5-21-07
The water cooler empties everyday. Every morning, it refills.
I wake during my last morning at La Casa de los Amigos. I grab an empty two-liter bottle, and I go to drain water.
I shuffle past two Mexican women. They sit on a couch. Embroidered clothes, cards and blankets spread across the coffee table in front of them. The first woman wears traditional dress layered in bright fabrics. She straightens the merchandise as I pass.
The second woman wears contemporary clothes: a black t-shirt and jeans. She leans back in the couch.
I fill the water bottle with free water – one of the perks for staying at La Casa - and go downstairs for breakfast.
Bowls of scrambled eggs and black beans pass around the table. A noise rumbles overhead. An Abercrombie-clad avalanche pours into the room. American college students crowd the table. This is their last day of a summer course titled “Understanding Mexico.”
They laugh about a tour-bus driver who had blared Queen during the previous day’s drive from Oaxaca. “He played his Mariachi music after we started to fall asleep,” giggles a skinny girl sitting to my right.
Group conversation turns to You-Tube videos and shopping plans for the day. The voice of the chaperoning professor rises above the goofiness. To those not in his group, he explains that each student must give a presentation on Mexico during the trip.
One plump young man stands in the corner. He mumbles through an inaudible speech.
“Very good,” the chaperone says as he sits down.
Everyone claps. Next. The girl to my right stands.
“I’m going to talk about time,” her voice trembles as she speaks.
She reads from a computer printout. Sentences appear highlighted in neon yellow. She explains that Mexicans understand time differently than “we do.”
She lists some reasons:
“Time is more flexible in Mexico.”
“We see this by Mexicans' use of “manana” (a word that literally translates to “tomorrow” or “morning,” but means “later” in some contexts).”
“Punctuality is less important in business settings.”
“…Um, uh… People, um, like don’t wear watches as often.” The chaperone’s brow furrows. The student’s speech peters out.
Everyone claps.
Nick, one of La Casa’s full-time volunteers, addresses the students. He explains that women from the Mazahua Women’s Cooperative are upstairs selling things.
The Mazahua are one of the state’s indigenous communities (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mazahua). The cooperative has worked in Mexico City since 1970. The college students had already met the Mazahua women at the beginning of their trip, when they stayed in La Casa.
Two or three students disappear upstairs. They return after a few minutes.
I finish breakfast and listen to talk about pirated DVDs and cheap souvenirs.
“Don’t forget to check out the Mazahua upstairs,” Nick reminds the group as it rises to leave.
An awkward silence. A girl whispers to a friend who went upstairs.
“I know, I wanted to get some bracelets, too,” her friend responds with a shrug, “I checked, but they didn’t bring any of 'em this time.”
The avalanche pours outside. The students leave for other markets.
I ask Nick if he might help me speak with the Mazahua women. He says okay.
The two women stop packing their bags when we enter the room. I rest my water bottle on the ground, and I try to introduce myself: “Me llamo Doug.” She looks at me skeptically.
I reiterate: “Douglas. Doo-glass.”
“Ah! Doo-GLAHZ.”
“Como se llama?”
Her eyes smile sympathetically, “Me llamo Antonia.”
“Is it difficult to preserve Mazahua culture in contemporary Mexico?”
“Si, es poco dificil, porque la cultura…” and my vocabulary comprehension fails. I wait for Nick’s translation: “Yes it’s difficult. One of the things we’ve lost is the traditional dress. It can be hard to survive in such a big city where a group of women makes embroidery by hand.”
The Mazahua homeland is located near Toluca 39 miles southwest of Mexico City. The tribe is traditionally agrarian, but textile work has become part of the local economy (http://www.mexicantextiles.com/grouppages/mazahua.html).
Antonia Moudragon Pauline, 48, was a teenager when she left for Mexico City with her two sisters. They were among the cooperative’s original 80 members. Antonia’s younger sister Lucia, now 36, wears t-shirt and jeans beside Antonia.
Antonia said the Mazahua women’s Cooperative grew to 800 women in recent years. Two divisions of 400 women work in the Merced Market, she says. Some of the money goes back to family members living in the traditional Mazahua villages. They don’t make much profit.
If they could, Antonia says they would like to help fund the tribe’s legal battle over water supply (http://www.americas.org/item_17861). I look down at the half-empty water bottle sitting at my feet. Aside from the cooler, I can only guess where the water originated.
The Mazahua still live in the pueblo, and they still speak the Mazahua language, Antonia says. The cooperative members still return to their rural home, and they still celebrate all their traditional holidays and festivals. If anything, she said they are now rescuing traditional Mazahua culture.
“It used to be prohibited to speak Mazahua when we went to school,” Antonia says as Nick translates. “Our teachers would say, ‘you’re not allowed to speak that (Mazahua), why would you want it. Let’s end it. Learn to speak Spanish.’ So we learned it by force. They taught us by force.”
In 2003, the “Ley General de Derechos Lingüísticos de los Pueblos Indígenas” recognized the language as one of the official state languages in Mexico (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mazahua_language). Although, Antonia says her daughters don’t speak the language.
Antonia said the Mazahua Women’s Cooperative has a catalog, and they want to create a web page, but they don’t have the computer resources.
Communicating with potential buyers is a problem. For example, if the women knew that the students wanted cheap bracelets only, then they could have left their heavy bags at home.
“Our biggest concern is finding a market to sell our embroidery,” she says. They sell clothes, blankets and dolls at fairs, museums and tourist spots, but they don’t have a fixed market.
Some groups, like La Casa de los Amigos, help the Mazahua with sales. In the breakfast room of La Casa, a glass case exhibits their hand-made dolls. And an American woman buys large quantities of the dolls and sells them in the States.
I ask prices on the products spread out in front of the two women. I point to an elaborate blanket. She quotes 1,000 pesos. Compared to the merchants in Oaxaca and San Cristobal, this price is outrageous…Then again, compared to U.S. prices for similar products, $100 might be a fair price. Either way, it’s not in my budget.
Joyce inspects the embroidered cards. She buys two for 40 pesos, $4 US, which still seems too expensive.
“Muchas Gracias,” I say,
“Th-Thank you,” she says, unsure of the word choice. Her pitch rises at the end of “you,” so it sounds like a question.
We go back to our room. We pack our backpacks. Again I fill the water bottle. We go downstairs and reserve a room for our last night in Mexico five weeks later.
On the way out, we pass a display case of food products and a poster for Economia Solidaria. Economia Solidaria is one of La Casa de los Amigos’ economic assistance projects.
“Economia Solidaria is fair trade and more,” says the Director of La Casa de los Amigos, Bridget Mois, a Quaker from the U.S.
Fair trade emphasizes that consumers consider the environmental and social consequence of their purchases. “Economia Solidaria also emphasizes reconstructing relationships between consumer and producer,” she says.
La Casa de los Amigos works with Centro de Estudios Economicos (http://www.cce.org.mx/CEESP/) to connect a network of cooperatives, promoters and vendors.
The participating cooperatives produce artisan crafts or food products; promoters advertise and package the products; vendors sell them. Together they negotiate a fair price based on labor hours, and CEE helps to determine a profit margin for vendors.
Mois considered inviting the Mazahua into the network, but she says the Mazahua Women’s Cooperative is well established in Mexico City. This Economia Solidaria project focuses on smaller operations.
“The agreement is that any profit we use, we invest at least small portion of that back into social justice and peace work,” Mois said. “Here at the casa, we use all of it for that. We just buy more products and sell more products.”
Economia Solidaria is part of La Casa de los Amigos’ renewed social work, which was tied to La Casa’s 50th anniversary as a civil association in 2006.
“Our focus in non-violence and conflict transformation as a peace center,” she says. “But we understand very clearly being here in Mexico that you can’t separate issues of conflict and peace from issues of economic injustice or issues of migration.”
Roughly eight producers and five promoters met at La Casa de los Amigos last October during Economia Solidaria’s first meeting. La Casa will host the network’s second meeting in August. They will discuss their competitive strategy in the Mexican free market.
In the United States, the disconnection between consumer and producer is obvious. One may now live his or her entire life eating from pre-packaged containers. Corporations like Wal-Marts and McDonald’s provide fast and cheap sustenance to anonymous masses. This pattern of consumption, Mois says, disrupts social bonds.
And Mexico is the same (in some ways).
“There is a culture of wanting brands in Mexico, wanting foreign brands in particular,” Mois says. “So there’s even more of a disconnect (between producer and consumer). But there still exists if you get outside of the city, the small local economy. People still buy things from the local market, and you meet the person is selling the food that they grew, so there still is that existing here in some ways.”
We exit the House of the Friends into world’s largest city. Surrounded by cement and traffic, we walk between street vendors and storefront businesses. We pass countless taquerias, travel on the metro, and then we see Starbuck’s.
Inside, shiny brochures advertise the corporation’s rendition of fair trade. The fair trade concept has become a marketing tool at Starbuck's.
If you specifically request fair trade coffee at a Starbuck’s, the store is obligated to serve you fair trade coffee. But you have to ask.
Mois has doubted Starbuck’s commitment to fair trade ever since petitioners forced the issue on the corporation in the late ‘90s.
Fair trade coffee represents a miniscule percentage of the company’s overall sales. Even so, Starbucks is the largest fair trade vendor in the world according a 2006 press release.
(Two perspectives on Starbuck’s fair trade coffee:
Corporate perspective----------------------------------------------------- http://64.233.167.104/search?q=cache:iGeOwZgrX9MJ:www.starbucks.com/aboutus/StarbucksAndFairTrade.pdf+starbuck%27s+fair+trade&hl=en&ct=clnk&cd=1&gl=us&client=safari
Activist perspective-------------------------------------------------------- http://www.globalexchange.org/campaigns/fairtrade/coffee/starbucks.html)
While the rest of Mexico drinks café, we could drink from cups plastered with “Starbucks Coffee." But we continue walking past the entrance. For the time being, water remains in the bottle.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Friday, July 13, 2007
Venice en el Distrito Federal
5-20-07
A tour of art and music in Mexico could fill weeks. Best of all, the city’s local and international charm is available on a budget.
Today we visit:
>Museo Mural Diego Rivera. Students free. Contains his masterpiece “Sueno de una Tarde Dominical en la Alameda Central.” explains the symbolic significance of the work, and explores Rivera’s biographical history in Spanish.
> Museo de Bellas Artes. 10 pesos for students. Amazing collection of Diego Rivera murals and other notable Mexican muralists.
Wanted to visit the following, but ran out of time. I’ll see them next time, some day.
> Museo Dolores Olmedo. Free on Tuesdays. Home of Dolores Olmedo Patino, Diego Rivera’s lover. The museum contains much of Olmedo’s art collection including some of her portraits by Rivera.
>Museo Frida Kahlo: 20 pesos for students. Kahlo’s birthplace. Displays excerpts from her diary, which chronicles Rivera’s infidelity. Other travelers advised that this is not a good place to go if you want to see Kahlo’s work, since most is locked away in larger museums like the Museo de Arte Moderno and collections in the United States.
>Museo Estudio Diego Rivera y Frida Kahlo. Sundays free. The home “shared” by Rivera and Kahlo for seven years. As in “Frida” the movie, a bridge connects the two block-residences.
> Plaza Garibaldi. Go at night and see the mariachi hordes whoring themselves out to tourists. One boarder at La Casa de Los Amigos commented, “They’re like prostitutes. You can get a quickie, or you can take them home with you.”
> Museo de Arte Moderno. Students free. Includes all the big names: Kahlo, Orozco, Rivera, Siquerios, etc.
>Plus many more…So many options and never enough time.
>We take Rebecca to the floating gardens of Xochimilco, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xochimilco. The canals navigate residences, restaurants and flower-covered gardens (or chinampas. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chinampa).
The canals predate Aztec rule of the valley, and they hint at the once-watery Lake Texcoco environment. Spaniards destroyed the lake's dams and canals, and flooding plagued subsequent colonial settlements. Drainage projects continued through modern times and culminated in the Drenaje Profundo in 1967.
“The ecological consequences of the draining were enormous. Parts of the valleys were turned semi-arid, and even today Mexico City suffers for lack of water. Current pumping of water from underground is one of the reasons Mexico City is sinking at a rate of a few centimeters every year. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lake_Texcoco)”
Xochimilco is one of 16 boroughs (delegaciones) of el Destrito Federal (Mexico City proper), and it is easily accessible from any metro station. The blue line’s southern end connects to a Xochimilco-bound trolley. Trolley is same price as metro, two pesos.
We wander streets past taquerias, balloon stores and bars. We follow a boat drawing on “embarcado” signs. (Descriptive imagery in transportation is also evident in the subways. You might need glasses, or binoculars, to read the names of the stops. But large icons provide substitute information. For example, the “Pino Suarez” stop, with the underground pyramid, is represented by a pyramid image.)
The sky is a bit overcast. The canal is not crowded. Trajineras, boats decorated in bright colors, bob at the dock. We secure a boat for three people for two hours. Cost 350 pesos.
Boat-boy Rodolfo uses a stick to push the trajinera through the canal’s dirty water. He stops us for food. A woman and children crowd to the water’s edge. We order three taco plates for 120 pesos. Too expensive, but not bad considering the location is a tourist trap.
Mariachi musicians. Rebecca sees the band approaching. She stands at the bow of our trajinera. A man and young girl sing with instumental accompaniment. Music fills the air.
The band seems surprised when Rebecca jumps into their boat. Food arrives in the midst of chaos. Joyce quickly clamors to the other trajinera with video camera rolling. Rodolfo laughs hysterically. I laugh nervously. Rebecca takes charge.
After humming along with the first song, she instructs the band to play a Mexican song she used to sing. The bandleader recognizes the song. Rebecca sings with the band.
Rebecca purrs, “El canta… roo cu-coo cu-cooo”
He follows the prompt, “Roo cu-coo CU-COOO.” His lips curl back as he embellishes.
The song ends. Rebecca commands the trumpet player to stop. She finds the brass obnoxious. Then another song. The trumpeter sits miffed while the group continues with another classic mariachi tune.
After three songs (70 pesos per song) we continue the canal tour. We get out of the boat to visit a chinamp flower garden.
Back on the water, we pass larger boats filled with families dancing and clapping. We wave and float into the sunset.
A tour of art and music in Mexico could fill weeks. Best of all, the city’s local and international charm is available on a budget.
Today we visit:
>Museo Mural Diego Rivera. Students free. Contains his masterpiece “Sueno de una Tarde Dominical en la Alameda Central.” explains the symbolic significance of the work, and explores Rivera’s biographical history in Spanish.
> Museo de Bellas Artes. 10 pesos for students. Amazing collection of Diego Rivera murals and other notable Mexican muralists.
Wanted to visit the following, but ran out of time. I’ll see them next time, some day.
> Museo Dolores Olmedo. Free on Tuesdays. Home of Dolores Olmedo Patino, Diego Rivera’s lover. The museum contains much of Olmedo’s art collection including some of her portraits by Rivera.
>Museo Frida Kahlo: 20 pesos for students. Kahlo’s birthplace. Displays excerpts from her diary, which chronicles Rivera’s infidelity. Other travelers advised that this is not a good place to go if you want to see Kahlo’s work, since most is locked away in larger museums like the Museo de Arte Moderno and collections in the United States.
>Museo Estudio Diego Rivera y Frida Kahlo. Sundays free. The home “shared” by Rivera and Kahlo for seven years. As in “Frida” the movie, a bridge connects the two block-residences.
> Plaza Garibaldi. Go at night and see the mariachi hordes whoring themselves out to tourists. One boarder at La Casa de Los Amigos commented, “They’re like prostitutes. You can get a quickie, or you can take them home with you.”
> Museo de Arte Moderno. Students free. Includes all the big names: Kahlo, Orozco, Rivera, Siquerios, etc.
>Plus many more…So many options and never enough time.
>We take Rebecca to the floating gardens of Xochimilco, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xochimilco. The canals navigate residences, restaurants and flower-covered gardens (or chinampas. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chinampa).
The canals predate Aztec rule of the valley, and they hint at the once-watery Lake Texcoco environment. Spaniards destroyed the lake's dams and canals, and flooding plagued subsequent colonial settlements. Drainage projects continued through modern times and culminated in the Drenaje Profundo in 1967.
“The ecological consequences of the draining were enormous. Parts of the valleys were turned semi-arid, and even today Mexico City suffers for lack of water. Current pumping of water from underground is one of the reasons Mexico City is sinking at a rate of a few centimeters every year. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lake_Texcoco)”
Xochimilco is one of 16 boroughs (delegaciones) of el Destrito Federal (Mexico City proper), and it is easily accessible from any metro station. The blue line’s southern end connects to a Xochimilco-bound trolley. Trolley is same price as metro, two pesos.
We wander streets past taquerias, balloon stores and bars. We follow a boat drawing on “embarcado” signs. (Descriptive imagery in transportation is also evident in the subways. You might need glasses, or binoculars, to read the names of the stops. But large icons provide substitute information. For example, the “Pino Suarez” stop, with the underground pyramid, is represented by a pyramid image.)
The sky is a bit overcast. The canal is not crowded. Trajineras, boats decorated in bright colors, bob at the dock. We secure a boat for three people for two hours. Cost 350 pesos.
Boat-boy Rodolfo uses a stick to push the trajinera through the canal’s dirty water. He stops us for food. A woman and children crowd to the water’s edge. We order three taco plates for 120 pesos. Too expensive, but not bad considering the location is a tourist trap.
Mariachi musicians. Rebecca sees the band approaching. She stands at the bow of our trajinera. A man and young girl sing with instumental accompaniment. Music fills the air.
The band seems surprised when Rebecca jumps into their boat. Food arrives in the midst of chaos. Joyce quickly clamors to the other trajinera with video camera rolling. Rodolfo laughs hysterically. I laugh nervously. Rebecca takes charge.
After humming along with the first song, she instructs the band to play a Mexican song she used to sing. The bandleader recognizes the song. Rebecca sings with the band.
Rebecca purrs, “El canta… roo cu-coo cu-cooo”
He follows the prompt, “Roo cu-coo CU-COOO.” His lips curl back as he embellishes.
The song ends. Rebecca commands the trumpet player to stop. She finds the brass obnoxious. Then another song. The trumpeter sits miffed while the group continues with another classic mariachi tune.
After three songs (70 pesos per song) we continue the canal tour. We get out of the boat to visit a chinamp flower garden.
Back on the water, we pass larger boats filled with families dancing and clapping. We wave and float into the sunset.
潘迪華 Arrives
5-19-07
Rebecca Pan, the 76-year-old cabaret singer with whom we travel for two weeks, touches-up her make-up. We wait in the lobby outside her hotel room at the Mexico City Sheraton.
She is an actress and international singer, but her celebrity is foreign to the 21st century United States. She had performed with the likes of Louis Armstrong in venues from Hong Kong to Las Vegas. That was decades ago. Today, she could be my grandmother.
Rebecca Pan: AKA 潘迪華 or 潘迪华; Poon Dik-wah (celebrity name in Cantonese), Pan Wan Ching (real name in Mandarin). I researched Wikipedia when Joyce said we’d be traveling with Rebecca, my first/only celebrity acquaintance. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rebecca_Pan.
Her biographical information is limited in English, Joyce said. Even so, one of the most-acclaimed directors in Hong Kong caught my attention. Wong Kar Wai (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wong_Kar-wai), the best director of the 1997 Cannes Film Festival, produced or wrote/produced/directed three of her film credits.
Rebecca’s acting roles range from queen mother to a former prostitute. In photographs, her signature birthmarks appear prominent – two large moles – above and below her mouth. The two facial moles suggest flirtation in Chinese culture, Joyce said. I had heard her sing English, Chinese and Spanish songs from Joyce’s CDs. Sitting in the lobby, I wonder, how is the real Rebecca like?
She walks into the lobby speaking Cantonese. She smiles - a flash of elegance, genuine and practiced. I see Cindy Crawford's beauty mark to the nth degree. At least 20 years are mysteriously absent from her face. Few wrinkles remain from her eventful life: She witnessed Japan’s occupation of Shanghai, moved to Hong Kong, dodged the Cultural Revolution, and lived hotel-to-hotel for years on tour.
Joining Rebecca in Mexico City are her nephew, Lancelot (a physics professor for City College in San Francisco), and his ex-patriot ex-boyfriend who lives in Mexico.
As Rebecca's entourage leaves the hotel, she latches onto my arm. Her old hands are softer and smoother than most college-aged girls. I tell her this. She laughs, “It’s because I’m Shanghainese.”
For dinner, we eat at an Italian restaurant in a Zona Rosa shopping mall. The ex-patriot recommends it. Maybe he misses America. The restaurant is comparable to any high-end, standardized restaurant chain in the States: Applebee’s, Tony Roma’s, etc. The waiter wears a tuxedo. Strange. It's a shopping mall.
Compared to the food prices Joyce and I have encountered, the menu is shocking. More than 150 pesos for a plate (equivalent to $15 USD)!!! Ridiculous. I don’t spend this much in America. Luckily, Rebecca is generous.
Rebecca Pan, the 76-year-old cabaret singer with whom we travel for two weeks, touches-up her make-up. We wait in the lobby outside her hotel room at the Mexico City Sheraton.
She is an actress and international singer, but her celebrity is foreign to the 21st century United States. She had performed with the likes of Louis Armstrong in venues from Hong Kong to Las Vegas. That was decades ago. Today, she could be my grandmother.
Rebecca Pan: AKA 潘迪華 or 潘迪华; Poon Dik-wah (celebrity name in Cantonese), Pan Wan Ching (real name in Mandarin). I researched Wikipedia when Joyce said we’d be traveling with Rebecca, my first/only celebrity acquaintance. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rebecca_Pan.
Her biographical information is limited in English, Joyce said. Even so, one of the most-acclaimed directors in Hong Kong caught my attention. Wong Kar Wai (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wong_Kar-wai), the best director of the 1997 Cannes Film Festival, produced or wrote/produced/directed three of her film credits.
Rebecca’s acting roles range from queen mother to a former prostitute. In photographs, her signature birthmarks appear prominent – two large moles – above and below her mouth. The two facial moles suggest flirtation in Chinese culture, Joyce said. I had heard her sing English, Chinese and Spanish songs from Joyce’s CDs. Sitting in the lobby, I wonder, how is the real Rebecca like?
She walks into the lobby speaking Cantonese. She smiles - a flash of elegance, genuine and practiced. I see Cindy Crawford's beauty mark to the nth degree. At least 20 years are mysteriously absent from her face. Few wrinkles remain from her eventful life: She witnessed Japan’s occupation of Shanghai, moved to Hong Kong, dodged the Cultural Revolution, and lived hotel-to-hotel for years on tour.
Joining Rebecca in Mexico City are her nephew, Lancelot (a physics professor for City College in San Francisco), and his ex-patriot ex-boyfriend who lives in Mexico.
As Rebecca's entourage leaves the hotel, she latches onto my arm. Her old hands are softer and smoother than most college-aged girls. I tell her this. She laughs, “It’s because I’m Shanghainese.”
For dinner, we eat at an Italian restaurant in a Zona Rosa shopping mall. The ex-patriot recommends it. Maybe he misses America. The restaurant is comparable to any high-end, standardized restaurant chain in the States: Applebee’s, Tony Roma’s, etc. The waiter wears a tuxedo. Strange. It's a shopping mall.
Compared to the food prices Joyce and I have encountered, the menu is shocking. More than 150 pesos for a plate (equivalent to $15 USD)!!! Ridiculous. I don’t spend this much in America. Luckily, Rebecca is generous.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
A Reminder of Mortality to Moctezuma
5-18-07
Beneath the city of Mexico, above the drained Lake Texcoco, A young Mexican man asks for the time. Joyce and I wait for the Metro that would take us to a Teotihuacán-bound bus.
The ruins of Teotihuacán. “Birthplace of the gods.” The name comes from Nahuatl-speaking Aztecs centuries after the city’s abandonment. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Teotihuacan)
The young man speaks clear English. I round my answer to “10:45” and avoid further conversation. He continues, “Where are you from.” “The States…” a pause. “Where in the states?” “Nebraska…” another pause.
Ink peaks from the starched collar of his bright blue polo. A faded blue tattoo traces his neck. A wide moustache rests carefully manicured above his upper lip. He continues to speak. Metal fillings twinkle in his molars.
Originally from Veracruz, Mex., he lived in Phoenix, Ariz. for the past five years. He just moved back to Mexico when he was deported. “I want to go back,” he says of the States.
People crowd on and off the train at each stop. New passengers blend with the old.
At one stop, Mariachi music blasts from someone's backpack. Songs blip past. “Diez pesos, diez pesos” the salesman chants between songs. He navigates the crowded railcar and squeezes off on the next stop.
“How did you learn English,” I ask.
“Talking with my friends,”
Another stop. Another salesperson appears dragging her daughter behind. The mother-daughter pair sells felt-tip pens and little noisemakers. They pass also.
I wish I had more time to speak with the young man, but the train slows for our stop. I say bye, and we head to a different train going to the bus terminal.
Soon, we board the Teotihuacán-bound bus. Itdrives along roads lined with a never-ending supply of food stalls. Street food supplants American fast food. Men and women line the roads for lunch.
The bus turns onto a toll-road reminiscent of an American interstate. A concrete barrier separates the road from Mexico’s urban sprawl. Bright advertisements, spray-painted like graffiti, become subtitles beneath half-built boxes/homes. Residential construction plasters distant hills in geometric diaspora.
We pass through the dusty valley. After an hour or so, we arrive at the gates of Teotihuacán. The ruins provided Moctezuma and the Aztecs a reminder of civilization’s mortality. Long before Moctezuma was captured and his people were enslaved, the streets of Teotihuacán lay mysteriously abandoned.
Inside the park, we walk to the pyramids on the Avenue of the Dead. We pass rows of men selling tourist t-shirts, sculpted objects, jewelry, bow and arrows. We wander the grounds of the once-great city.
Vendors approach tourists one-by-one, minute-by-minute. They chant sales pitches. I respond with a chant of “no gracias, no gracias.”
Tourists lounge atop the Pyramid of the Sun, the second largest pyramid in the New World. They sunbathe and snap photos of one another at the center of this unknown culture’s universe. A few, who look like locals, raise their hands in each direction in apparent worship. They bow to the ground. Tourists take photos of them, too.
Tiny men at the base of the pyramid continue to approach tourists. The economic life cycle continues.
I become aware of the United States comparative youth, a 200-year-old transplant. With Mexico’s rich indigenous traditions, swirled with Spanish influences, modern Mexico navigates a cultural surplus. In contrast, the United States is a county still cementing its culture.
Mexicans who move to the United States (like the man-in-blue from the subway) gain not only a piece of the United States’ standard of living, they gain a voice in the nation's emerging culture. For many Americans, such immigrants are considered the central problem facing the nation.
Anyone who utilizes hospitals, low-income benefits, etc. without contributing to the economy hurts that economy. But the “problem” of illegal immigration is not so simple. Illegal immigrants contribute billions to social security, which the immigrants will never claim. They offer massive profits to U.S. businessmen, which is then taxed by the government.
The real issue, I think, is not financial. The “problem” is a dilution of “American voice.” Many Americans are afraid of losing their identity (or their children’s identity) to a foreign culture. But considering the proximity of the two countries (and the ongoing influx of Mexican peoples in the U.S.) isn’t a blending of culture bound to happen anyway? Isn’t it just a matter of time?
The answer is buried in statistics and opinion – intangible things.
Here in Teotihuacán, the rich history of Mexico becomes something tangible (good or bad). It is sold in the “authentic crafts” and “hand-made trinkets” through which American tourists may live vicariously. The trinkets may offer proof of contact with the ancient ruins of America.
Tiny men become life-size as we walk down the pyramid.
I am approached again.
One culture dies. It changes. A new culture is born.
Here, along the Avenue of the Dead, merchants peddled wares 2,000 years ago. Today, they are still peddling.
I continue to say, “No Gracias” to the salesmen. Then I hurry off, afflicted by Moctezuma’s Curse.
Beneath the city of Mexico, above the drained Lake Texcoco, A young Mexican man asks for the time. Joyce and I wait for the Metro that would take us to a Teotihuacán-bound bus.
The ruins of Teotihuacán. “Birthplace of the gods.” The name comes from Nahuatl-speaking Aztecs centuries after the city’s abandonment. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Teotihuacan)
The young man speaks clear English. I round my answer to “10:45” and avoid further conversation. He continues, “Where are you from.” “The States…” a pause. “Where in the states?” “Nebraska…” another pause.
Ink peaks from the starched collar of his bright blue polo. A faded blue tattoo traces his neck. A wide moustache rests carefully manicured above his upper lip. He continues to speak. Metal fillings twinkle in his molars.
Originally from Veracruz, Mex., he lived in Phoenix, Ariz. for the past five years. He just moved back to Mexico when he was deported. “I want to go back,” he says of the States.
People crowd on and off the train at each stop. New passengers blend with the old.
At one stop, Mariachi music blasts from someone's backpack. Songs blip past. “Diez pesos, diez pesos” the salesman chants between songs. He navigates the crowded railcar and squeezes off on the next stop.
“How did you learn English,” I ask.
“Talking with my friends,”
Another stop. Another salesperson appears dragging her daughter behind. The mother-daughter pair sells felt-tip pens and little noisemakers. They pass also.
I wish I had more time to speak with the young man, but the train slows for our stop. I say bye, and we head to a different train going to the bus terminal.
Soon, we board the Teotihuacán-bound bus. Itdrives along roads lined with a never-ending supply of food stalls. Street food supplants American fast food. Men and women line the roads for lunch.
The bus turns onto a toll-road reminiscent of an American interstate. A concrete barrier separates the road from Mexico’s urban sprawl. Bright advertisements, spray-painted like graffiti, become subtitles beneath half-built boxes/homes. Residential construction plasters distant hills in geometric diaspora.
We pass through the dusty valley. After an hour or so, we arrive at the gates of Teotihuacán. The ruins provided Moctezuma and the Aztecs a reminder of civilization’s mortality. Long before Moctezuma was captured and his people were enslaved, the streets of Teotihuacán lay mysteriously abandoned.
Inside the park, we walk to the pyramids on the Avenue of the Dead. We pass rows of men selling tourist t-shirts, sculpted objects, jewelry, bow and arrows. We wander the grounds of the once-great city.
Vendors approach tourists one-by-one, minute-by-minute. They chant sales pitches. I respond with a chant of “no gracias, no gracias.”
Tourists lounge atop the Pyramid of the Sun, the second largest pyramid in the New World. They sunbathe and snap photos of one another at the center of this unknown culture’s universe. A few, who look like locals, raise their hands in each direction in apparent worship. They bow to the ground. Tourists take photos of them, too.
Tiny men at the base of the pyramid continue to approach tourists. The economic life cycle continues.
I become aware of the United States comparative youth, a 200-year-old transplant. With Mexico’s rich indigenous traditions, swirled with Spanish influences, modern Mexico navigates a cultural surplus. In contrast, the United States is a county still cementing its culture.
Mexicans who move to the United States (like the man-in-blue from the subway) gain not only a piece of the United States’ standard of living, they gain a voice in the nation's emerging culture. For many Americans, such immigrants are considered the central problem facing the nation.
Anyone who utilizes hospitals, low-income benefits, etc. without contributing to the economy hurts that economy. But the “problem” of illegal immigration is not so simple. Illegal immigrants contribute billions to social security, which the immigrants will never claim. They offer massive profits to U.S. businessmen, which is then taxed by the government.
The real issue, I think, is not financial. The “problem” is a dilution of “American voice.” Many Americans are afraid of losing their identity (or their children’s identity) to a foreign culture. But considering the proximity of the two countries (and the ongoing influx of Mexican peoples in the U.S.) isn’t a blending of culture bound to happen anyway? Isn’t it just a matter of time?
The answer is buried in statistics and opinion – intangible things.
Here in Teotihuacán, the rich history of Mexico becomes something tangible (good or bad). It is sold in the “authentic crafts” and “hand-made trinkets” through which American tourists may live vicariously. The trinkets may offer proof of contact with the ancient ruins of America.
Tiny men become life-size as we walk down the pyramid.
I am approached again.
One culture dies. It changes. A new culture is born.
Here, along the Avenue of the Dead, merchants peddled wares 2,000 years ago. Today, they are still peddling.
I continue to say, “No Gracias” to the salesmen. Then I hurry off, afflicted by Moctezuma’s Curse.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Spanglish at Banamex
5-17-07
Financial advice for backpacking: PART ONE: Manage money/bank errands before arriving in a foreign country.
If a receptionist in Chicago tells you that you can issue a new credit card the following day in a foreign country, Mexico for example, doubt her words. And, If possible, run said errands more than one day prior to leaving the United States. That way, when any conflicts arise, you can communicate in the same language.
After breakfast at La Casa, we set out to find a Citibank. We know an address in the Zona Rosa, a wealthy banking/disco district in the city. But the Citibank appears condemned. Financial institutions loom overhead a street called Insurgentes. We meandered the manicured concrete canyon. A receptionist at a random travel agency directed us to Citibank, which was not Citibank. Banamex. Citibank acquired Banamex in 2001, we learned.
We enter Banamex’s corporate offices. An escalator takes us gently into a communication barrier. We face the receptionist guarding the tellers’ booths.
“Habla Ingles?”
“No.”
I struggle to form sentences in Spanish. The receptionist’s speaks rapidly. I understand, “no.” and she repeats this word, “no, no aqui,” She signals that we should turn around and leave. Her index finger and middle finger make imaginary steps back to the escalator. Downstairs, in the main lobby, we wait in line.
I write something on a piece of scrap paper. I recite my written sentence. Then, the woman responds. She speaks too fast for me to understand. I fumble with foreign words that re-articulate my thoughts. “Ella tiene que nuevo card.” I don’t understand the words spilling from my mouth. The receptionist doesn’t either (with good reason).
A woman burst from the back of the line. “What do you need,” she says. She speaks perfect English, slightly accented. She wears a dress suit, and a bright fanny pack hangs around her waist. She smiles.
We explain our situation. Citibank in Chicago told Joyce that she could obtain a new credit card as soon as she arrived in Mexico. The woman talks to the receptionist. “We have to go upstairs,” she says. We go back upstairs. The first receptionist rolls her eyes when she sees that we have returned. Our volunteer-translator talks. A new receptionist appears. “It’s okay, I work here,” she says, smiling. “I know people.” Then she’s on the phone.
Her name is Claudia. Claudia explains how Citigroup bought Banamex (the second largest bank in Mexico). She worked for Citigroup before the purchase, and she was transferred to Banamex, now a subsidiary of Citigroup. Claudia gives us her contact info, and she tells us to contact her on our way back to Mexico City. She works at a different location in town, and was dropping by the main office for an errand. She hands the phone to Joyce, and she has to complete the errand.
Turns out, the voice on the phone says, it would take half a week to issue a card. Joyce decides against it. But that’s okay; we both have traveler’s checks.
PART TWO: Read your travel guide before leaving home. If you plan to travel in a country that offers horrendous exchange rates for U.S. dollars, it is best to know in advance. Cuban banks, for example, exchange U.S. dollars, but they do so at a very disadvantageous rate. We learned this the night before while flipping through the Lonely Planet for Cuba.
PART THREE: It is best not to exchange US currency for third party currencies while abroad.
At the teller’s booth, we exchange US travelers’ checks for Canadian dollars, which receive the optimal exchange rate in Cuba.
However, we have to exchange the US dollars into pesos and exchange the pesos into Canadian dollars (Cuban currency can be obtained only in Cuba).
Feeling dejected after receiving less than we expected in the exchange, we wander toward the Insurgentes plaza. We sit beneath the shade from the obelisk. Cars dart past, and we count our money.
Our loss wasn’t significant, but it was a profit into someone’s pocket. Inequality in monetary systems must produce enormous wealth, we lament. But where does it go?
I look to the left. An American Express skyscraper belches high above the street. Hmmm… The HSBC towers chuckle on the opposite side of the street.
PART FOUR: Ignore bitterness, resume tourist activities.
We visit Trotsky’s house. We see the bullet-riddled walls from one assassination attempt and the room where the second attempt succeeded. We visit the Universidad Nacional Autonoma de Mexico.
Financial advice for backpacking: PART ONE: Manage money/bank errands before arriving in a foreign country.
If a receptionist in Chicago tells you that you can issue a new credit card the following day in a foreign country, Mexico for example, doubt her words. And, If possible, run said errands more than one day prior to leaving the United States. That way, when any conflicts arise, you can communicate in the same language.
After breakfast at La Casa, we set out to find a Citibank. We know an address in the Zona Rosa, a wealthy banking/disco district in the city. But the Citibank appears condemned. Financial institutions loom overhead a street called Insurgentes. We meandered the manicured concrete canyon. A receptionist at a random travel agency directed us to Citibank, which was not Citibank. Banamex. Citibank acquired Banamex in 2001, we learned.
We enter Banamex’s corporate offices. An escalator takes us gently into a communication barrier. We face the receptionist guarding the tellers’ booths.
“Habla Ingles?”
“No.”
I struggle to form sentences in Spanish. The receptionist’s speaks rapidly. I understand, “no.” and she repeats this word, “no, no aqui,” She signals that we should turn around and leave. Her index finger and middle finger make imaginary steps back to the escalator. Downstairs, in the main lobby, we wait in line.
I write something on a piece of scrap paper. I recite my written sentence. Then, the woman responds. She speaks too fast for me to understand. I fumble with foreign words that re-articulate my thoughts. “Ella tiene que nuevo card.” I don’t understand the words spilling from my mouth. The receptionist doesn’t either (with good reason).
A woman burst from the back of the line. “What do you need,” she says. She speaks perfect English, slightly accented. She wears a dress suit, and a bright fanny pack hangs around her waist. She smiles.
We explain our situation. Citibank in Chicago told Joyce that she could obtain a new credit card as soon as she arrived in Mexico. The woman talks to the receptionist. “We have to go upstairs,” she says. We go back upstairs. The first receptionist rolls her eyes when she sees that we have returned. Our volunteer-translator talks. A new receptionist appears. “It’s okay, I work here,” she says, smiling. “I know people.” Then she’s on the phone.
Her name is Claudia. Claudia explains how Citigroup bought Banamex (the second largest bank in Mexico). She worked for Citigroup before the purchase, and she was transferred to Banamex, now a subsidiary of Citigroup. Claudia gives us her contact info, and she tells us to contact her on our way back to Mexico City. She works at a different location in town, and was dropping by the main office for an errand. She hands the phone to Joyce, and she has to complete the errand.
Turns out, the voice on the phone says, it would take half a week to issue a card. Joyce decides against it. But that’s okay; we both have traveler’s checks.
PART TWO: Read your travel guide before leaving home. If you plan to travel in a country that offers horrendous exchange rates for U.S. dollars, it is best to know in advance. Cuban banks, for example, exchange U.S. dollars, but they do so at a very disadvantageous rate. We learned this the night before while flipping through the Lonely Planet for Cuba.
PART THREE: It is best not to exchange US currency for third party currencies while abroad.
At the teller’s booth, we exchange US travelers’ checks for Canadian dollars, which receive the optimal exchange rate in Cuba.
However, we have to exchange the US dollars into pesos and exchange the pesos into Canadian dollars (Cuban currency can be obtained only in Cuba).
Feeling dejected after receiving less than we expected in the exchange, we wander toward the Insurgentes plaza. We sit beneath the shade from the obelisk. Cars dart past, and we count our money.
Our loss wasn’t significant, but it was a profit into someone’s pocket. Inequality in monetary systems must produce enormous wealth, we lament. But where does it go?
I look to the left. An American Express skyscraper belches high above the street. Hmmm… The HSBC towers chuckle on the opposite side of the street.
PART FOUR: Ignore bitterness, resume tourist activities.
We visit Trotsky’s house. We see the bullet-riddled walls from one assassination attempt and the room where the second attempt succeeded. We visit the Universidad Nacional Autonoma de Mexico.
Turistas in the Heart of the Aztec Universe
5-16-07
Return to the zocalo for sightseeing.
1. Palacio Nacional (http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palacio_Nacional). Diego Rivera’s Murals. Free Admittance. We eavesdrop on some paid tours.
2. Templo Mayor. Free admittance for students. Some archaeologists are examining the lower part of the pyramid. A path leads through the pyramid unearthed in the ‘70s. From behind the crumbling lava rock, the cathedral rises high above the zocalo. Crouch and close one eye, depth perception vanishes. The dark façade of the Christian edifice rises from the pyramid as if they were one. Ironic. Spaniards built the cathedral mostly from materials stripped from the once great Templo Mayor at the center of the Aztec universe. The grounds also contain an amazing two-towered museum, which represents the two pyramids that once stood over the location (the temple devoted to Tlaloc god of water, and the temple devoted to Huitzilopochtli god of war). (http://archaeology.asu.edu/tm/index2.htm)
3. Suprema Corte de Justica (http://200.38.86.53/PortalSCJN/). Free Admittance. All office doors are open. The openness of the administrative process was a surprise considering the number of Mexican dissidents who protest the various injustices in the country:
from the socialist PRD and former-mayor Obrador camping out in the zocalo (http://blog.washingtonpost.com/mexicovotes/2006/08/down_but_not_out_in_mexico_cit_1.html),
to the APPO and last year’s riots in Oaxaca (http://auto_sol.tao.ca/node/view/2408),
to the Zapatistas and subcommandante Marcos in Chiappas (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zapatista_Army_of_National_Liberation).
The building contains a collection of portraits of justices dating back to Spanish rule. The paintings also exhibit the various shifts in painting styles throughout the years, especially in the 20th centry, which even includes a set of abstract (almost cubist) portraits. The building also played host to an array of murals. And, on opposite walls near the entrance, two naked blonde white women recline under enormous breasts exposed.
The word “fuckable” comes to mind as I view the women’s perfectly painted curves. Standing in Mexico’s highest court, I can’t help but recall all the instances (referenced in the history portion of my Let’s Go guide) where the Mexican legal system got fucked.
Moctezuma, the last ruler of the Aztecs, thought Cortez the prohesized Quetzecoatl – the plumed serpent, a war god returned to rule Mexico. Moctezuma greeted Cortez and the conquistadors with gifts of gold. The Spaniards proceeded to imprison the Aztec king, conquer the people and spread disease through the land (hence the namesake for traveler’s diahea).
The rebellions of the 19th century tell of the nation’s struggle for identity. Mexico usurped Spanish rule in 1821 to establish the First Mexican Empire, followed by more political turmoil, a war with the US, the loss of northern territories, French invasion in the 1860s, and more revolution and turmoil.
According to groups like the EZLN, Questionable justice continues today as peoples struggle for their rights in the Chiapas.
Nevertheless, one might say that justice is fucked in any country. The female representation of justice in the United States also has an attractive figure. She too is quite “fuckable,” and what’s more, she’s blind.
After finishing a tour of the court, we saw more murals scattered through rooms and stairwells. At the top of one stairwell. a large artwork showed a dim stone pit.
A woman lay at the bottom of the pit - naked, blonde, limbs sprawled, tits in the dirt.
4. Museo de la Ciudad de Mexico. Free on Wednesdays. Joaquin Clausell’s (http://www.conservapedia.com/Joaquin_Clausell) studio upstairs contains a windowless room plastered with a montage of women, crucifixes and ghostlike horses. In the museum, there is an interesting display about Superbarrio man (http://hemi.nyu.edu/journal/1_1/sb11.html), a caped-luchadore (Mexican wrestler) in advertisements along with Wonder Woman and Batman.
On the second floor, I feel some tacos rumbling inside my stomach. I rush to “el bano.” I don’t notice that it’s for employee’s only. Joyce’s voice echoes after I find a seat, “Um Doug, there’s a woman here, she says you can’t go there.” I exit to find a different restroom. I try to apologize to the security guard. She laughs at me. I think I say “lo siento, (I’m sorry)” but maybe I say “lo sento (I sit it).”
5. Catedral Metropolitana. Free admittance. Huge. Beautiful. Catholics worship and tourists snap photos. Once outside again, stalls and merchants line the cathedral’s fence. The setting reminds me of the synagogues Jesus disrupted in the New Testament. Alongside the vendors, beggars beg and indigenous witch doctors peddle blessings and curses, potions. A scantily clad man dons his wild-feathered helmet and chants as he bathes passersby for a tip.
We head back to the subway station. We try to avoid the ever-present swarm of green taxis eager to flatten any unwary tourist. We return to the house of friends poorer by only 38 pesos or $3.8 USD (two taco plates and 4 metro tickets). What a bargain.
Return to the zocalo for sightseeing.
1. Palacio Nacional (http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palacio_Nacional). Diego Rivera’s Murals. Free Admittance. We eavesdrop on some paid tours.
2. Templo Mayor. Free admittance for students. Some archaeologists are examining the lower part of the pyramid. A path leads through the pyramid unearthed in the ‘70s. From behind the crumbling lava rock, the cathedral rises high above the zocalo. Crouch and close one eye, depth perception vanishes. The dark façade of the Christian edifice rises from the pyramid as if they were one. Ironic. Spaniards built the cathedral mostly from materials stripped from the once great Templo Mayor at the center of the Aztec universe. The grounds also contain an amazing two-towered museum, which represents the two pyramids that once stood over the location (the temple devoted to Tlaloc god of water, and the temple devoted to Huitzilopochtli god of war). (http://archaeology.asu.edu/tm/index2.htm)
3. Suprema Corte de Justica (http://200.38.86.53/PortalSCJN/). Free Admittance. All office doors are open. The openness of the administrative process was a surprise considering the number of Mexican dissidents who protest the various injustices in the country:
from the socialist PRD and former-mayor Obrador camping out in the zocalo (http://blog.washingtonpost.com/mexicovotes/2006/08/down_but_not_out_in_mexico_cit_1.html),
to the APPO and last year’s riots in Oaxaca (http://auto_sol.tao.ca/node/view/2408),
to the Zapatistas and subcommandante Marcos in Chiappas (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zapatista_Army_of_National_Liberation).
The building contains a collection of portraits of justices dating back to Spanish rule. The paintings also exhibit the various shifts in painting styles throughout the years, especially in the 20th centry, which even includes a set of abstract (almost cubist) portraits. The building also played host to an array of murals. And, on opposite walls near the entrance, two naked blonde white women recline under enormous breasts exposed.
The word “fuckable” comes to mind as I view the women’s perfectly painted curves. Standing in Mexico’s highest court, I can’t help but recall all the instances (referenced in the history portion of my Let’s Go guide) where the Mexican legal system got fucked.
Moctezuma, the last ruler of the Aztecs, thought Cortez the prohesized Quetzecoatl – the plumed serpent, a war god returned to rule Mexico. Moctezuma greeted Cortez and the conquistadors with gifts of gold. The Spaniards proceeded to imprison the Aztec king, conquer the people and spread disease through the land (hence the namesake for traveler’s diahea).
The rebellions of the 19th century tell of the nation’s struggle for identity. Mexico usurped Spanish rule in 1821 to establish the First Mexican Empire, followed by more political turmoil, a war with the US, the loss of northern territories, French invasion in the 1860s, and more revolution and turmoil.
According to groups like the EZLN, Questionable justice continues today as peoples struggle for their rights in the Chiapas.
Nevertheless, one might say that justice is fucked in any country. The female representation of justice in the United States also has an attractive figure. She too is quite “fuckable,” and what’s more, she’s blind.
After finishing a tour of the court, we saw more murals scattered through rooms and stairwells. At the top of one stairwell. a large artwork showed a dim stone pit.
A woman lay at the bottom of the pit - naked, blonde, limbs sprawled, tits in the dirt.
4. Museo de la Ciudad de Mexico. Free on Wednesdays. Joaquin Clausell’s (http://www.conservapedia.com/Joaquin_Clausell) studio upstairs contains a windowless room plastered with a montage of women, crucifixes and ghostlike horses. In the museum, there is an interesting display about Superbarrio man (http://hemi.nyu.edu/journal/1_1/sb11.html), a caped-luchadore (Mexican wrestler) in advertisements along with Wonder Woman and Batman.
On the second floor, I feel some tacos rumbling inside my stomach. I rush to “el bano.” I don’t notice that it’s for employee’s only. Joyce’s voice echoes after I find a seat, “Um Doug, there’s a woman here, she says you can’t go there.” I exit to find a different restroom. I try to apologize to the security guard. She laughs at me. I think I say “lo siento, (I’m sorry)” but maybe I say “lo sento (I sit it).”
5. Catedral Metropolitana. Free admittance. Huge. Beautiful. Catholics worship and tourists snap photos. Once outside again, stalls and merchants line the cathedral’s fence. The setting reminds me of the synagogues Jesus disrupted in the New Testament. Alongside the vendors, beggars beg and indigenous witch doctors peddle blessings and curses, potions. A scantily clad man dons his wild-feathered helmet and chants as he bathes passersby for a tip.
We head back to the subway station. We try to avoid the ever-present swarm of green taxis eager to flatten any unwary tourist. We return to the house of friends poorer by only 38 pesos or $3.8 USD (two taco plates and 4 metro tickets). What a bargain.
The House of the Friends
5-15-07
Free continental breakfast (cereal, yogurt, bananas, toast and instant coffee) offers a smorgasbord of languages spoken by international travelers (along with plenty of the English from the current continent’s residents).
Over the bland breakfast, the scent of Cool Water cologne lingers on surrounding conversations: Bragging about backpacking. “Dude, that’s totally awesome.” Advice about the city, “Yesterday I did Frida’s house and Trotsky’s House, and today I’m gunna check out the markets.” Etc.
The hostel is a dream of an international hostel, but it’s too big for me. With the rooftop bar’s spectacular view of the zocalo, it would make an ideal resting place between excursions to the city’s innumerable sights, clubs and bars. Not looking to experience the nightlife, we move on to someplace more low-key. We leave for La Casa de los Amigos.
Let’s Go described La Casa de los Amigos: “accommodations for “backpackers, graduate school students and eco-warriors from around the world.” The intrigue of ecological warfare along with the building’s historic significance - the former studio of Mexico’s renowned Jose Orozco (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/José_Clemente_Orozco) - provided an attractive lure.
On a side-note, this is possibly the only good info we found in the Let’s Go guide, a generally below-satisfactory guidebook. In comparison to the Lonely Planet guide we used in Cuba, or the Lonely Planet guides for Mexico, there is no comparison.
The Quaker-run facility provided a base for the quasi-hostel’s philanthropic activities and a residence of numerous volunteers. Those who volunteer for a minimum of three months with the house receive free lodging.
We arrived a few months after the 50th anniversary of the La Casa. A poster hung in the lobby advertising Economia Solidaridad, an organization of collectives working for fair trade. The collectives represent impoverished indigenous peoples living around Mexico. La Casa de los Amigos also recently hosted the annual meeting for Economia Solidaridad. The involvement is part of the buildings refocusing of its social activism, which has waned in recent years as the building became more focused on the hostelling.
La Casa de los Amigos began as an outreach for indigenous peoples, said the receptionist, Jenny, an American volunteer. Jenny showed us around the building In the meeting room, we read more about the history. In the common area, a recent news article in a local English newspaper provided contemporary context.
Lots of good stuff, but no eco-warriors. Maybe they were hiding. We show the Let's Go description to Jenny. She laughs. “That doesn’t make sense,” she says. “Quakers are non-violent,”
Free continental breakfast (cereal, yogurt, bananas, toast and instant coffee) offers a smorgasbord of languages spoken by international travelers (along with plenty of the English from the current continent’s residents).
Over the bland breakfast, the scent of Cool Water cologne lingers on surrounding conversations: Bragging about backpacking. “Dude, that’s totally awesome.” Advice about the city, “Yesterday I did Frida’s house and Trotsky’s House, and today I’m gunna check out the markets.” Etc.
The hostel is a dream of an international hostel, but it’s too big for me. With the rooftop bar’s spectacular view of the zocalo, it would make an ideal resting place between excursions to the city’s innumerable sights, clubs and bars. Not looking to experience the nightlife, we move on to someplace more low-key. We leave for La Casa de los Amigos.
Let’s Go described La Casa de los Amigos: “accommodations for “backpackers, graduate school students and eco-warriors from around the world.” The intrigue of ecological warfare along with the building’s historic significance - the former studio of Mexico’s renowned Jose Orozco (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/José_Clemente_Orozco) - provided an attractive lure.
On a side-note, this is possibly the only good info we found in the Let’s Go guide, a generally below-satisfactory guidebook. In comparison to the Lonely Planet guide we used in Cuba, or the Lonely Planet guides for Mexico, there is no comparison.
The Quaker-run facility provided a base for the quasi-hostel’s philanthropic activities and a residence of numerous volunteers. Those who volunteer for a minimum of three months with the house receive free lodging.
We arrived a few months after the 50th anniversary of the La Casa. A poster hung in the lobby advertising Economia Solidaridad, an organization of collectives working for fair trade. The collectives represent impoverished indigenous peoples living around Mexico. La Casa de los Amigos also recently hosted the annual meeting for Economia Solidaridad. The involvement is part of the buildings refocusing of its social activism, which has waned in recent years as the building became more focused on the hostelling.
La Casa de los Amigos began as an outreach for indigenous peoples, said the receptionist, Jenny, an American volunteer. Jenny showed us around the building In the meeting room, we read more about the history. In the common area, a recent news article in a local English newspaper provided contemporary context.
Lots of good stuff, but no eco-warriors. Maybe they were hiding. We show the Let's Go description to Jenny. She laughs. “That doesn’t make sense,” she says. “Quakers are non-violent,”
My First Steps South of the Border
5-14-07
Step one - land in world’s biggest city. The Boeing aircraft lands amid nine million people sprawling across the Distrito Federal’s 1,500 square miles (and that’s not including the 20 million more living in the surrounding metropolitan area). Success.
Step two –find metro. Two pesos per ticket. Dos pesos por boleto. I fumble to ask for tickets with my limited (Intro to Spanish II) vocabulary. After receiving a funny look, success.
Step three - find hostel (http://www.hostelcatedral.com/). We exit the metro at Pino Suarez, one stop early. We pass part of an Aztec pyramid discovered during subway construction in the early ‘70s. My vist encounter with the ruins of ancient Mesoamerican occurs in a subway.
We walk underground to the Zócalo stop. My head is on a swivel. Bookstores line the tunnel; vendors sell any literature imaginable. Children’s books in Spanish catch my eye (my current reading level). Four city blocks seem to pass in the fluorescent light. Shoulders fall asleep under the straps of my backpack.
Above ground, pigeons scatter across the enormous zócalo (a plaza with government building and cathedral). An enormous eagle flies overhead. In front of red, white and green, the eagle clutches a snake in talons. The symbol dates to the city's Aztec foundation when the once nomadic people discovered a prophesized eagle-devouring-snake-atop-cactus (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flag_of_Mexico).
The enormity of the flag seems to distort all perspective. As if warped by the dimensions of a snow globe, a crowd scatters across la Plaza de la Constitucion concentrated around the flag pole. I seem to be in a Europe populated by Hispanics. Wide streets stretch from the city center like the Champs-Élysées. We walk away by the Palacio Nacional and Catedral Metropolitana. We arrive at Hostel Catedral on the west side of the zócalo.
Step Three is success.
We made our reservations the night before from Chicago. Roughly $24 USD (240 pesos) for two dorm beds. Compared to European and American hostels, this is dirt-cheap. But in retrospect, Hostel Catedral was the most expensive place we stayed in Mexico.
Last summer, I stayed in hostels throughout Europe, and this is hands-down the largest I’ve ever visited. Super-sized in an ideal location + reception speaks English = good hostel for a gringo. Then again, we encountered zero hostels in Mexico that spoke zero English. In Europe, I generally booked hostels a day in advance (hostels.com, hostelworld.com, hostelbookers.com, etc), but this wasn’t necessary during our travels in Mexico. Booking upon arrival worked fine.
We lock our bags in the dorm security lockers, take a nap, and then explore the surrounding area... We find a restaurant. I dig into my enchilada verde, and thoughts of the Richter Scale fill my mind. I imagine my stomach a dormant volcano. I remember all the warnings (http://www.cdc.gov/ncidod/dbmd/diseaseinfo/travelersdiarrhea_g.htm) about traveler’s diarrhea (TD, Moctezumma’s curse, turista), and I wonder if/when I’ll face eruption.
After dinner, Starbucks provides our first opportunity for planning. Tentative plans. These plans changed daily. We originally planned to visit Belize and Guatemala, but both countries eventually fell from the itinerary. On a tight budget, we don’t order anything. No coffee. Nada. Joyce pirates wireless Internet with her laptop. We sit for a few hours, then we take steps along the cobblestone streets and return to the hostel. More successful steps…
Step one - land in world’s biggest city. The Boeing aircraft lands amid nine million people sprawling across the Distrito Federal’s 1,500 square miles (and that’s not including the 20 million more living in the surrounding metropolitan area). Success.
Step two –find metro. Two pesos per ticket. Dos pesos por boleto. I fumble to ask for tickets with my limited (Intro to Spanish II) vocabulary. After receiving a funny look, success.
Step three - find hostel (http://www.hostelcatedral.com/). We exit the metro at Pino Suarez, one stop early. We pass part of an Aztec pyramid discovered during subway construction in the early ‘70s. My vist encounter with the ruins of ancient Mesoamerican occurs in a subway.
We walk underground to the Zócalo stop. My head is on a swivel. Bookstores line the tunnel; vendors sell any literature imaginable. Children’s books in Spanish catch my eye (my current reading level). Four city blocks seem to pass in the fluorescent light. Shoulders fall asleep under the straps of my backpack.
Above ground, pigeons scatter across the enormous zócalo (a plaza with government building and cathedral). An enormous eagle flies overhead. In front of red, white and green, the eagle clutches a snake in talons. The symbol dates to the city's Aztec foundation when the once nomadic people discovered a prophesized eagle-devouring-snake-atop-cactus (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flag_of_Mexico).
The enormity of the flag seems to distort all perspective. As if warped by the dimensions of a snow globe, a crowd scatters across la Plaza de la Constitucion concentrated around the flag pole. I seem to be in a Europe populated by Hispanics. Wide streets stretch from the city center like the Champs-Élysées. We walk away by the Palacio Nacional and Catedral Metropolitana. We arrive at Hostel Catedral on the west side of the zócalo.
Step Three is success.
We made our reservations the night before from Chicago. Roughly $24 USD (240 pesos) for two dorm beds. Compared to European and American hostels, this is dirt-cheap. But in retrospect, Hostel Catedral was the most expensive place we stayed in Mexico.
Last summer, I stayed in hostels throughout Europe, and this is hands-down the largest I’ve ever visited. Super-sized in an ideal location + reception speaks English = good hostel for a gringo. Then again, we encountered zero hostels in Mexico that spoke zero English. In Europe, I generally booked hostels a day in advance (hostels.com, hostelworld.com, hostelbookers.com, etc), but this wasn’t necessary during our travels in Mexico. Booking upon arrival worked fine.
We lock our bags in the dorm security lockers, take a nap, and then explore the surrounding area... We find a restaurant. I dig into my enchilada verde, and thoughts of the Richter Scale fill my mind. I imagine my stomach a dormant volcano. I remember all the warnings (http://www.cdc.gov/ncidod/dbmd/diseaseinfo/travelersdiarrhea_g.htm) about traveler’s diarrhea (TD, Moctezumma’s curse, turista), and I wonder if/when I’ll face eruption.
After dinner, Starbucks provides our first opportunity for planning. Tentative plans. These plans changed daily. We originally planned to visit Belize and Guatemala, but both countries eventually fell from the itinerary. On a tight budget, we don’t order anything. No coffee. Nada. Joyce pirates wireless Internet with her laptop. We sit for a few hours, then we take steps along the cobblestone streets and return to the hostel. More successful steps…
Recap
I bought a watch at Wal-Mart before leaving, but it disappeared in the waterfalls of Misol-Ha in Chiapas, Mexico.
My wrist is bare once again…
Shortages (time, internet, money) prevented up-to-date postings to this blog, but I’d like to share the experiences from a 46-day journey through Mexico, Cuba and back.
After traveling with Choi Ying Ying Joyce, I am visiting her in San Francisco while she works at New American Media (http://news.newamericamedia.org). There, she translates Chinese news into English and does some reporting.
Here in San Francisco, I tour the coffee shops and put together these notes and photos.
Originally from Omaha, Neb, I am at the moment in-between travels. Sometime around Aug. 1, I will leave for Anchorage, Alaska on a fishing road trip along the Alcan Highway (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alaska_Highway).
I am a journalism student at the University of Missouri. I will graduate after the upcoming fall semester. While I prolong the impending daily grind of real life/work, I write this...
Friday, May 4, 2007
Going South
Tickets have been purchased.
Round-trip from Chicago to Mexico.
The trip is set, but we have no plans yet.
I will be traveling for six weeks with a journalism student from Hong Kong.
This should be interesting.
I need to get my watch fixed.
Round-trip from Chicago to Mexico.
The trip is set, but we have no plans yet.
I will be traveling for six weeks with a journalism student from Hong Kong.
This should be interesting.
I need to get my watch fixed.
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