes. Coca Cola set up a number of bottling plants
in Mexico and now offers resale at metropolitan and rural locations throughout the country. Miguel talked a little about Coca Cola's corporate history as I sat and nodded in total agreement. (See my archive blog about corporate criminals for more information about Coca Cola). CEIPAC has begun a country wide boycott of Coca Cola, travelling to schools and communities to educate them about the negative impact this sugary soft drink is having on the health of the nation's children.
"Just think," Miguel explained, "what a country requires in terms of resources in order to feed its development."
Industry requires raw products and energy in order to operate and it invariably produces pollutants that filter their way through our soil and air. We imagined what the planet would be like if the number of developed countries doubled and soon realized that it was not possible to imagine a developed planet. While we pondered this party-pooping idea of Miguel's he quickly turned the conversation back to Mexico.
"Mexico's biggest import at present is its labour workforce," explained Miguel. "During the past 10 years, 25% of the rural population has left the country. Twenty-five percent."
We silently pondered the figure and I tried to recall the country's population -- 100 million or 103 million, I thought. If 20 million lived in Mexico City, that still left 80 million or so. At even 50% of these 80 million people living in cities (and I think that's a high estimate) that leaves 40 million people living in rural Mexico. My math led me to an estimate of 10 million people. Ten million people left Mexico during the past ten years. That's an average of one million a year.
"They are leaving to find jobs in America because there are few opportunities here in Mexico. While the leaders promised many jobs once NAFTA became effective, those jobs never materialized," lamented Miguel. "What's more, the SPPNA is the militarization of NAFTA and the next meeting is in April of this year."
"SPPNA?"
"Security and Prosperity Partnership for North America. It's not a single negotiated treaty, but rather a series of legislations signed by the Executive Branch of the three governments. The tri-national summit is scheduled to take place in New Orleans on April 21 and 22. Prosperity Partnership, doesn't that sound nice? It means that because Canada and Mexico are geographical buffers to possible terrorists wishing to infiltrate the USA, the US border is de-facto those of North America. "
Cynics refer to the SPPNA as plot to dissolve the union. I read while investigating this further that, W. Bush’s national security advisor, Stephen Hadley, said that, "in the event of foreign aggression or another Sept. 11 attack, the defense of the three countries would be unified (needless to say) under U.S. command. In other words, the accord — which is little known in Canada — foresees that the armed forces of Mexico and Canada shall become subservient to those of the United States." Does that mean I get a vote for the US President?
"Go home, research the SPPNA and draw your own conclusions," advised Miguel, "but consider how this deep integration will further impact North American relations."
"We don't have a lot of time left Miguel, but I was hoping you would talk to the group about Chapter 11," said Jody.
"Chapter 11," said Miguel, "oh yes, Chapter 11. Well, NAFTA is a huge document about economic liberalization that neither you nor I would ever read. Inside that document is Chapter 11 which addresses barriers to investment. Now, Chapter 11 was intended to protect investors in case foreign governments tried to seize their property but the wording in that chapter has left a loophole that allows private industry to launch large multinational lawsuits. Ralph Nader has devoted a website to Chapter 11 lawsuits."
In 1990, a Mexican Company called Coterin received authorization from the Mexican government to operate a toxic dump in the State of San Luis Potosi but was denied a municipal permit in 1991 by Guadalcazar. In 1993, a California-based company called Metalclad purchased Coterin and once again tried to acquire permits to open a toxic dump site in San Luis Potosi. The threat to the environment was clear and inarguable and the residents were passionate about keeping their environment safe. (Miguel said that they threatened to string the mayor up by his throat if he issued the permit.) In 1997, Metalclad sued the Mexican government for $90 million claiming that the actions of the municipality amounted to expropriation without compensation. What's more, Metalclad claimed the government of Mexico failed to fair and equitable treatment in accordance with international law. A NAFTA tribunal awarded Metalclad $16,685,000.
UPS is based in Atlanta, Georgia and has been in business since 1907 -- UPS Canada has been operational since 1975. In 1981, Canada Post was transformed from a government department to a Crown Corporation which is a publicly owned corporation. In 1993, Canada Post bought Purolator Courier which was Canada's leading overnight delivery courier company making Canada Post the fifth largest employer in Canada. In 1999, UPS filed suit for $160 million claiming that Canada Post was in violation of NAFTA's Chapter 11 and NAFTA Chapter 15 on competition policy, monopolies and state-run enterprises. The foundation of the lawsuit is a claim that Canada Post abuses its special monopoly status by utilizing its infrastructure to cross-subsidize its parcel and courier services. (I would like to point out that it costs more money to send a parcel by Canada Post than by UPS, Canpar or DHL. The only more expensive courier service is, in fact, Purolator -- with the exception of possibly FedEx.) There's more to it but you can read it for yourself. In essence, UPS claims that the very existence of Canada Post violates its rights under NAFTA.
"You mean there is nothing in Chapter 11 that protects the environmental or social policies of the government against private industry?" I asked.
"No," was Miguel's simple answer.
There are more lawsuits. In fact, during the first seven years of NAFTA, at least 12 investors have invoked the provisions of Chapter 11 to pursue claims against one of the three governments for compensation. The US has been targeted as well, though it has fared much better than Canada and Mexico.
I felt very naive as I sat and listened to Miguel. How is it that I was unaware of SPPNA? How did I not hear about Chapter 11 lawsuits? Well, I was aware of Ketcham's lawsuit against Canada's Softwood Lumber Agreement, but I didn't make the connection to Chapter 11 of NAFTA.
I smiled at the irony. I had to travel to San Cristobal to learn about my country. I was learning more about North American trade in Mexico than I had ever learned at home.
I knew that we must be nearly at our destination since there was little of the city left to cross. A few blocks ahead the street ended and a mountain rose into the sky. Tin shacks dotted the hillside and I wondered about their purpose; surely they could not be houses. I looked around for glass office buildings but there were none, just more and more of these colourful houses fashioned from adobe or concrete blocks. Many have large gated entries through which they can drive their cars and nearly every one of these is closed and locked. The city's devotion to household security made me uneasy since it implied that to live well, one must turn their home into a fortress.
"It's to your right," Jody called out from behind us.
I crossed the street and saw the CIEPAC sign hanging in front of a gated entry just below a bouganvillia dripping its blossoms onto the sidewalk. I walked to the gate of CIEPAC and stood beneath the blossoms inhaling deeply as they released their perfume to me. For one instant I remembered the cold winter I left behind and then quickly returned to reprimand myself for leaving the moment. I stood in the shade of the bouganvillia and watched as the rest of our group arrived at the gates of CIEPAC.
Jodi poked at the buzzer to let the staff know that we had arrived.
We walked through the gate and entered the small adobe house that served as the offices of CIEPAC.
"Through the kitchen, out the door and turn left," directed the young dark-haired woman behind the front desk.
The kitchen door opened to a concrete walkway that ran the length of the home. I turned left and headed towards a terrace at the back of the house. On my right was a ten-foot wall that barricaded the property of CIEPAC. At the end of the terrace was a small trailer fashioned into a schoolroom of sorts with two tables arranged end-to-end surrounded by a collection of mismatched chairs. Maps and posters covered the walls. Brochures, videos and piles of paperwork littered the tables and shelves and a large whiteboard defined the front of the room.
Within minutes we were introduced to Miguel who gave us each a copy of Eduardo Porter's article in the New York Times, "NAFTA Is a Sweet Deal, So Why Are They So Sour?"
"Please take a few minutes to read this article and then we'll get started," he said.
Miguel's parents were Americans who visited Mexico during a vacation one winter and decided to relocate there. Miguel and his sister were raised in Mexico he explained, and while he opted to stay, his sister returned to the United States and neither she nor her children are interested in returning. It has been years since they have seen each other. In stark contrast to his sister, Miguel's life in Mexico left him with a deep sense of solidarity for the Mexican people and, in particular, the people of Chiapas. Perhaps this is why he decided to stay and found a life at the Center for Economic and Political Research for Community Action - CIEPAC. The Center was founded in 1998 as a civil organization "that accompanies social movements in Chiapas, Mexico and Mesoamerica, as well as the global struggles that seek to build a more democratic world, with justice and dignity for all. Its principle activities are research, information-dissemination, education, training and analysis."
We began by reviewing the history of Mexico, the influence of the United States of America and globalization. We explored the history of developed countries and how they rose to power and how politics influenced their successes and lesser successes. We explored the struggles of developing countries and the least developed countries and discussed the hurdles they face as the climb the ladder towards "development." In the end, the group was met with the idea that developed, developing and under-developed countries each have a role in maintaining a balance in preserving our planet.
We talked about the influence that developed countries have on other developing nations.
Mexico has a huge population of lower-class families and it is seeing emerging trends in health issues that are normally prevalent in developed nations -- for example childhood
obesity and childhood diabetes. Coca Cola set up a number of bottling plantsin Mexico and now offers resale at metropolitan and rural locations throughout the country. Miguel talked a little about Coca Cola's corporate history as I sat and nodded in total agreement. (See my archive blog about corporate criminals for more information about Coca Cola). CEIPAC has begun a country wide boycott of Coca Cola, travelling to schools and communities to educate them about the negative impact this sugary soft drink is having on the health of the nation's children.
"Just think," Miguel explained, "what a country requires in terms of resources in order to feed its development."
Industry requires raw products and energy in order to operate and it invariably produces pollutants that filter their way through our soil and air. We imagined what the planet would be like if the number of developed countries doubled and soon realized that it was not possible to imagine a developed planet. While we pondered this party-pooping idea of Miguel's he quickly turned the conversation back to Mexico.
"Mexico's biggest import at present is its labour workforce," explained Miguel. "During the past 10 years, 25% of the rural population has left the country. Twenty-five percent."
We silently pondered the figure and I tried to recall the country's population -- 100 million or 103 million, I thought. If 20 million lived in Mexico City, that still left 80 million or so. At even 50% of these 80 million people living in cities (and I think that's a high estimate) that leaves 40 million people living in rural Mexico. My math led me to an estimate of 10 million people. Ten million people left Mexico during the past ten years. That's an average of one million a year.
"They are leaving to find jobs in America because there are few opportunities here in Mexico. While the leaders promised many jobs once NAFTA became effective, those jobs never materialized," lamented Miguel. "What's more, the SPPNA is the militarization of NAFTA and the next meeting is in April of this year."
"SPPNA?"
"Security and Prosperity Partnership for North America. It's not a single negotiated treaty, but rather a series of legislations signed by the Executive Branch of the three governments. The tri-national summit is scheduled to take place in New Orleans on April 21 and 22. Prosperity Partnership, doesn't that sound nice? It means that because Canada and Mexico are geographical buffers to possible terrorists wishing to infiltrate the USA, the US border is de-facto those of North America. "
Cynics refer to the SPPNA as plot to dissolve the union. I read while investigating this further that, W. Bush’s national security advisor, Stephen Hadley, said that, "in the event of foreign aggression or another Sept. 11 attack, the defense of the three countries would be unified (needless to say) under U.S. command. In other words, the accord — which is little known in Canada — foresees that the armed forces of Mexico and Canada shall become subservient to those of the United States." Does that mean I get a vote for the US President?
"Go home, research the SPPNA and draw your own conclusions," advised Miguel, "but consider how this deep integration will further impact North American relations."
"We don't have a lot of time left Miguel, but I was hoping you would talk to the group about Chapter 11," said Jody.
"Chapter 11," said Miguel, "oh yes, Chapter 11. Well, NAFTA is a huge document about economic liberalization that neither you nor I would ever read. Inside that document is Chapter 11 which addresses barriers to investment. Now, Chapter 11 was intended to protect investors in case foreign governments tried to seize their property but the wording in that chapter has left a loophole that allows private industry to launch large multinational lawsuits. Ralph Nader has devoted a website to Chapter 11 lawsuits."
In 1990, a Mexican Company called Coterin received authorization from the Mexican government to operate a toxic dump in the State of San Luis Potosi but was denied a municipal permit in 1991 by Guadalcazar. In 1993, a California-based company called Metalclad purchased Coterin and once again tried to acquire permits to open a toxic dump site in San Luis Potosi. The threat to the environment was clear and inarguable and the residents were passionate about keeping their environment safe. (Miguel said that they threatened to string the mayor up by his throat if he issued the permit.) In 1997, Metalclad sued the Mexican government for $90 million claiming that the actions of the municipality amounted to expropriation without compensation. What's more, Metalclad claimed the government of Mexico failed to fair and equitable treatment in accordance with international law. A NAFTA tribunal awarded Metalclad $16,685,000.
UPS is based in Atlanta, Georgia and has been in business since 1907 -- UPS Canada has been operational since 1975. In 1981, Canada Post was transformed from a government department to a Crown Corporation which is a publicly owned corporation. In 1993, Canada Post bought Purolator Courier which was Canada's leading overnight delivery courier company making Canada Post the fifth largest employer in Canada. In 1999, UPS filed suit for $160 million claiming that Canada Post was in violation of NAFTA's Chapter 11 and NAFTA Chapter 15 on competition policy, monopolies and state-run enterprises. The foundation of the lawsuit is a claim that Canada Post abuses its special monopoly status by utilizing its infrastructure to cross-subsidize its parcel and courier services. (I would like to point out that it costs more money to send a parcel by Canada Post than by UPS, Canpar or DHL. The only more expensive courier service is, in fact, Purolator -- with the exception of possibly FedEx.) There's more to it but you can read it for yourself. In essence, UPS claims that the very existence of Canada Post violates its rights under NAFTA.
"You mean there is nothing in Chapter 11 that protects the environmental or social policies of the government against private industry?" I asked.
"No," was Miguel's simple answer.
There are more lawsuits. In fact, during the first seven years of NAFTA, at least 12 investors have invoked the provisions of Chapter 11 to pursue claims against one of the three governments for compensation. The US has been targeted as well, though it has fared much better than Canada and Mexico.
I felt very naive as I sat and listened to Miguel. How is it that I was unaware of SPPNA? How did I not hear about Chapter 11 lawsuits? Well, I was aware of Ketcham's lawsuit against Canada's Softwood Lumber Agreement, but I didn't make the connection to Chapter 11 of NAFTA.
I smiled at the irony. I had to travel to San Cristobal to learn about my country. I was learning more about North American trade in Mexico than I had ever learned at home.
Friday, March 7
Ten Minute History Lesson
Before we left the hotel, Chris excused himself from the group. He explained that he and Julio would be spending the day traveling to meet with the Juntas to coordinate visits to Zapatista communities located at Yachil and Bolon Ajaw.
Let me explain.
The Zapatista Army of National Liberation (EZLN) was named after Emaliano Zapata who was a leading figure in the Mexican Revolution which began in 1910. The year before, the National Anti-reelectionist Party announced that Francisco Madero, a young and wealthy landowner, would stand as a Presidential Candidate. At the time, the country's capitalist economy was peaking and Spanish haciendas were controlling more and more of the land and squeezing out independent communities of aboriginals who were being forced into slavery. Chiapas alone was home to over 6,800 private estates -- a 680% increase from 1880. By 1910, 80% of Mexicans were living in the countryside, 1/3 of the population was pure Indian but 87% spoke Spanish.
During the 10 years of the Mexican Revolution the country would be rocked by rebellion and conflict. In 1914 in Chiapas, a new labour law abolished debt servitude and instituted a minimum wage; major landowners revolted. In 1915 the war peaked and Zapata's forces were the focus of countless attacks. In Chaipas, rebellious landowners and indigenous supporters form guerilla forces. In the years that follow, Obregon founded the PLC (Liberal Constitutionalist Party); Morones founded the CROM (Regional Confederation of Mexican Workers); CROM organizes the PLM (Mexican Labour Party); and, a peasant party (PNA) is formed. And then, in 1920, Zapata is assassinated. Obregon becomes president but the USA refused to recognize the new regime.
In 1923, de la Heurta leads half the federal army in rebellion against Obregon and Calles; worker and peasant armies organized by the PLM and PNA help the rest of the army quell the rebellion. In 1924, Calles becomes President with Obregon's support. PLM and PNA dominate the federal congress and soon become rivals. PNA aligns with Obregon and PLM aligns with Calles dividing the country. In 1927 a new rebellion begins -- the Cristero rebellion -- with over 50,000 armed rebels involved. Obregon is assassinated in 1928. Calles remains the power behind the presidential throne and creates the Party of the National Revolution (PNR) in 1929.
In 1934, Cardenas becomes President and begins the first major land reform since 1917. Calles remains in the background and threatens a coup in 1935. When the coup fails, Calles is forced to flee the country. Cardenas expropriates 17 British, Dutch and US oil companies and establishes the national oil company PEMEX. He dissolves the PNR and creates the PRM -- made up of peasant, labour, popular and military. In 1940, Camacho becomes president -- 65% of the population still lives in the countryside and wages peak. PRM becomes the PRI - Party of the Institutionalized Revolution -- and almost 15% of the national territory has been redistributed among 1.8 million peasants and half of the rural population are part of the new rural class of ejiditarios -- approximately 20,000 ejidos were recognized, of which 900 were "collective" in character. In 1941, the US entered WWII and boycotts were lifted against Mexican oil imports. Things were starting to look up.
Fast forward to 1976 when Portillo becomes President; this "friend of business" cuts back on government spending, increases borrowing and welcomes foreign investors with wide open arms. By 1982, Mexico faced a debt crisis that further devalued the peso. The crisis continues in the years that follow and peaked in 1986 when many state-owned companies were privatized. Mexico signed a structural adjustment agreement with the International Monetary Fund (IMF) which greatly accelerated the pace of neoliberal reform and further encouraged foreign investors to set up shop and take advantage of cheap Mexican labour.
The loose definition of neoliberalism is the transfer of economic control from the public to the private sector. The idea behind neoliberalism is that public (meaning government) control of the economy is at best inefficient, at worst corrupt. Critics argue that the economic transfer to private industry absolves the government of its accountability which is subversive of the democratic process. We saw success through the deinstitutionalization of state economic controls in Chile (Pinochet), Britain (Thatcher) USA (Reagan), New Zealand (Douglas) and Canada (Mulroney).
What about Mexico? Mexico's political environment was too unstable and too corrupt to provide an infrastructure of support that would allow its people to reap the benefits of a neoliberal economy. Without the benefit of a strategy to build a healthy economy for its people, Mexico's leaders looked for a panacea in capitalism. Foreign investors would buy their way into the country and use their financial assets to drive the country's political agenda by lining the pockets of corrupt government officials. To meet their annual financial objectives they would require cheap labour, a devalued peso, low taxes, and lots and lots of inexpensive raw materials. Their stockholders after all, lived elsewhere and were rewarding management with fat bonuses in exchange for high dividends. All this did was widen the gap between high-income and low-income households in Mexico.
By 1987, the PRI party split into a rival faction called the PRD (Part of the Democratic Revolution) over questions of economic policy reforms. In 1990, NAFTA negotiations begin and Cardenas becomes PRD Mayor of Mexico City. Salinas signs off on NAFTA in 1992 though Clinton's election meant more policy changes that resulted in side deals regarding labour and environmental issues.
Mexicans would never benefit from NAFTA, however the idea was not to satisfy the voters but to support the growth of capitalism in the country's new neoliberal environment. Foreign investors saw great potential in open border trade with the US and Canada. Importing raw materials and exporting cheaply manufactured products meant a bigger bottom line. But who was protecting the interests of poor Mexican farmers? Well, nobody...except the EZLN.
Poor Mexican farmers who harvested crops by hand would be forced to complete with commercial farms in the US and Canada -- donkeys and a team of oxen versus John Deere and Massey Ferguson. The "people of the corn" would be forced to compete in the marketplace with subsidized farmers and their artificially fertilized, genetically modified, mechanically harvested crops. Fair? Not by a long shot. As if that is not enough, the terms of NAFTA required an amendment to the Mexican constitution that outlawed land collectives. Land holdings must be privately owned under the terms of NAFTA, which was a direct violation of guaranteed land reparations to indigenous groups in Mexico. There was not protection for social policy under the terms of NAFTA. Or at least, there was not sufficient incentive for Mexico's leaders to protect the rights of its indigenous land holders.
Mexico had signed off on NAFTA in 1992. Despite protests, Mexico's border would officially open when NAFTA became effective on January 1, 1994. The EZLN struggled to find a public platform for the voice of the Mexican farmers. In 1993, the Zapatistas declared war on the Mexican government arguing that it had absolved itself of its right to rule because it was so out of touch with the needs of its people. In effect, the Zapatistas claimed that the government was illegitimate.
In November 1993, NAFTA negotiations conclude and the agreement is narrowly approved by the House of Representatives.
On January 1, 1994 -- the day that NAFTA became effective -- the Zapatistas' rebellion became armed and active. It was New Year's Day and politicians and peacekeepers were relaxing with their families when members of the EZLN donned ski masks and took up arms. Their strategy was planned with flawless precision and executed by passionate patriots whose interests were entirely invested in protecting the rights of their countrymen. They stormed government offices and burned land titles in protest. They burned empty haciendas while their owners celebrated the holidays with their families in one of their other houses. Their strategy included the occupation of communities throughout the state of Chaipas and established EZLN military forces to defend them against policy and army forces. Violent clashes continued for nearly two weeks until a Bishop in San Cristobal de las Casas successfully negotiated a ceasefire.
The EZLN had captured the world's interest though it came at the cost of many human casualties. Zapatista leaders demanded autonomy from the Mexican government so that they could create their own socialist government to protect and advance the rights of the Mexican people. What's more, they demanded that the natural resources extracted from Chiapas benefit more directly the people of Chiapas. For the first time, the government was listening. As leaders argued over issues of human rights and freedoms, government forces stormed the EZLN's military holdings and slaughtered rebels. Unarmed civilians displaced by government forces would be relocated to refugee camps throughout Chiapas. Leaders of the movement were still at large and so the government ended its raids and proceeded with negotiations. The EZLN laid down its arms and abandoned military strategies in favour of political ones that would include media campaigns to garner support from international solidarity groups.
The Mexican government would recognize the EZLN as a political movement and agreed to enter into negotiations with its leaders that would culminate in the recognition of autonomy and rights for the indigenous people of Mexico through the San Andres Accords signed in 1996. When the Mexican government failed to implement the terms of the Accords, the Zapatista's returned to their communities with the support from "civil society" and began to implement their autonomy unilaterally. They established their own school systems, health facilities and socialist governments. During this period, the Mexican army would deploy forces in the surrounding territories to monitor EZLN activities and serve as a government presence poised to dismantle this structure.
In 2001, Zapatistas marched into Mexico City to protest "watered down agreements" developed by the new government of President Fox. The Mexican Congress was not responding to their demands to recognize the San Andres Accords. The rebels returned to their communities in Chiapas and established 32 autonomous municipalities in effect implementing the agreements without government support. International organizations supported their efforts by providing financial and human resources. International visitors and observers were traveling to Chiapas to support the movement and report on its progress. Their tenacity and perseverance was serving as a model to other indigenous groups throughout the world and inspiring similar movements.
The 32 autonomous municipalities would elect representatives to attend assemblies where this body of government would review and rule on communal issues including the allocation of resources and development projects. To avoid corruption, the representatives serve for only a very short time which results in a continuous rotation of leadership; this body of government is called the Junta. The Mexican government tolerates these renegade municipalities but is involved, I believe, in infiltrating and sabotaging their progress using subversive tactics.
In June 2005, the Zapatistas published the Sixth Declaration of the Selva Lacandona outlining their vision for Mexico. It begins, "This is our simple word which seeks to touch the hearts of humble and simple people like ourselves, but for people who are also, like ourselves, dignified and rebel." They go on to say, "we the zapatistas of the EZLN, rose up in arms in January of 1994 because we saw how widespread had become the evil wrought by the powerful who only humiliated us, stole from us, imprisoned us and killed us, and no one was saying anything or doing anything. That is why we said "Ya Basta!" that no longer were we going to allow them to make us inferior or to treat us worse than animals."
While I understand that a country's social and economical environment is a complex puzzle influenced by its history, its culture and its geography, I was feeling terribly naive. How could it be that I knew so little about the contemporary struggles of this country? We are partners in trade for God's sakes. How did Mexico's human rights issues not have come up in my social studies classes, or law classes, or Sunday's paper? What was I doing on January 1, 1994 when the Zapatista's rose up in rebellion against their government? I don't remember.
I tried to walk on the sunny side of the street all the way from the hotel to CEIPAC across town. I wasn't quite sure what to expect, but I had a picture in my mind of a glass building, a boardroom with bottled water and men in suits. The walk across town was beautiful. We passed this incredibly old chapel on a street corner just a few blocks from the Zoccola.
I quietly contemplated the information that I had learned about earlier in the morning as I walked beneath the watchful eye of the sun. I felt uncomfortable as I envisioned our days ahead and shivered despite the rising warmth of the late morning. I manufactured images of our group meeting with angry men in ski masks and listening to their stories of violent oppression.
The meetings scheduled by our hosts were intended to provide us with context and understanding about Mexico and, more specifically Chiapas. My thoughts drifted to aboriginal issues in my own country. I felt a deep sense of shame wash over me and understood that by becoming a witness to the Zapatista movement in Chiapas, I would forfeit my silence at home.
Let me explain.
The Zapatista Army of National Liberation (EZLN) was named after Emaliano Zapata who was a leading figure in the Mexican Revolution which began in 1910. The year before, the National Anti-reelectionist Party announced that Francisco Madero, a young and wealthy landowner, would stand as a Presidential Candidate. At the time, the country's capitalist economy was peaking and Spanish haciendas were controlling more and more of the land and squeezing out independent communities of aboriginals who were being forced into slavery. Chiapas alone was home to over 6,800 private estates -- a 680% increase from 1880. By 1910, 80% of Mexicans were living in the countryside, 1/3 of the population was pure Indian but 87% spoke Spanish.
During the 10 years of the Mexican Revolution the country would be rocked by rebellion and conflict. In 1914 in Chiapas, a new labour law abolished debt servitude and instituted a minimum wage; major landowners revolted. In 1915 the war peaked and Zapata's forces were the focus of countless attacks. In Chaipas, rebellious landowners and indigenous supporters form guerilla forces. In the years that follow, Obregon founded the PLC (Liberal Constitutionalist Party); Morones founded the CROM (Regional Confederation of Mexican Workers); CROM organizes the PLM (Mexican Labour Party); and, a peasant party (PNA) is formed. And then, in 1920, Zapata is assassinated. Obregon becomes president but the USA refused to recognize the new regime.
In 1923, de la Heurta leads half the federal army in rebellion against Obregon and Calles; worker and peasant armies organized by the PLM and PNA help the rest of the army quell the rebellion. In 1924, Calles becomes President with Obregon's support. PLM and PNA dominate the federal congress and soon become rivals. PNA aligns with Obregon and PLM aligns with Calles dividing the country. In 1927 a new rebellion begins -- the Cristero rebellion -- with over 50,000 armed rebels involved. Obregon is assassinated in 1928. Calles remains the power behind the presidential throne and creates the Party of the National Revolution (PNR) in 1929.
In 1934, Cardenas becomes President and begins the first major land reform since 1917. Calles remains in the background and threatens a coup in 1935. When the coup fails, Calles is forced to flee the country. Cardenas expropriates 17 British, Dutch and US oil companies and establishes the national oil company PEMEX. He dissolves the PNR and creates the PRM -- made up of peasant, labour, popular and military. In 1940, Camacho becomes president -- 65% of the population still lives in the countryside and wages peak. PRM becomes the PRI - Party of the Institutionalized Revolution -- and almost 15% of the national territory has been redistributed among 1.8 million peasants and half of the rural population are part of the new rural class of ejiditarios -- approximately 20,000 ejidos were recognized, of which 900 were "collective" in character. In 1941, the US entered WWII and boycotts were lifted against Mexican oil imports. Things were starting to look up.
Fast forward to 1976 when Portillo becomes President; this "friend of business" cuts back on government spending, increases borrowing and welcomes foreign investors with wide open arms. By 1982, Mexico faced a debt crisis that further devalued the peso. The crisis continues in the years that follow and peaked in 1986 when many state-owned companies were privatized. Mexico signed a structural adjustment agreement with the International Monetary Fund (IMF) which greatly accelerated the pace of neoliberal reform and further encouraged foreign investors to set up shop and take advantage of cheap Mexican labour.
The loose definition of neoliberalism is the transfer of economic control from the public to the private sector. The idea behind neoliberalism is that public (meaning government) control of the economy is at best inefficient, at worst corrupt. Critics argue that the economic transfer to private industry absolves the government of its accountability which is subversive of the democratic process. We saw success through the deinstitutionalization of state economic controls in Chile (Pinochet), Britain (Thatcher) USA (Reagan), New Zealand (Douglas) and Canada (Mulroney).
What about Mexico? Mexico's political environment was too unstable and too corrupt to provide an infrastructure of support that would allow its people to reap the benefits of a neoliberal economy. Without the benefit of a strategy to build a healthy economy for its people, Mexico's leaders looked for a panacea in capitalism. Foreign investors would buy their way into the country and use their financial assets to drive the country's political agenda by lining the pockets of corrupt government officials. To meet their annual financial objectives they would require cheap labour, a devalued peso, low taxes, and lots and lots of inexpensive raw materials. Their stockholders after all, lived elsewhere and were rewarding management with fat bonuses in exchange for high dividends. All this did was widen the gap between high-income and low-income households in Mexico.
By 1987, the PRI party split into a rival faction called the PRD (Part of the Democratic Revolution) over questions of economic policy reforms. In 1990, NAFTA negotiations begin and Cardenas becomes PRD Mayor of Mexico City. Salinas signs off on NAFTA in 1992 though Clinton's election meant more policy changes that resulted in side deals regarding labour and environmental issues.
Mexicans would never benefit from NAFTA, however the idea was not to satisfy the voters but to support the growth of capitalism in the country's new neoliberal environment. Foreign investors saw great potential in open border trade with the US and Canada. Importing raw materials and exporting cheaply manufactured products meant a bigger bottom line. But who was protecting the interests of poor Mexican farmers? Well, nobody...except the EZLN.
Poor Mexican farmers who harvested crops by hand would be forced to complete with commercial farms in the US and Canada -- donkeys and a team of oxen versus John Deere and Massey Ferguson. The "people of the corn" would be forced to compete in the marketplace with subsidized farmers and their artificially fertilized, genetically modified, mechanically harvested crops. Fair? Not by a long shot. As if that is not enough, the terms of NAFTA required an amendment to the Mexican constitution that outlawed land collectives. Land holdings must be privately owned under the terms of NAFTA, which was a direct violation of guaranteed land reparations to indigenous groups in Mexico. There was not protection for social policy under the terms of NAFTA. Or at least, there was not sufficient incentive for Mexico's leaders to protect the rights of its indigenous land holders.
Mexico had signed off on NAFTA in 1992. Despite protests, Mexico's border would officially open when NAFTA became effective on January 1, 1994. The EZLN struggled to find a public platform for the voice of the Mexican farmers. In 1993, the Zapatistas declared war on the Mexican government arguing that it had absolved itself of its right to rule because it was so out of touch with the needs of its people. In effect, the Zapatistas claimed that the government was illegitimate.
In November 1993, NAFTA negotiations conclude and the agreement is narrowly approved by the House of Representatives.
On January 1, 1994 -- the day that NAFTA became effective -- the Zapatistas' rebellion became armed and active. It was New Year's Day and politicians and peacekeepers were relaxing with their families when members of the EZLN donned ski masks and took up arms. Their strategy was planned with flawless precision and executed by passionate patriots whose interests were entirely invested in protecting the rights of their countrymen. They stormed government offices and burned land titles in protest. They burned empty haciendas while their owners celebrated the holidays with their families in one of their other houses. Their strategy included the occupation of communities throughout the state of Chaipas and established EZLN military forces to defend them against policy and army forces. Violent clashes continued for nearly two weeks until a Bishop in San Cristobal de las Casas successfully negotiated a ceasefire.
The EZLN had captured the world's interest though it came at the cost of many human casualties. Zapatista leaders demanded autonomy from the Mexican government so that they could create their own socialist government to protect and advance the rights of the Mexican people. What's more, they demanded that the natural resources extracted from Chiapas benefit more directly the people of Chiapas. For the first time, the government was listening. As leaders argued over issues of human rights and freedoms, government forces stormed the EZLN's military holdings and slaughtered rebels. Unarmed civilians displaced by government forces would be relocated to refugee camps throughout Chiapas. Leaders of the movement were still at large and so the government ended its raids and proceeded with negotiations. The EZLN laid down its arms and abandoned military strategies in favour of political ones that would include media campaigns to garner support from international solidarity groups.
The Mexican government would recognize the EZLN as a political movement and agreed to enter into negotiations with its leaders that would culminate in the recognition of autonomy and rights for the indigenous people of Mexico through the San Andres Accords signed in 1996. When the Mexican government failed to implement the terms of the Accords, the Zapatista's returned to their communities with the support from "civil society" and began to implement their autonomy unilaterally. They established their own school systems, health facilities and socialist governments. During this period, the Mexican army would deploy forces in the surrounding territories to monitor EZLN activities and serve as a government presence poised to dismantle this structure.
In 2001, Zapatistas marched into Mexico City to protest "watered down agreements" developed by the new government of President Fox. The Mexican Congress was not responding to their demands to recognize the San Andres Accords. The rebels returned to their communities in Chiapas and established 32 autonomous municipalities in effect implementing the agreements without government support. International organizations supported their efforts by providing financial and human resources. International visitors and observers were traveling to Chiapas to support the movement and report on its progress. Their tenacity and perseverance was serving as a model to other indigenous groups throughout the world and inspiring similar movements.
The 32 autonomous municipalities would elect representatives to attend assemblies where this body of government would review and rule on communal issues including the allocation of resources and development projects. To avoid corruption, the representatives serve for only a very short time which results in a continuous rotation of leadership; this body of government is called the Junta. The Mexican government tolerates these renegade municipalities but is involved, I believe, in infiltrating and sabotaging their progress using subversive tactics.
In June 2005, the Zapatistas published the Sixth Declaration of the Selva Lacandona outlining their vision for Mexico. It begins, "This is our simple word which seeks to touch the hearts of humble and simple people like ourselves, but for people who are also, like ourselves, dignified and rebel." They go on to say, "we the zapatistas of the EZLN, rose up in arms in January of 1994 because we saw how widespread had become the evil wrought by the powerful who only humiliated us, stole from us, imprisoned us and killed us, and no one was saying anything or doing anything. That is why we said "Ya Basta!" that no longer were we going to allow them to make us inferior or to treat us worse than animals."
While I understand that a country's social and economical environment is a complex puzzle influenced by its history, its culture and its geography, I was feeling terribly naive. How could it be that I knew so little about the contemporary struggles of this country? We are partners in trade for God's sakes. How did Mexico's human rights issues not have come up in my social studies classes, or law classes, or Sunday's paper? What was I doing on January 1, 1994 when the Zapatista's rose up in rebellion against their government? I don't remember.
I tried to walk on the sunny side of the street all the way from the hotel to CEIPAC across town. I wasn't quite sure what to expect, but I had a picture in my mind of a glass building, a boardroom with bottled water and men in suits. The walk across town was beautiful. We passed this incredibly old chapel on a street corner just a few blocks from the Zoccola.
I quietly contemplated the information that I had learned about earlier in the morning as I walked beneath the watchful eye of the sun. I felt uncomfortable as I envisioned our days ahead and shivered despite the rising warmth of the late morning. I manufactured images of our group meeting with angry men in ski masks and listening to their stories of violent oppression.
The meetings scheduled by our hosts were intended to provide us with context and understanding about Mexico and, more specifically Chiapas. My thoughts drifted to aboriginal issues in my own country. I felt a deep sense of shame wash over me and understood that by becoming a witness to the Zapatista movement in Chiapas, I would forfeit my silence at home.
Monday, March 3
Earthquakes and Baguettes
I woke early on Tuesday morning to the crowing of roosters and to the barking of dogs. The sun rose at around 5:30 am and light began to filter into the room through the open window. My roommate was still sleeping so I decided to get a jump on the morning's routine.
I tiptoed into the bathroom and gently closed the door. I cracked open the window and started the shower. As I waited on the dry side of the shower curtain, I read through the notice on the back of the door. It said that the hot (caliente) water tap is on the left and the cold water tap is on the right. It also said something long winded about the hot water and then thanked the reader for their understanding. Hmmmmm. Wonder what that's about? I questioned as I dipped my hand under the freezing cold water. One of the words in the notice referred to the distance that the hot water travels. I supposed this had something to do with the rather long time it took to coax the hot water out of hiding.
I started to feel terribly guilty about the amount of water that I was wasting as I stood and waited for warmth to find its way into the shower head. Screw it, I thought as I eased into the shower. I dipped my toes and then my shins under the cool stream of water. Still too cold. I pushed myself against the right side of the shower and out of reach of the icy shower.
In the next moment, I was suddenly less concerned about my shower and more focused on my sudden feeling of vertigo. As I braced myself against the walls of the shower, I felt the world tilt under me. Am I going to faint? I wondered. Am I coming down with something? It's just fatigue, I reasoned as the feeling left me. And then....warm water showered down upon me and my attention was quickly redirected towards taming my crazy hair and rinsing away yesterday's travels.
By the time my shower was finished, Sharon was ready for her turn under the now warm water. I dressed quickly, ran down to the lobby to fill up my water bottle and returned to the room to catch up on my journal. At 8:30 a.m. Sharon and I went down to the dining room to meet the others for breakfast.
"Did you feel the earthquake?" asked Annie and Sally.
"It happens all the time," explained Jody and Chris.
Ahhhh, earthquake, I thought, so I'm not getting sick. Thank God!
We spent an hour together reviewing our itinerary. During the week, we would meet with representatives of CIEPAC (Centro de Investigaciones Economicas y Politicas de Accion Comunitaria) and CAPISE (Centro de Análisis Político e Investigaciones Sociales y Económicas) to learn more about the historical record and current events involving human rights violations in the state of Chiapas. We would travel to the Zapatista coffee cooperative Yachil and to the Maya Vinic cooperative in Acteal. We would visit the site of the 1997 massacre at Acteal and the refugee camp that houses hundreds of displaced citizens. We would visit the mountain village of Puehlo and stay overnight in that community while visiting coffee farms and bodegas. We would visit the village of San Gregoire to learn about the Chiapas Water Project and how it has helped the farmers in this community. We would travel to Agua Azul and the Zapatista community of Bolon Ajaw to hear first-hand of how public forces continue to harass and violate the rights of aboriginals and, specifically Zapatistas.
I spread a spoonful of pineapple preserves on my slice of baguette and made notes in my journal as Chris and Jody explained the social environment of Chiapas. As I sipped my coffee, I learned that the world's most vulnerable cooperatives are in Chiapas because there are no support structures in place to assist them in their growth and development. Fair trade is becoming a business and industry insiders are looking for alternatives to TransFair licensing. FloCert is a possible alternative, but the producers need a loud voice. Many members of the public want to purchase Fair Trade Coffee, but they are afraid of being misdirected so they look hard for the TransFair symbol to make sure that what they're buying is certified. What they don't know is that the sticker shows up on 100% fair trade or 5% fair trade coffee.
TransFair USA's volume Guideline requires its members to convert at least 5% of its green coffee purchases to Fair Trade within the first two years of launching labeled products. FIVE PERCENT! That's a goal, by the way, not a requirement.
We tossed questions, answers and comments back and forth as we discussed the merits and pitfalls of fair trade certification in the coffee industry. We talked about fair trade as a business, as a movement and as a certification. We learned about the price of fair trade coffee and how it is affected by the NYSE and about country differentials and premiums for quality and organic product.
We wrapped up breakfast by about 10:30 and gathered up our things before heading across town to CIEPAC. I grabbed my camera and my water bottle and walked out into the sunshine.
I tiptoed into the bathroom and gently closed the door. I cracked open the window and started the shower. As I waited on the dry side of the shower curtain, I read through the notice on the back of the door. It said that the hot (caliente) water tap is on the left and the cold water tap is on the right. It also said something long winded about the hot water and then thanked the reader for their understanding. Hmmmmm. Wonder what that's about? I questioned as I dipped my hand under the freezing cold water. One of the words in the notice referred to the distance that the hot water travels. I supposed this had something to do with the rather long time it took to coax the hot water out of hiding.
I started to feel terribly guilty about the amount of water that I was wasting as I stood and waited for warmth to find its way into the shower head. Screw it, I thought as I eased into the shower. I dipped my toes and then my shins under the cool stream of water. Still too cold. I pushed myself against the right side of the shower and out of reach of the icy shower.
In the next moment, I was suddenly less concerned about my shower and more focused on my sudden feeling of vertigo. As I braced myself against the walls of the shower, I felt the world tilt under me. Am I going to faint? I wondered. Am I coming down with something? It's just fatigue, I reasoned as the feeling left me. And then....warm water showered down upon me and my attention was quickly redirected towards taming my crazy hair and rinsing away yesterday's travels.
By the time my shower was finished, Sharon was ready for her turn under the now warm water. I dressed quickly, ran down to the lobby to fill up my water bottle and returned to the room to catch up on my journal. At 8:30 a.m. Sharon and I went down to the dining room to meet the others for breakfast.
"Did you feel the earthquake?" asked Annie and Sally.
"It happens all the time," explained Jody and Chris.
Ahhhh, earthquake, I thought, so I'm not getting sick. Thank God!
We spent an hour together reviewing our itinerary. During the week, we would meet with representatives of CIEPAC (Centro de Investigaciones Economicas y Politicas de Accion Comunitaria) and CAPISE (Centro de Análisis Político e Investigaciones Sociales y Económicas) to learn more about the historical record and current events involving human rights violations in the state of Chiapas. We would travel to the Zapatista coffee cooperative Yachil and to the Maya Vinic cooperative in Acteal. We would visit the site of the 1997 massacre at Acteal and the refugee camp that houses hundreds of displaced citizens. We would visit the mountain village of Puehlo and stay overnight in that community while visiting coffee farms and bodegas. We would visit the village of San Gregoire to learn about the Chiapas Water Project and how it has helped the farmers in this community. We would travel to Agua Azul and the Zapatista community of Bolon Ajaw to hear first-hand of how public forces continue to harass and violate the rights of aboriginals and, specifically Zapatistas.
I spread a spoonful of pineapple preserves on my slice of baguette and made notes in my journal as Chris and Jody explained the social environment of Chiapas. As I sipped my coffee, I learned that the world's most vulnerable cooperatives are in Chiapas because there are no support structures in place to assist them in their growth and development. Fair trade is becoming a business and industry insiders are looking for alternatives to TransFair licensing. FloCert is a possible alternative, but the producers need a loud voice. Many members of the public want to purchase Fair Trade Coffee, but they are afraid of being misdirected so they look hard for the TransFair symbol to make sure that what they're buying is certified. What they don't know is that the sticker shows up on 100% fair trade or 5% fair trade coffee.
TransFair USA's volume Guideline requires its members to convert at least 5% of its green coffee purchases to Fair Trade within the first two years of launching labeled products. FIVE PERCENT! That's a goal, by the way, not a requirement.
We tossed questions, answers and comments back and forth as we discussed the merits and pitfalls of fair trade certification in the coffee industry. We talked about fair trade as a business, as a movement and as a certification. We learned about the price of fair trade coffee and how it is affected by the NYSE and about country differentials and premiums for quality and organic product.
We wrapped up breakfast by about 10:30 and gathered up our things before heading across town to CIEPAC. I grabbed my camera and my water bottle and walked out into the sunshine.
Wednesday, February 27
Posada Isabel
At the top of the stairs, I caught the scent of a fragrant flower; a scent I did not recognize. The corridor was well lit and, as it turns out, Room 7 (our room) was at the very top of the stairs on the right-hand side. Sharon unlocked the door.
The room was not what I expected. In truth, the entire hotel was not what I had expected. I had done a little research on the web trying to find out more about the hotel. While I couldn't find any photos of Posada Isabel, I could find the room rates and they were comparable to some of the nicer spots in town -- hotels with large yards and gardens, decks and pools with generous, comfortable rooms and cushy double beds. Posada Isabel had none of those things.
The room was narrow and had few accessories. The twin beds were dressed modestly in traditional woollen blankets and separated by a small wooden table. The bottom half of the walls was painted a cheerful blue. While there was no closet, a wooden clothes rack with hangers stood in the corner of the room to store our coats and pants and blouses.
The bathroom door was immediately behind the door to our room. You could not open one without first closing the other. The bathroom was simple and small. To the left, a cubby housed a small, tiled shower and immediately across from the door was a toilet. The shower curtain was tattered and dated and smelled of mildew. The metal drain in the centre of the shower was broken and rusted. The bathroom mat was a 2' x 3' rubber rectangle made from recycled tires (I guessed). The sink was in the bedroom itself on the wall across from our beds.
Sharon had already checked in and claimed the bed furthest from the door leaving the other for me. I threw my backpack onto the bed closest to the door and began to unpack some of my things. I removed the sleeping bag from my suitcase, draped it across the bottom of my bed and put my novel on the chair beside my bed. I transferred the clothes from my backpack into the suitcase and stored the empty backpack under the bench next to the sink. I put my camera case in bottom shelf of the
I opened the window next to my bed and once again detected the fragrance I had discovered on our way up to the room. I opened the door and returned to the corridor in an attempt to discover the source of this wonderful scent. I stood quietly in the corridor.
The street noises came to me clearly and easily as I stood in the corridor. I looked over the railing and found two cars in the terrace there. Hovering over the cars was (or at least what I think was) a beautiful bougainvillea heavy with rich, pink blossoms. In another corner of the terrace was a poinsettia tree(?) over eight feet tall. I could have reached over the railing and picked a petal from its top branch. I looked directly up and saw the night sky and immediately understood the sounds, the shape and the structure of Posada Isabel
Posada Isabel is a hollow square. A break in the sidewalk allows cars to enter the terrace through a large, locked metal door. There is barely enough room to turnaround, to exit the terrace, but it can be done for one or two cars. The guest rooms are located on the first and second floors on the outside walls of the halls.
I would learn later that the first floor housed the kitchen and common dining room as well as the private living quarters of our hosts.
I took a few pictures and returned to my room. I opened the window wider in spite of the fact that no screen served as a deterring for curious insects or misdirected birds. I could barely wait to sleep under the window and breathe in the fresh night air.
We joined the group downstairs and headed out into the night to find Jody and Chris's favourite taco restaurant. As we walked down the streets of San Cristobal, I found myself looking left and right at the many businesses who still had their windows and doors open to the public in the early evening of a Monday -- Internet cafes, clothes and jewelry boutiques, currency exchange offices, classrooms to learn languages, bars, restaurants, electronics stores -- you name it, it was open late on Monday. We passed many buildings similar to Posada Isabel whose open doors allowed us a glance in the personal space of the residents of San Cristobal.
Several blocks later we arrived at the restaurant. The entire front wall of the restaurant had been removed or somehow unfolded-back into itself so that the restaurant was open to the street. The kitchen was nothing more than two large cooktops and we had an unobstructed view of our chefs -- two men and one woman. The woman rolled, patted and cooked on a cook top an endless supply of corn tortillas. One of the men chopped and grilled a variety of ingredients for his patrons while the last fellow did a little bit of everything including serving the food.
Over a round of cervezas we toasted new relationships and new experiences. Within minutes, a series of skillets arrived at our table with an assortment of toppings including chicken, mushrooms, beef, beans, peppers, onions and cactus. Uh huh, cactus.
Our meal ended early as many of us were still tired from our journey south. Sharon and I headed back to the Posada and noted that many of the businesses that we saw on our way down were still open, two hours later. It was very nearly 10 pm and the businesses were still open to the public. The atmosphere was almost carnival-like. I thought that Ottawa could take a lesson from this captivating city.
Using the buzzer to summon our hostess, we were once again admitted into Posada Isabel where we retired to our room and prepared for bed. As I curled up under the woolen blankets, I remember thinking that the bed was about 8 inches shorter than I was. The next thing I remember is sweet, blissful sleep and then the crowing of roosters.
Monday, February 25
Finding San Cristobal de Las Casas
As I entered the airport at Tuxtla Gutierrez I was met with the most wonderful breeze. I slowed my step, closing my eyes so that I could take in its smell and enjoy the feel of it washing over my travel-weary body. I had left winter behind in Canada and was delighted to meet up with this old friend in Mexico. This breeze pulled me towards the baggage claim, just one doorway away from the airport entrance. I could sense the impatience of it as it pulled at my clothes and beckoned me to join it outside.
I stood next to the luggage carousel and waited for my bag to make its appearance. I closed my eyes and gently swayed left to right savoring this pause in my day; and more, this first delightful break to my long, cold winter. I sensed someone in front of me and opened my eyes.
"Do you have a lot of luggage?" Amavida Coffee asked.
"No, just one bag," I said looking at her tiny backpack. "I thought I packed light, but...."
"Yeah, I know," she shrugged, "it's hard to pack light with a sleepin' bag. Annie stumbled 'cross these little babies last week an' got us each one," she said nodding towards the tiny sleeping bag perched upon the top of her backpack.
She had the most wonderful southern drawl I had ever heard. I was looking forward to talking to her more; in fact, I was looking forward to hearing her talk more. It was musical.
"D'you need a hand with 'yer bags?" she asked.
"No, I'm OK. Thanks for asking though," I replied.
"Well we're just hangin' out on th'other side of that wall there," she said. "We'll wait 'til you get 'yer bags and then we'll go find Chris. I thought I saw him on th'other side of the airport."
I watched as she walked through the glass door and joined the second Amavida Coffee girl whose name I now suspected was Annie.
My bag was one of the first to arrive. Ironic, I thought. My bag from Canada is here even before a bag from Mexico City. How does that work? I found a break in the lineup of waiting passengers and made a quick grab for it pulling it free of the carousel. When I had packed my bag, I tied a blue ribbon around the handle so that I would be able to spot it easily from amongst the hundreds of other black bags making their way around the world. I checked to make sure that my zipper locks were still intact and then headed towards the doorway to join my new friends.
"Thanks for waiting," I said as I came through the doorway.
"No probl'm," Amavida said as she started walking across the airport. "I'm Sally, by the way, and this here is Annie."
"Hi," said Annie.
"Nice to meet you both," I smiled.
As we walked across the airport, two men began to rise from where they were waiting on benches by the large glass windows. One was a curly-haired American dressed in dockers and a button-down shirt and the other was a Mexican man who wore a white linen shirt and the most joyful expression I had ever seen on his round, dark face. The American extended his right hand to us as we approached.
"I'm Chris," he said, "and this is Julio. He's going to be driving us back to San Cristobal."
We exchanged greetings and some small talk while we waited for four other passengers. We learned that a few people had arrived over the weekend but that this flight carried the last few members of our group. Within minutes we were joined by Joe the extreme athlete from Peace Coffee, Gary part owner of Heine Brothers Coffee and Casey and Aleck who were students from the University of Michigan. We exchanged greetings and headed out of the airport in search of the van.
On the sidewalk outside, the wind danced through my hair pulling at its curls and drying the dampness from my scalp. The tiny straps of my backpack slapped at my arms as I reached up to pull the hair away from my face. I walked through the parking lot wrapping myself in the sun that was offered to me by the last few hours of this day in Chiapas. I felt especially peaceful, perfectly happy and decidedly blessed as I made my way across this parking lot in the company of strangers.
Julio opened the back door of the van so that we could pile our bags inside. Casey and Aleck hopped into the van and spread themselves out across the back seat of the van. Sally, Annie and I found spots in the row second from the rear, while Chris, Joe and Gary took seats toward the front of the van. Julio closed the door to the van and took his position behind the wheel while a lovely Spanish Senorita rode shotgun. We were off.
Within minutes, my peaceful, easy feeling was replaced by my rising blood pressure. It seemed, in those minutes, that my heart rate was inexplicably linked to the van's accelerator and as our speed increased, so did my anxiety.
I've driven in Montreal which is, in my opinion, host to some of the most dangerous roadways and drivers in Canada. Imagine if you will, four-lane highways with no lines dividing the lanes; just tens of feet of black asphalt for drivers to share freely as they meander their way through the city at breakneck speed.
Mexico is kind of like that, except Mexico took the time to draw the lines on the highway. Lovely double-yellow lines mark the opposing lanes of traffic, while pristine white lines clearly identify the shoulder. There are many reflective markers to further assist drivers find the safe passage between the white and yellow lines. As far as I could tell, however, the lines had no purpose whatsoever except perhaps to identify this paved thoroughfare as a highway for visiting tourists. The money they spent in paint, I felt, would have been better spent in guardrails.
I decided in very short order that I have neither the skill nor the stomach to drive in Mexico.
The highway from Tuxtla from San Cristobal coils around the mountain tops of Chiapas. As we climbed toward the ceiling of heaven, we were captivated by the amazing vistas. I had never seen such beautiful countryside. Deep ravines carved their way through rugged mountains as far as the eye could see. The higher we climbed, the deeper the slope that fell away from the side of the highway. As I looked into the distance, the highway appeared to be nothing more than a ragged slash in the mountains ahead.
Julio and his sweetheart were carrying on an animated conversation in Spanish and I was worried that he was not entirely focused on the task at hand -- delivering eight weary gringos to their hotel in San Cristobal safely.
On a particularly steep mountainside, I watched as Julio raced towards the bumper of a slow moving 18-wheeler. I caught a passing glimpse of a "no passing" traffic sign in my peripheral vision as Julio edged out across the double yellow line. In Canada, this means no passing in either direction. In Mexico, a double line is more of a suggestion -- I wouldn't pass if I were you, but if you're going to, well...go ahead...whatever. The 18-wheeler moved slightly towards the right so that the white line indicating the shoulder passed between its two rear tires. Even this generous act would afford us less than half of the south-bound lane which mean that the double-yellow line was passing roughly between our two rear tires. Cars were rounding the curve ahead and approaching us in the northbound lane. As we began to overtake the 18-wheeler, a small VW sedan decided to follow our lead and began to overtake the northbound traffic. The cars began to steer to their right allowing the VW sedan to gain speed as we headed toward each other at breakneck speeds. At roughly the time we found ourselves in line with the cab of the 18-wheeler, the family in the VW Sedan passed within inches of us. I swear I could smell the perfume of the woman in the front seat.
Had this been an isolated incident, I would have relaxed and enjoyed the passing countryside. As it happened, however, this was the rule rather than the exception that defined this white knuckle drive to San Cristobal de Las Casas. I didn't know whether these drivers deserved my awe or my disdain.
I turned toward Sally with eyes wide and mouth agape. I was relieved to know that I was not the only person who found the ride a little upsetting.
"It's like a continuous game of chicken," I whispered to Sally who laughed and nodded in agreement.
I spent some time considering the differences between traffic in Canada and Mexico. It seems that in Mexico, turn signals are not necessary. In fact, they are misleading and must be ignored at all costs. Horns however, are musical and they must be shared at every opportunity. Drivers herald the arrival of green lights with festive "honks." The most important five-letter word in driving is not "skill" but rather it is "speed."
As we rounded a long curve to the left, we saw a large white city nestled in the distant foothills of another mountain range. It was San Cristobal de Las Casas. It was much larger than I had expected. Chris explained that we would be staying in the colonial district which was much safer and neater than other parts of San Cristobal.
We entered the colonial district through a large gated road and found ourselves driving on narrow streets in a complicated grid of one way and two way streets. I could not easily determine how the drivers knew which car enjoys the right-of-way. There were traffic lights at maybe one in every 30 intersections. I saw no stop signs.
Julio drove through street after crowded street. Cars were parked everywhere including on top of sidewalks. Double-parked cars were dripping passengers out into the busy streets before rejoining the flow of traffic. Passengers were walking on sidewalks and in the streets. Cars passed other cars within inches of one another. Cars passed within feet of pedestrians, blowing up their hair and clothes in the gusts they created by their passing.
The streets narrowed.
I stood next to the luggage carousel and waited for my bag to make its appearance. I closed my eyes and gently swayed left to right savoring this pause in my day; and more, this first delightful break to my long, cold winter. I sensed someone in front of me and opened my eyes.
"Do you have a lot of luggage?" Amavida Coffee asked.
"No, just one bag," I said looking at her tiny backpack. "I thought I packed light, but...."
"Yeah, I know," she shrugged, "it's hard to pack light with a sleepin' bag. Annie stumbled 'cross these little babies last week an' got us each one," she said nodding towards the tiny sleeping bag perched upon the top of her backpack.
She had the most wonderful southern drawl I had ever heard. I was looking forward to talking to her more; in fact, I was looking forward to hearing her talk more. It was musical.
"D'you need a hand with 'yer bags?" she asked.
"No, I'm OK. Thanks for asking though," I replied.
"Well we're just hangin' out on th'other side of that wall there," she said. "We'll wait 'til you get 'yer bags and then we'll go find Chris. I thought I saw him on th'other side of the airport."
I watched as she walked through the glass door and joined the second Amavida Coffee girl whose name I now suspected was Annie.
My bag was one of the first to arrive. Ironic, I thought. My bag from Canada is here even before a bag from Mexico City. How does that work? I found a break in the lineup of waiting passengers and made a quick grab for it pulling it free of the carousel. When I had packed my bag, I tied a blue ribbon around the handle so that I would be able to spot it easily from amongst the hundreds of other black bags making their way around the world. I checked to make sure that my zipper locks were still intact and then headed towards the doorway to join my new friends.
"Thanks for waiting," I said as I came through the doorway.
"No probl'm," Amavida said as she started walking across the airport. "I'm Sally, by the way, and this here is Annie."
"Hi," said Annie.
"Nice to meet you both," I smiled.
As we walked across the airport, two men began to rise from where they were waiting on benches by the large glass windows. One was a curly-haired American dressed in dockers and a button-down shirt and the other was a Mexican man who wore a white linen shirt and the most joyful expression I had ever seen on his round, dark face. The American extended his right hand to us as we approached.
"I'm Chris," he said, "and this is Julio. He's going to be driving us back to San Cristobal."
We exchanged greetings and some small talk while we waited for four other passengers. We learned that a few people had arrived over the weekend but that this flight carried the last few members of our group. Within minutes we were joined by Joe the extreme athlete from Peace Coffee, Gary part owner of Heine Brothers Coffee and Casey and Aleck who were students from the University of Michigan. We exchanged greetings and headed out of the airport in search of the van.
On the sidewalk outside, the wind danced through my hair pulling at its curls and drying the dampness from my scalp. The tiny straps of my backpack slapped at my arms as I reached up to pull the hair away from my face. I walked through the parking lot wrapping myself in the sun that was offered to me by the last few hours of this day in Chiapas. I felt especially peaceful, perfectly happy and decidedly blessed as I made my way across this parking lot in the company of strangers.
Julio opened the back door of the van so that we could pile our bags inside. Casey and Aleck hopped into the van and spread themselves out across the back seat of the van. Sally, Annie and I found spots in the row second from the rear, while Chris, Joe and Gary took seats toward the front of the van. Julio closed the door to the van and took his position behind the wheel while a lovely Spanish Senorita rode shotgun. We were off.
Within minutes, my peaceful, easy feeling was replaced by my rising blood pressure. It seemed, in those minutes, that my heart rate was inexplicably linked to the van's accelerator and as our speed increased, so did my anxiety.
I've driven in Montreal which is, in my opinion, host to some of the most dangerous roadways and drivers in Canada. Imagine if you will, four-lane highways with no lines dividing the lanes; just tens of feet of black asphalt for drivers to share freely as they meander their way through the city at breakneck speed.
Mexico is kind of like that, except Mexico took the time to draw the lines on the highway. Lovely double-yellow lines mark the opposing lanes of traffic, while pristine white lines clearly identify the shoulder. There are many reflective markers to further assist drivers find the safe passage between the white and yellow lines. As far as I could tell, however, the lines had no purpose whatsoever except perhaps to identify this paved thoroughfare as a highway for visiting tourists. The money they spent in paint, I felt, would have been better spent in guardrails.
I decided in very short order that I have neither the skill nor the stomach to drive in Mexico.
The highway from Tuxtla from San Cristobal coils around the mountain tops of Chiapas. As we climbed toward the ceiling of heaven, we were captivated by the amazing vistas. I had never seen such beautiful countryside. Deep ravines carved their way through rugged mountains as far as the eye could see. The higher we climbed, the deeper the slope that fell away from the side of the highway. As I looked into the distance, the highway appeared to be nothing more than a ragged slash in the mountains ahead.
Julio and his sweetheart were carrying on an animated conversation in Spanish and I was worried that he was not entirely focused on the task at hand -- delivering eight weary gringos to their hotel in San Cristobal safely.
On a particularly steep mountainside, I watched as Julio raced towards the bumper of a slow moving 18-wheeler. I caught a passing glimpse of a "no passing" traffic sign in my peripheral vision as Julio edged out across the double yellow line. In Canada, this means no passing in either direction. In Mexico, a double line is more of a suggestion -- I wouldn't pass if I were you, but if you're going to, well...go ahead...whatever. The 18-wheeler moved slightly towards the right so that the white line indicating the shoulder passed between its two rear tires. Even this generous act would afford us less than half of the south-bound lane which mean that the double-yellow line was passing roughly between our two rear tires. Cars were rounding the curve ahead and approaching us in the northbound lane. As we began to overtake the 18-wheeler, a small VW sedan decided to follow our lead and began to overtake the northbound traffic. The cars began to steer to their right allowing the VW sedan to gain speed as we headed toward each other at breakneck speeds. At roughly the time we found ourselves in line with the cab of the 18-wheeler, the family in the VW Sedan passed within inches of us. I swear I could smell the perfume of the woman in the front seat.
Had this been an isolated incident, I would have relaxed and enjoyed the passing countryside. As it happened, however, this was the rule rather than the exception that defined this white knuckle drive to San Cristobal de Las Casas. I didn't know whether these drivers deserved my awe or my disdain.
I turned toward Sally with eyes wide and mouth agape. I was relieved to know that I was not the only person who found the ride a little upsetting.
"It's like a continuous game of chicken," I whispered to Sally who laughed and nodded in agreement.
I spent some time considering the differences between traffic in Canada and Mexico. It seems that in Mexico, turn signals are not necessary. In fact, they are misleading and must be ignored at all costs. Horns however, are musical and they must be shared at every opportunity. Drivers herald the arrival of green lights with festive "honks." The most important five-letter word in driving is not "skill" but rather it is "speed."
As we rounded a long curve to the left, we saw a large white city nestled in the distant foothills of another mountain range. It was San Cristobal de Las Casas. It was much larger than I had expected. Chris explained that we would be staying in the colonial district which was much safer and neater than other parts of San Cristobal.
We entered the colonial district through a large gated road and found ourselves driving on narrow streets in a complicated grid of one way and two way streets. I could not easily determine how the drivers knew which car enjoys the right-of-way. There were traffic lights at maybe one in every 30 intersections. I saw no stop signs.
Julio drove through street after crowded street. Cars were parked everywhere including on top of sidewalks. Double-parked cars were dripping passengers out into the busy streets before rejoining the flow of traffic. Passengers were walking on sidewalks and in the streets. Cars passed other cars within inches of one another. Cars passed within feet of pedestrians, blowing up their hair and clothes in the gusts they created by their passing.
The streets narrowed.
Minutes later, we pulled up in front of La Posada Isabel. Home. Well, home away from home.
Getting out of the van was not nearly as satisfying as getting in. My legs had stiffened from the ride and so I walked around in tight little circles at the back of the van as I tried to loosen up my muscles.
Julio opened the back of the van and we all pulled out our bags.
Chris herded us into the foyer of La Posada Isabel and quickly paired us up with our roommates. Sharon and I were introduced as roommates and handed the key to Room 7 on the second floor. We were instructed to clean up and meet back in the foyer in 30 minutes before we headed out to dinner together.
For the last time that day, I grabbed my backpack and hoisted it upon my back. I bent to pick up my bag and checked for my camera case and purse. I slowly climbed the stairs of Posada and followed Sharon to Room 7.
Saturday, February 23
Touching Down
I woke as we began our descent into Mexico City. I was pleased to have a window seat because I have never seen a larger city. It seemed as though it spread into the horizon with no end. Even at tens of thousands of feet in the air, we could not see the beginning and end of this city at once. I had been told before I left that Mexico City was the largest city measured by land mass. In fact, it is the sprawling suburbs to Mexico City that, when added to the Federal District, allows it to take first prize as the largest metropolitan area in the Western Hemisphere -- the second largest in the world. Greater Mexico City is made up of the city's centre, 58 adjacent municipalities and one municipality of the state of Hidalgo.
Here is an aerial photo that I found on the website of a helicopter pilot from Mexico. If you would like to see more, you can visit: homepage.mac.com/helipilot/PhotoAlbum31.html
I could not see the airport. In fact, I could see nothing but miles and miles of concrete buildings and glass skyscrapers. Absent were the pools and parks that usually dot Canadian and American cityscapes. The houses were built almost one on top of the other so grassy, green backyards were replaced by more concrete houses. I watched cars crawl like ants through the complicated grid of streets. I saw no cloverleaf turnpikes...in fact I saw nothing larger than a two-lane highway and I wondered how long it would take to drive from one end of the city to another with no apparent bypass. Surely there is more that I could not see.
We touched down and prepared to disembark. As I stepped off the plane, I was hit by a wall of heat and humidity; I knew I would have to find a washroom and ditch my sweater. I followed the signs to immigration and kept an eye out for other passengers from my flight. I had about two hours to make my connection but I was uncertain as to how long it would take to clear immigration, check in to Mexicana and find my next gate. I finally found the queue for foreigners, pulled out my passport and tourist card application and found my electronic documentation for the connecting flight.
Waiting, waiting, waiting...."AQUI!" A beautiful Spanish woman took my documentation with a blank facial expression. I wondered whether customs, immigration and airport security personnel are instructed to remain expressionless during their customer transactions. What is to be gained by this? Do they feel that we would take the process less seriously? We would not. I truth, I decided, smiling airport workers might encourage a more honest exchange.
"What is your reason for visiting?" the smiling immigration lady would say with a twinkle in her eye.
"It's educational," would be my tentative reply.
"Sounds boring," she would say with another coaxing smile feigning commiseration.
"Oh not at all," I would say. "Instead of visiting your rich resorts and being brainwashed by your tourist-focused propaganda, I'm going to head into some of your most remote locations and witness how the impoverished indigenous people are oppressed and harassed by your government. Then I'm going to go home and blog and talk about how corrupt Mexican politicians rape the land and exploit the people to line their own pockets and the pockets of rich lobbyists and greedy heads of industry. It should be really interesting."
She would continue smiling even as she calls out, "Security!"
But she didn't smile, so our exchange was perfunctory at best.
"You are here for education?" she asks eyeing my backpack.
"Yes," I answer with a small smile. No elaboration. No details.
Ka-thump. She stamps my tourist card application (but not my passport), rips off the wallet-sized card and returns everything to me with lightning-speed, before pointing to a corridor on my left and saying "Through there."
I follow the signs for baggage knowing that I will only retrieve my luggage at Tuxtla. I asked an airport worker for direction and head through customs. Nobody asked me for my customs documentation so I didn't offer it up. I didn't have documentation for the roasted coffee that I was carrying and was afraid that might tie my up a little. My paperwork did indicate that I had it in my luggage but, hey, if they weren't asking, I wasn't offering.
I dropped my backpack, camera, boarding pass, passport and purse into the basket and threw it on the conveyor belt so that it could be irradiated for the safety of all my fellow passengers. The moment I realized that I had lost temporary possession of my passport (even though it was part of airport security procedures) I got quite anxious. Never a good poker player, my anxiety was quickly broadcast by my face for all to see. One of the three young workers recognized my anxiety and took a couple of steps towards me in response to my reaction. I rummaged through the basket even as it was still exiting the security x-ray and breathed a sigh of relief when I had it again in my hand. They laughed and teased and I smiled back politely. The only word I caught was "pasaporte."
I found the room for Mexicana passengers to check in and get their boarding passes. I got into queue and waited. Between the passenger queue and the ticket counter was a line of tables with airport workers going through luggage. I was finally pointed towards one of these tables.
"Is carry-on?" the young lady asked in broken English.
"Yes. Si." I reply as she looks it over.
"Wait," she murmured before moving to another table.
My backpack was big. Packed, it fit exactly the maximum dimensions allowed by Air Canada for carry-on. That said, there was a little metal device nearby that suggested my carry-on would only be acceptable if it fit neatly inside the space provided. I had my doubts that I would be able to cram my backpack into that tiny space and began to take a mental inventory of the clothes inside my bag devising a strategy to transport as many layers as possible using my body. The word heatstroke hung in the periphery of my mind as I stood sweating in the light cotton sweater I was already wearing.
I watched as other passengers moved forward from their table to the ticket counter. I waited. Did they forget about me? I cleared my throat to remind them that I was waiting. I waited. I cleared my throat again, ready to break into song. I would sing loudly and badly (but happily so as not to attract the wrong kind of attention) to help move things along.
"Aqui!" said the man at the ticket counter pointing in my general direction.
I looked behind me, and then back at him. I pointed to myself and he nodded.
I handed over my electronic boarding pass and he asked if I had any luggage to check. "No," was my quick bilingual reply. He generated an authentic airport boarding pass, circled Gate B and ended our exchange even before it had begun.
"Where?" I asked.
"Up the stairs," he replied as he pointed towards the doorway.
"Thank you. Gracias." I said turning away.
I walked out of the room and found myself in the busy thoroughfare of Mexico City's Airport. To my left was an exit to the street. It was pouring rain outside and a sudden and loud crack of thunder rolled into the corridor where the sound was amplified. I was shocked by the humidity; the air was thick with it. The airport workers were wearing slacks, shirts, vests and blazers in spite of it and I was reminded that this was Mexico's winter season. I wondered what it would be like in mid-August under a hot summer sun.
I would like to say that I walked to the gate and waited for my flight, but I quickly learned that it would not be so simple because in front of me and to my right were no less than four banks of escalators taking me to various locations upstairs. With 25% odds for success, I decided to hop on one and start moving. I had just under one hour to make my connection. At the top of the escalator I started walking. I walked for about 8 minutes...and I was not strolling...before I decided I had gone in the wrong direction. I stopped a security worker and asked for directions. Without a smile, he pointed back towards the way I had come and said, "Gate B."
"Gate B," I thought, "I know, I know, but there's no gate B. Gates back there are numbered not lettered. Argggh. I found a washroom, took off my sweater, dug out a clean, dry t-shirt and hoisted my backpack once again onto my back. Ten minutes later, I found myself back at the top of the escalator. This time I veered left onto an overpass that took me to a corridor on the other side of the busy airport. I followed the corridor past offices and doorways meant for authorized personnel only thinking the entire time, "This can't be right." I half-expected someone to question my purpose and turn me around, but at the end of the corridor a bend to the right took me towards Gate B.
Gate B is a complete misnomer by the way. Gate B is actually a doorway to boarding gates 0 - 300,000. Alright, I'm exaggerating a bit, however Gate B is a doorway to a huge number of gates used to shepherd the passengers of Mexicana's many domestic flights. I was so suddenly flooded with a sense of relief that I forgot about my thirst, my hunger and my fatigue. I found my flight and dropped onto a bench next to a very old Mexican man who smiled and nodded. I closed my eyes and caught my breath. When I opened my eyes again, the old man was gone. I looked around and saw a motley crew of people at the gate.
A trio of Spanish cleaning ladies were chatting quickly and passionately in Spanish. They leaned against their mops and carts as if bracing themselves for the exchange. Most people chatted on cellphones. The older lady across from me sat quietly with hands folded over the purse in her lap. I caught a movement from my right and realized that the old man had returned. I realized that he had forgotten his parcel; in fact it was a Spiderman lunch bag. I smiled in his direction.
A gentleman and his wife entered the lounge and dropped onto the bench across from me. She closed her eyes and he began fishing around for their boarding passes and documentation. An announcement flooded the lounge and people began to walk towards the counter. I waited. I didn't know which seats were filling, but I thought I would wait and board the plane at the last possible moment. Another announcement prompted the couple to stand.
"Excuse me, what seats are boarding?" I asked the couple.
"Well, they said that anyone needing assistance may board, but everybody is getting on," said the gentleman. "Where are you going?"
"San Cristobal." I replied.
"Us too," he replied. "We are going to a wedding in San Cristobal. Our daughter is a missionary there. After the wedding, we're going to Guatemala on a missions trip. Are you just visiting?"
"I'm actually joining a fair trade delegation," I explained, "through Higher Grounds Trading."
This comment drew a reaction from two ladies to my left. They turned in my direction and began talking to one another.
"You are doing important work," he said.
"You too," I offered. "Friends from work just returned from building homes for three families in Guatemala. They were just returning as I was leaving."
We began walking down the gangplank towards the plane as we continued our chat. At a pause in our conversation, the two ladies I noticed earlier turned towards me and one said, "Amavida Coffee," in greeting.
"Equator Coffee," I replied.
"See you in Tuxtla," they said.
I lost sight of them on the plane as I looked to find the window seat identified on my boarding pass. With my backpack in front of me, I struggled down the narrow aisle drawing a few angry looks from the passengers coming into contact with the straps and sides of my massive carry-on. When I found my seat fourteen nasty looks later, I lifted my backpack towards the overhead storage. "Um....no," I muttered reconsidering my plan. I threw it onto the floor in front of my seat and began trying to stuff it under the seat in front of mine. That space was awfully small. I looked at the space to my left; it was bigger. I kicked at my bag with one and then both of my feet leaning against the back of my seat for leverage. Halfway. Good enough.
Within minutes we were in the air. When we had reached our maximum cruising altitude, the flight attendants made their way down the aisle with refreshments. Peanuts! It's been years since I've seen peanuts on a flight. Peanuts! What with all the allergies, I thought that this airline offering had long since disappeared. What a treat. There was no bottled water, so I asked for a Coke. It was Coca Cola or juice and I just wasn't in a mood for juice. I savored my peanuts and watched out the window as Mexico City was replaced by flatland and then rolling hills.
As we approached Tuxtla, we decreased our altitude and I could easily see the landforms below. For as far as I could see, the highlands spread out towards the horizon. It looked like the back of a sleeping dragon with brown spikes rising up from the earth. I spotted a river winding its way through the mountains with a kind of harmony only found in nature and art. The pilot announced our descent as I gazed out the window.
Tuxtla Gutierrez is a city nestled within a valley surrounded by mountains. It was spectacular, I thought. As we flew even lower, I could see tin shacks dotting the mountainsides reflecting the light of the sun. Within minutes we touched down and it occurred to me that this trip was just about to begin.
I could barely contain my excitement.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)