I guess that good intentions to write often don't translate into blog posts if I don't actually write. Quite a basic revelation. I didn't realize almost two whole months have passed since I posted last!
Here's the most recent weekend adventure...
Paquime, Casas Grandes, Mata Ortiz (oh, and food poisoning)
This past Sunday Mexico celebrated its Revolution, which began in 1910. You know, Pancho Villa and other assorted controversial characters. J We actually have a few portraits of Pancho hanging in the hallway in our house, courtesy of Ivone’s collection. But this little story isn’t about him or the Revolution.
Within the last couple of years, Mexico changed its laws in order to designate Monday as a national holiday (no work) when the actual date of the holiday falls on a weekend. On Friday of last week (yes, only three days before the vacation day), I asked Ivone what she wanted to do on Monday, on our day off. We started brainstorming, and decided on a trip to Chihuahua City and the nearby city of Cuauhtémoc, where Ivone was born and grew up. However after figuring the budget for four people (car rental, steep road toll costs, lodging, etc) and then being left with just the two of us because a couple of my friends backed out, the trip was just too expensive. So Sunday afternoon at around 5:00, when Ivone got home from work, we reconsidered our options and decided to do a day trip to Casas Grandes and historic sites in the area; the round-trip bus ticket of $32 was pretty reasonable. By 6:30, a friend of mine had picked us up to drop us off at the bus station, and we were on the road by 7:00pm. Ivone was downright giddy; she hadn’t done something this spontaneous and adventurous in quite some time. How fun!
The sky was clear and the half moon was brilliant as we made our way along the two-lane highway through the darkness. A few stops and four hours later, we pulled into Casa Grandes just before 11:00pm, and we started asking passengers for hotel recommendations. One middle-aged woman suggested a couple of hotels that sounded familiar to Ivone, and feeling confident that we understood the directions that she gave, we started off walking. And we walked, and walked, and walked. And between confusing directions and poorly lit signs, we simply could not find the hotel we were looking for. Finally we wound up in front of the Presidencia Municipal (basically City Hall), across the street from which stood an emergency call station for the police. With streets deserted, we didn’t really see another option for getting where we needed to go, and so Ivone pressed the button asking for help, and within 5 minutes we found ourselves in the back of a squad car, amid three male police officers, who politely drove us past the hotel we were originally looking for, gave us a recommendation for a better one, and dropped us off at Hotel Paquimé. Hey, the squad car was cheaper than a taxi!
We settled into our hotel, slept on hard beds, and had a lazy morning before setting out to breakfast and planning the day. By the time we finished breakfast, we had identified a few of the sites we wanted to visit, but we still had no way to get there. No problem, right?! At a clothing store next to the restaurant where we ate breakfast, the sister of one of the waitresses tried calling a man who is the personal chauffeur of the director of the museum at Paquimé, to see if he’d be available to ferry us around for the day. Finding him unavailable, she mentioned that a taxi on the corner is trustworthy, so we went for it.
Arturo was the name of the weathered, white-haired man who operated the taxi on the corner of the central plaza. I talked him down a couple dollars, and he agreed to take Ivone and me to Paquimé for about 5 dollars. During the short 10 minute ride, he told us that a lot of his coworkers rag on him for lowering the prices; but Arturo has had too many days in which no one has needed a taxi, and its better to work for something than nothing, he said. By the time we arrived at the ruins of Paquimé, we had made a deal with Arturo to take us all the way to Mata Ortiz, 30 km away, and wait for us while we toured around that small village, for $30. What a deal!
Paquimé is the site of a pre-Columbian civilization whose height was reached between 900 and 1350ad. All of the structures were adobe (earthen), which proved to be excellent in regulating temperature—essential in a desert setting. The Paquimé people were known for successfully raising guacamaya birds (picture parrots), brought from the south and prized for their colorful plumage. In fact, the feathers were traded for shells from groups living on the Western coast; Paquimé group members were skilled craftsmen/craftswomen in jewelry-making from shells. The ruins are located in a valley, fully surrounded by mountains, which provided an infinite number of lookout points to protect the community from invaders and predators. Unfortunately, we didn’t get to see a whole lot of the ruins, as the few men attending them were adamant that the place was closed and prohibited us from walking among the ruins. For decades, Monday has been the day of rest for museums, theatres, etc. Hoping that Paquimé would have adjusted to the new holiday schedule by opening its doors to people wanting to take advantage of a free day to learn about and experience one of the most fascinating historical sites of northern Mexico, we were more than disappointed that we were not welcome there. However, we stood our ground, and they allowed us to walk to a certain point and take some photos. Ivone is a stubborn woman, and she knows how to negotiate! What a great travel partner!
After a little while, the men monitoring us were distracted by a great number of people who snuck around the gate to the ruins property (just as Ivone and I had entered about 20 minutes earlier), and so we decided to make our way to the museum entrance to try our luck there. Luckily, a door was open, and Ivone started working her magic on the guy attending the front desk—we came from Juárez, me all the way from Minnesota; she flashed her Juárez historical society membership card… less than three minutes later, he granted us five minutes in the museum. YES!
The museum is excellent, from its content to its design. Various large windows allow visitors to understand and visualize the importance of Paquimé location in the valley, surrounded by various lookout points in the surrounding mountains of the Sierra Madre Occidental. Inside we saw an excellent scale model of how Paquimé must have looked in its apex; collections of startlingly beautiful necklaces and other jewelry crafted out of shells, copper, obsidian, wood, as well as tools made from bones. It was probably the least amount of time I’ve ever spent in a museum, but it was well worth the visit!
Making our way back to the parking lot, where Arturo was waiting faithfully, we came across an elementary school teacher, also visiting from Juárez, who had driven with her family to Paquimé expressly to see the ruins on this day off. We grumbled about how ridiculous it is that this museum and site was closed today, and then Ivone and I mentioned to her that we were headed to Mata Ortiz next, the pueblo where the internationally-renowned ceramicist, Juan Quezada made his home. Soon our caravan of two vehicles was headed in that direction, winding our way through desert foothills, scattered plots of nut trees, and a few pastures, until we pulled into the rusty and dusty town of Mata Ortiz.
Just outside of town, the state highway ends, and crossing over the now-defunct railroad tracks, the road turns to gravel; it’s like crossing a threshold back in time. A man helped direct us to Juan Quezada’s gallery, and a couple of women standing outside invited us in. The works of art are amazing! In this gallery, we found works by Quezada and a number of his family—daughters, nephews, etc, along with those of a number of other community members. Since Quezada began his work of reviving the tradition of pottery of the Paquimé civilization, he has dedicated himself to sharing his art not only with the world but with those of his community; now, as his works are displayed in galleries throughout the world, more than 300 people of Mata Ortiz (some 290 families are estimated to live there, according to one young woman we met on the street) practice the art.
And they’re not the least bit bashful of displaying and selling it. As we stepped out of the Quezada family house and gallery, a car pulled up, and a couple of women stepped out and started unwrapping small pots from towels to display them on the hood of the car. Soon there was a gathering of some 8 people around us—four different families showing us their pieces. It was a wonderful, spontaneous street market experience, and I had a great teacher of negotiation in Ivone.
After purchasing another couple of pieces and convincing our artist vendors that we really couldn’t spend more money, we climbed back into the car with Arturo and headed toward the church. We didn’t get more than 100 meters away when a young woman leaned out from her Ford Explorer and invited us into the gallery in her home. Sure enough, the living room was transformed into a gallery, and we were once again enchanted by the fine craftsmanship of the various pots. She was a fine salesperson, Ivone and I were fine negotiators, and we walked out with another few pieces. When we got home and put our pieces on display, our kitchen table looked like a Mata Ortiz museum!
Waiting for the bus to take us back to Juarez, my stomach started to feel a bit weird. The bus was incredibly hot, as the air had been turned off, and I started to feel a lot worse. Pretty soon I was in the bathroom, unloading the contents of my breakfast. It was not a pleasant trip home; let’s just say it was a good thing that we were on a bus with a bathroom. Pulling into Juárez, I was pretty weak and thoroughly dehydrated, but I didn’t feel like I needed to go to the hospital. We stopped at a store to pick up some Gatorade and a special electrolyte drink, and I started chugging. Next morning went to the doc to make sure things were okay, and he handed me a prescription for a couple meds for food poisoning. A day later, I’m feeling nearly 100%. Oh, what a difference a day makes.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Ciudad Juárez as a bowl of alphabet soup (A-G)
On Tuesday, Oct. 18th, I celebrated my first full month in the country of Mexico—though technically only 3 weeks in Cd. Juárez. These 20-some days have been filled with encounters with many fascinating people, places and gastronomy, as well as glimpses and introductions to surprising and/or less-than-savory aspects of life in this city of 1.5 million along the Rio Bravo. I’ve been delinquent on posting about life here in Juárez since I returned from Mexico City; I’m sorry. There’s a lot to share, and I promise I’ll share it. Meanwhile, here’s an alphabet-soup run-down on my impressions and experiences (some regular, some extraordinary) of Ciudad Juárez, to date. Bon appetit! Wait, French?! I don’t speak French. ¡Buen provecho! Just read on…
A - Amable (ah-MAH-blay—adj: kind, caring, loving…hospitable)
98% of the people I have met here have been wonderfully kind and hospitable and respectful; people love hearing about Minnesota after getting over their puzzlement about why in the world I chose to come to Juárez. It’s fitting that amable fits the first letter of the alphabet—sobretodo-above everything about this adventure so far—people’s capacity to open their personal and professional lives to a relative stranger fills me with joy and thanksgiving and humility every single day. If you ask me what stands out most to me so far about living here, it’s the gente (people) amable whom I meet and relate with every day.
B - Barbacoa (bar-bah-CO-ah—noun: barbeque meat)
Barbacoa is a cognate—barbeque. The barbeque tacos here are AMAZING. Small wheat tortillas heaped with shredded barbeque beef, to be topped al gusto (personal taste) with salt, lime juice, onion, and cilantro. “Barbacoa guera” (guera means “white”-“without color”), a street-side restaurant a number of blocks down Lago de Patzcuaro (my street) is sooooooooooo good! It’s a favorite of the locals, and it’s quickly becoming a favorite of mine!
C - Chiles (CHEE-lehs—noun: chile peppers)
Probably self-explanatory. Chiles are a pretty big deal here. Fresh chiles, boiled chiles, stuffed chiles, chiles en nogados (one of the primary dishes for Fiestas Patrias (Independence Day) because the final dish displays the colors of the flag: green chiles, stuffed with various meats and fruits; white-unsweetened cream; red pomegranates sprinkled on top. Soooooooo tasty!!!!), dried chiles, spicy chiles, mild chiles, chiles californias, chiles serranos, chiles marranos…
- ¡CALOR! (CAH-LORE—noun: the heat!)
It’s pretty dang hot here. Desert hot, merciless sun. Thankfully it’s cooled off some. But dang, it was HOT in August and early Septemeber!
- ¡Celebraciones! (say-lay-bra-see-OHN-ace—noun: celebrations)
Do we actually work here? End of August-early September turns out to be the IDEAL time to join the COLEF family. There’s a party almost every week—first to celebrate the 25th anniversary of El Colegio de la Frontera Norte; the following week to celebrate the acceptance of one of our researchers to Mexico’s prestigious National Academy for Distinguished Researchers. Then it was Fiestas Patrias, then it’s the celebration of Mexico’s Revolution…
- Casa Amiga (CAH-sa a-MEE-gah—noun: The House of Friends Center)
Wow! What a powerhouse organization this is! As you may have already read in my blog profile, Casa Amiga Centro de Crisis is the local non-profit organization where I carry out my field research. A more detailed post about Casa Amiga is forthcoming; for the time being, it suffices to say that each moment I spend at Casa Amiga and with its staff—in the office and in the community—my passion for my current work is renewed, and I am inspired anew by the commitment and unquenchable thirst for justice that characterizes the staff and volunteers.
D - Deportes (day-PORT-ace—noun: sports and athletics)
One Friday night, Boris (a neighbor friend of ours) mentioned an annual 10k race coming up and suggested I think about running it, as I enjoy being active. Sure! I registered on Monday, ran each day that week to get warmed up, and Saturday trotted along the Paseo del Triunfo de la República at sunset and successfully arrived at the finish inside the baseball stadium, under the bright lights and crowds of cheering fans…okay, I embellished just a touch on that last note. Carrera Internacional de la Amistad (Race of International Friendship; before 9/11 the race went from Juárez to El Paso and back, but there’s no border crossing anymore), check. I didn’t when the raffle for the car, though. Bummer. Without ample time to train, I think the annual 100k Chupacabras mountainous bike ride will have to wait for another year.
E - Estudiar (a-STEW-dee-ar; verb: to study)
El COLEF (El Colegio de la Frontera Norte) is a gem in Ciudad Juárez! This research institute was created by the Mexican government 25 years ago, to support high-level research about any and all issues relating to Mexico’s northern border with the United Status. Our office, where I spend about 75% of my work and research time to date, is home to about 10 full-time researchers, and an additional 15 or so statisticians, research assistants, and administrative staff. During these first few weeks, my favorite part of the day has been lunch (and not just because I like to eat!), because everyone actually leaves their cubicle to eat in the presence of others, and it’s been a great opportunity for me to get to know my co-workers and understand a little more about Cd. Juárez life every day, from immigration, to the crossing the bridge to El Paso (average wait: 2 hours), to learning about important research projects like an unprecedented zoning and land-use study, to trying out new foods (99% of which include chiles and tortillas). My colleagues have been wonderfully supportive of me thus far, in my work and in my personal life—from introductions to important folks in the city, to offering me rides home after work. It’s an incredible community of inspiring and committed researchers and administrators, and I am blest to be included in the group!
F - Fruta (FRU-tah—noun: fruit)
The fresh fruit available in Cd. Juárez runs the gamut from apples and bananas, to exotic fruits uncommon-to-rare in Minnesota, including papaya, honey pineapple, pomegranate (called granado), guayaba (a small, round, pear-colored thing with a sugary tropical pear flavor that knocks your socks off!), and tunas. Tunas (pronounced like the fish, but with zero physical or biological resemblance) are the fruit produced by cacti called nopal, and have just come into season. The fruit comes in three colors: red, green, and white (really yellow), and the reward for successfully removing the hundreds of little spines and successfully peeling the fruit is a mouth-watering-good meaty fruit whose flavor I can’t find words to describe. I guess you’ll just have to visit me to have a taste!
G - Género (HAY-nay-row—noun: gender )(platicar sobre ello; observaciones)
The focal point about which all of my research revolves; a powerful and often unrecognized force that directs and governs much of family, economic, social, and religious life in Ciudad Juárez. Some people are very conscious of the notion of gender, of gender roles, and of gender discrimination, while many are oblivious or purposely ignorant of this great force. While I don’t have many concrete remarks about gender as it exists in Ciudad Juárez at the momento, I arrived to the city with my gender-lens fastened firmly before my eyes, and that’s where it will stay for my entire time here.
- Gobierno (go-bee-AIR-no—noun: the government)
Always on your mind—or at least, that’s where the government wants to be. Posters, billboards, radio announcements, tv commercial spots…and it’s a half a year after elections! The local, state, and federal government organization offers a dizzyingly complex structure sporting, unfortunately, questionable and oftentimes blatantly ineffective leadership on issues of guaranteeing the basic needs and rights of its citizens… but with glowing press-conferences just the same. Critical, cynical, and hopeful are words I would use to characterize the people’s response to and engagement in politics. Overwhelming is my initial response.
(see next post for the next spoonful of letters...)
A - Amable (ah-MAH-blay—adj: kind, caring, loving…hospitable)
98% of the people I have met here have been wonderfully kind and hospitable and respectful; people love hearing about Minnesota after getting over their puzzlement about why in the world I chose to come to Juárez. It’s fitting that amable fits the first letter of the alphabet—sobretodo-above everything about this adventure so far—people’s capacity to open their personal and professional lives to a relative stranger fills me with joy and thanksgiving and humility every single day. If you ask me what stands out most to me so far about living here, it’s the gente (people) amable whom I meet and relate with every day.
B - Barbacoa (bar-bah-CO-ah—noun: barbeque meat)
Barbacoa is a cognate—barbeque. The barbeque tacos here are AMAZING. Small wheat tortillas heaped with shredded barbeque beef, to be topped al gusto (personal taste) with salt, lime juice, onion, and cilantro. “Barbacoa guera” (guera means “white”-“without color”), a street-side restaurant a number of blocks down Lago de Patzcuaro (my street) is sooooooooooo good! It’s a favorite of the locals, and it’s quickly becoming a favorite of mine!
C - Chiles (CHEE-lehs—noun: chile peppers)
Probably self-explanatory. Chiles are a pretty big deal here. Fresh chiles, boiled chiles, stuffed chiles, chiles en nogados (one of the primary dishes for Fiestas Patrias (Independence Day) because the final dish displays the colors of the flag: green chiles, stuffed with various meats and fruits; white-unsweetened cream; red pomegranates sprinkled on top. Soooooooo tasty!!!!), dried chiles, spicy chiles, mild chiles, chiles californias, chiles serranos, chiles marranos…
- ¡CALOR! (CAH-LORE—noun: the heat!)
It’s pretty dang hot here. Desert hot, merciless sun. Thankfully it’s cooled off some. But dang, it was HOT in August and early Septemeber!
- ¡Celebraciones! (say-lay-bra-see-OHN-ace—noun: celebrations)
Do we actually work here? End of August-early September turns out to be the IDEAL time to join the COLEF family. There’s a party almost every week—first to celebrate the 25th anniversary of El Colegio de la Frontera Norte; the following week to celebrate the acceptance of one of our researchers to Mexico’s prestigious National Academy for Distinguished Researchers. Then it was Fiestas Patrias, then it’s the celebration of Mexico’s Revolution…
- Casa Amiga (CAH-sa a-MEE-gah—noun: The House of Friends Center)
Wow! What a powerhouse organization this is! As you may have already read in my blog profile, Casa Amiga Centro de Crisis is the local non-profit organization where I carry out my field research. A more detailed post about Casa Amiga is forthcoming; for the time being, it suffices to say that each moment I spend at Casa Amiga and with its staff—in the office and in the community—my passion for my current work is renewed, and I am inspired anew by the commitment and unquenchable thirst for justice that characterizes the staff and volunteers.
D - Deportes (day-PORT-ace—noun: sports and athletics)
One Friday night, Boris (a neighbor friend of ours) mentioned an annual 10k race coming up and suggested I think about running it, as I enjoy being active. Sure! I registered on Monday, ran each day that week to get warmed up, and Saturday trotted along the Paseo del Triunfo de la República at sunset and successfully arrived at the finish inside the baseball stadium, under the bright lights and crowds of cheering fans…okay, I embellished just a touch on that last note. Carrera Internacional de la Amistad (Race of International Friendship; before 9/11 the race went from Juárez to El Paso and back, but there’s no border crossing anymore), check. I didn’t when the raffle for the car, though. Bummer. Without ample time to train, I think the annual 100k Chupacabras mountainous bike ride will have to wait for another year.
E - Estudiar (a-STEW-dee-ar; verb: to study)
El COLEF (El Colegio de la Frontera Norte) is a gem in Ciudad Juárez! This research institute was created by the Mexican government 25 years ago, to support high-level research about any and all issues relating to Mexico’s northern border with the United Status. Our office, where I spend about 75% of my work and research time to date, is home to about 10 full-time researchers, and an additional 15 or so statisticians, research assistants, and administrative staff. During these first few weeks, my favorite part of the day has been lunch (and not just because I like to eat!), because everyone actually leaves their cubicle to eat in the presence of others, and it’s been a great opportunity for me to get to know my co-workers and understand a little more about Cd. Juárez life every day, from immigration, to the crossing the bridge to El Paso (average wait: 2 hours), to learning about important research projects like an unprecedented zoning and land-use study, to trying out new foods (99% of which include chiles and tortillas). My colleagues have been wonderfully supportive of me thus far, in my work and in my personal life—from introductions to important folks in the city, to offering me rides home after work. It’s an incredible community of inspiring and committed researchers and administrators, and I am blest to be included in the group!
F - Fruta (FRU-tah—noun: fruit)
The fresh fruit available in Cd. Juárez runs the gamut from apples and bananas, to exotic fruits uncommon-to-rare in Minnesota, including papaya, honey pineapple, pomegranate (called granado), guayaba (a small, round, pear-colored thing with a sugary tropical pear flavor that knocks your socks off!), and tunas. Tunas (pronounced like the fish, but with zero physical or biological resemblance) are the fruit produced by cacti called nopal, and have just come into season. The fruit comes in three colors: red, green, and white (really yellow), and the reward for successfully removing the hundreds of little spines and successfully peeling the fruit is a mouth-watering-good meaty fruit whose flavor I can’t find words to describe. I guess you’ll just have to visit me to have a taste!
G - Género (HAY-nay-row—noun: gender )(platicar sobre ello; observaciones)
The focal point about which all of my research revolves; a powerful and often unrecognized force that directs and governs much of family, economic, social, and religious life in Ciudad Juárez. Some people are very conscious of the notion of gender, of gender roles, and of gender discrimination, while many are oblivious or purposely ignorant of this great force. While I don’t have many concrete remarks about gender as it exists in Ciudad Juárez at the momento, I arrived to the city with my gender-lens fastened firmly before my eyes, and that’s where it will stay for my entire time here.
- Gobierno (go-bee-AIR-no—noun: the government)
Always on your mind—or at least, that’s where the government wants to be. Posters, billboards, radio announcements, tv commercial spots…and it’s a half a year after elections! The local, state, and federal government organization offers a dizzyingly complex structure sporting, unfortunately, questionable and oftentimes blatantly ineffective leadership on issues of guaranteeing the basic needs and rights of its citizens… but with glowing press-conferences just the same. Critical, cynical, and hopeful are words I would use to characterize the people’s response to and engagement in politics. Overwhelming is my initial response.
(see next post for the next spoonful of letters...)
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Mexico City! (August 21-27): "The Sights"
Mexico City: A First Glance, and then some
Thanks to COMEXUS (The U.S.-Mexican Commission for Educational and Cultural Exchange) hosting the annual Orientación de Bienvenida for its U.S. Fulbrighters in Mexico City, I had the privilege of spending a week in one of the biggest, if not the largest, of our present world’s cities. Anyone who has either traveled to or read about Mexico City knows that one week in the Distrito Federal barely counts as an introduction to the sprawling metropolis. Yet with a busy Fulbright Orientation schedule and a few free days to meander, I’m confident that I saw, heard, tasted, smelled, and encountered a good smorgasbord of what Mexico City offers its guests as well as its citizens…and I’m left with an appetite to return many more times.
The Sights:
I didn’t see the blessed Basílica of Our Lady of Guadalupe, nor the famed Museum of Anthropology, nor the forests of Chapultepec, nor did I float slowly through the canals of Xochimilco, nor did I stroll through the southern neighborhood of Coyoacan or the avant garde barrio Condesa… not this time, anyway.
My first major excursion in the big city was actually underground, as I took advantage of the 2.00 peso (less than $.20 USD) Metro to travel from the airport on the Eastern side of the city, to the Zona Rosa neighborhood, more in the center of D.F. The Metro was clean, for the most part, with far fewer visual distractions (advertisements) compared to subways in Boston and New York. I emerged above ground at the Insurgentes stop, just a block and a half from the hotel where nearly all 77 of us Fulbrighters would gather together for four days. I located the street exit I wanted and proceeded to walk swiftly through a long, crowded, and very noisy tunnel formed by hanging tarpaulins, where everything from purses to watches to pirated DVD’s and CD’s to umbrellas and sunglasses and belts could be purchased. (I later found out that Insurgentes was generally Metro stop to avoid, because of the crowds and the frequency of theft. The threat of being blindsided by my large plum-colored pack must have deterred any thoughts of ripping me off.)
The Zona Rosa is a delightful area, especially along the Calle Génova, which is mostly pedestrian-only and whose walking paths weave around and through well-kept gardens of greens and flowers, where a handful of lovely brass sculptures make their home. Shoe-shine high chairs dot nearly every street corner in this bustling financial and shopping district, and it appears to be pretty good business. A few more blocks from the hotel (Hotel Géneve) is the Paseo de la Reforma boulevard, which in this section of the city is divided by a very nice pattern of triangular flower beds and is punctuated by multiple rotundas, including the largest one which plays host to the Monumento de la Gloria de la Republica (Monument to the Gloria of the Republic). A giant golden angel perches atop a towering column of stone, inside the base of which serves as a mausoleum for the remains of 12 heroes of Mexico’s fight for independence. With traffic seemingly both endless and non-stop, one has to sprint to make it from the sidewalk to the rotunda without being hit by a car!
Along the Paseo de la Reforma, a series of artistic benches participated in the “Diálogo de Bancos,” (Dialoge between Benches), a fantastic—and useful—public art forum.
A few passes up and down the Paseo left no doubt of the amicability of Zona Rosa to homosexual couples. A pair of women on a motor scooter was being interviewed by a journalist and his camerawoman; a male couple holding one another sat contentedly on a bench; pairs stroll hand in hand; others pause for a tender or passionate kiss. There is no hiding of affection here whatsoever, whatever one’s sexual orientation. As I shall quickly learn during my next few weeks in Juárez, most of life is public in much of Mexico, and that’s just the way it is.
Police are everywhere! Some are on foot watching the entrances to buildings; along the Paseo many are sport helmets as the “roll the beat” rather than “walk the beat” on their policía-labeled segways. And there are A LOT of female officers—probably one in three or one in four. One night when we were walking home from a humorous Cantina (decorated with quips such as “if you drink to forget, pay your tab first”) which graciously accommodated a good 20 of us foreigners on a packed Thursday night with live music, there was a gathering of at least 50 police outside the Club de Oro (or something with Oro). While police cars can’t rival the number of taxis in D.F.—green-and-white classic VW bugs and the white compact hatch-backs of sitio taxi—police cars are by no means a limited presence, and they announce their presence at the very least with flashing lights even as they drive casually down the streets, if an officer isn’t blaring a message out the window with a bullhorn.
With an English-speaking woman as our guide, a sizeable number of our group gazed intently at the murals of Diego Rivera and tried to identify the various political, cultural, historical, and editorial elements of his sweeping canvases in the Presidential Palace framing one side of the Zocalo, or Mexico City’s center. The Zocalo is a wide open space surrounded by governmental buildings on three sides and the Metropolitan Cathedral to the [DIRECTION]. As we weave our way in and out of buildings, large cranes are draping the volcanic-rock (tezontle)edifices with monstrous banners in preparation of the Grito and Independence Day on September 15th and 16th.
Adjacent to the Presidential Palace are the ruins of the Templo Mayor, the religious center of the city of Tenochtitlan, where an insignificant indigenous group, so-called by one Mexican archeologist, settled on a previously uninhabited island in the middle of Lake Texcoco, becoming the center of the Mexica (often known as Aztec) empire for some centuries. Legend has it that the god Huitzilopochtli ordered the Mexica peoples to leave their ancestral home known as Aztlán in search of a new land: a lake with a small island where an eagle perched, devouring a serpent on top of a rock adorned with a cactus. (This vision is depicted in the image on Mexico’s flag.) The original temple was completely covered by a second temple, which was completely covered by a third… when the Spanish arrived in the 16th Century, they completely destroyed the outer eighth layer of the Temple; visible today are remnants of layers 2-7, with the first layer completely underground. The corresponding museum, which includes a scale layout of the island as it must have looked centuries ago, as well as a large number of artifacts, is outstanding.
The clash of cultures and religions is galvanized in the view across the Templo Mayor ruins to the towering steeples of the Catedral Metropolitana; great, ornate structures built in the name of and for the honor of God and gods, as well as saints and Mary and other figures. Walking through the cavernous Cathedral, almost gawking at the detail and elaborate fixtures and décor, while Mass was being celebrated by a small group of worshipers in a smaller chapel-area of the church was a surreal experience. Here, God and humanity, art and culture, decadence and desperation, wealth and poverty, have met for centuries and meet still today, even as this church literally sinks into filled-in land, which was once a lake, at the rate of centimeters each year.
Oh, the Adventures of International Travel! - Mexico, Day 1 (Saturday, August 18, 2007)
4:30CST: Peter picks me up in Bloomington, where I stayed the short night at my aunt’s house, to take me to the airport. I’m already wishing I had slept more than a quick nap.
05:00: Grouchy U.S. Airways check-in attendant barks that my luggage is overweight and invites me to retreat from the check-in counter and “figure it out.”
05:20: I successfully re-distribute weight so as to avoid an extra-extra overweight baggage cost. Returning to the counter to have my suitcases tagged, Ms. U.S. Airways hisses, “This bag is probably going to break open, and we won’t be responsible for it. You see this seam? This bag is overpacked. They’re both overpacked.” “They’ll tape it up, right, in case it would break open?” I ask. “Yeah, but you’ll probably lose some stuff. I worked baggage for 19 years,” she said, with a tone of “trust me, I know, you stupid-packer-young-traveler-know-it-all.” Meanwhile she goes out of her way to console the dressed-up, stressed-out, teary-eyed mother of two whose flight on another airline to visit grandma was just cancelled. Thanks for the reassurance, lady.
05:25: Same check-in attendant gets chipper with me for a moment when she realizes I may be related to a U.S. Airways pilot of the same last name. “No, not that I know of.” The smile disappears from her face pretty quickly and she sends me off with a dry “Have a nice trip, Ms. Quist.” I should have said I was related to the pilot who shares my last name.
05:45: I’m riding the moving sidewalks as other people stride past me. Just riding them, not walking—Now I’m one of those people whom Ellen DeGeneres makes fun of in her stand-up comedy show, “Here and Now.”
06:00: The sky awash with pink morphs into bright oranges and purples and reds, and the blazing sun emerges from behind some clouds. Now that’s a good way to start the day.
07:00: The smooth take-off feels different sitting in the front of the plane, as opposed to the middle or back where I usually find myself. I’m in the aisle seat of the first row behind first class. Lots of leg room! I stretch out, and I’m asleep.
08:30: I awake, stretch, and glance across the isle, where the very cute young blond boy smiles at me and tells me that my head was rolling around as I was sleeping. I chuckle and give him an instant replay of how silly I must have looked. He laughed again. I asked him what music he was listening to on his headphones. Confusion washes over his face. “How did you see me with headphones if you were sleeping the whole time?” he asks, bewildered. Magic, I said. The boy freely offers information about his destination when I ask him where he’s going, assisted here and there by mom, whose name I learn is Laurie. She went to CSB for a couple years before transferring to (I forget where) to study. Now she sells to Target. The 6-year-old boy, Logan, I learn, tells me he lives in the Twin Cities (Minneapolis?) on Venus Street—The kids at school ask him if he lives on another planet, he tells me, and we both laugh. We talk about Venus (the planet) for a little while, about its gasses and how we couldn’t live there. The conversation progresses to discussing moons, and we review the difference between the moons and planets, we talk about the sun… and pretty soon we’re marveling at the creation of the universe. “What did come before the planets and moons and stars?” Logan ponders aloud.
09:00: Logan’s younger sister, Avery, a beautiful two-year-old with frizzy golden locks, button-nose, and radiant smile, is showing interest in the new girl talking with her brother and mom. She slides off of Logan’s lap and begins to stand on the floor. I pull out my zucchini bread for some breakfast. “What’s that?” she asks. “It’s my grandma’s homemade zucchini bread for my breakfast.” “I want some,” and Avery holds out her hand. After checking with mom (Laurie, who went to CSB for a couple of years!), she’s rewarded with a fistful of bread, all of which she shoves into her mouth at once, showering the floor with crumbs. Logan asks politely, and the three of us chow down on bread.
09:30: Logan goes back to the window seat and starts telling me what he sees and asks me to come over and look. Pretty soon I’m seated with Avery on my lap and Logan standing before me, peering out the window. We marvel at the clouds (snow!, exclaims Avery) and mountains and waters. Avery and I pull out the phonics book and start identifying colors. And then it’s time for the descent, and I return to my seat. Avery is now sitting in the seat across the isle from me, and she wants to get out. “Where’s your smile, Avery?” I ask. She puts it back on, and then she’s fine with waiting the 10 or 15 minutes until we land.
10:30: The mountains are closing in on us on either side of the plane, and that’s enough to keep Avery and Logan looking from one side of the aircraft to the next. And then we’re on the ground and saying goodbye.
08:55 PST: Moving sidewalks once again transport me to my gate, where I am greeted by an energetic bilingual Mexican-American named Octavio. Soon he mixes up his regular announcements about passports to trivia: the first person to answer the question correctly wins a first class seat on the flight to Mexico City! Seriously! The passengers stir, excited at this opportunity. The first question goes without a correct answer (What are the two wonders of the world—one natural and one of human craftsmanship—that are in Mexico?). The second question is answered correctly by a man who consults google via WiFi to learn the Best Picture in 1970-something. He doesn’t keep it secret that he used the internet, and Octavio invites him to the counter to receive his first class seat.
09:15: Octavio pipes up again: “Okay, I’ll give you two more questions: one for the English speakers and one for the Spanish speakers. First, the English question: ‘Four U.S. states have capitol cities that start with the same letter as the state. What are they?” I get as far as Honolulu, Hawaii. “Y la pregunta para los hablantes de español: ‘Hay cuatro países en Sudamérica que no hablan español. ¿Cuáles son?” No problem, thanks to Señora Mansell’s insistence that we memorize the Latin American countries and capitols during high school Spanish courses! I quick jot them down on my piece of note paper and go to the podium. A man gets there before me and gets Brazil and the two Guyanas. He can’t get the last one. He is dismissed, and I state all four: Brazil, Guyana, French Guyana, y Suriname. “The gringa gets it!”, Octavio exclaims, and I exchange my coach boarding pass for my first ever first class seat! Woohoo! After a couple more minutes, a middle-age woman announces correctly the four capitols and states, and our seats our set. (For the record: Honolulu, HA, Oklahoma City, OK, Indianapolis, IN, and Dover, DE.) “To those who answered the questions correctly: Congratulations, you’re smarter than a fifth-grader.”
11:00: We take-off an hour late, after adding more than 5000lbs of fuel in case we’d have to re-route to a different airport because of Hurricane Dean weather. I settle into my large leather first class seat with plenty of room and enjoy my complimentary meal with cold Heineken beer as the movie plays. I can handle this first class travel. :)
16:00 CST: We’re descending into Mexico City, and as I’m marveling at the expanse of the city, the nice Mexican businessman with dual American citizenship, points out places of interest. I get an aerial tour of the largest city of the world! Perfect!
16:20: “¿Vas a Ciudad Juárez?” an airline attendant flags me down as I emerge into the densely crowded Aeropuerto Internacional Benito Juárez de México D.F. “Sí, sí,” I respond, and I am subsequently told to wait for further instructions about my connection. I quickly go on alert—“is this valid, or am I being played?” Somehow I start speaking with a Mexican-American man, born in southern Mexico and currently working as a special ed. teacher outside of San Diego. He laughed at me as I told him about my present in-limbo situation and chuckled at the irony of my wanting to go through Mexican Customs. Finally, after the plane is fully boarded, the attendant tells me that because of our delays in Phoenix, I’ll miss my connection to Juárez. He instructs me to a gate that seems miles away for re-booking ,which I accomplish without any problems, thankfully.
17:45: Nearly an hour after my original flight is in the air, I finally make it through the winding customs line, sandwiched between passengers from an Air France flight. Now off to find my checked luggage to pass through customs as well—I’m nearly positive someone at the airline or immigration told me to do this. I find it puzzling why I would need to be reunited with my luggage before my final destination, but Mexico City is my entry point to the country, so it makes sense to pass through customs here in the airport.
19:00: I have traversed nearly the entire airport searching for my bags, which are nowhere to be found. Nowhere to be found! With my flight to Juárez leaving in an hour, I can’t afford to spend any more time looking for my bags, at the risk of missing another flight. If worst comes to worst, I think, I’ll be returning to Mexico City in a couple days for the Fulbright Orientation, at which time I can figure things out. I move to the check-in counter to receive my boarding pass, and I ask the mostrador (check-in personnel) about my luggage. Within moments I am informed that my bags made my original connection flight and are waiting for me in Ciudad Juárez. Relief, frustration, irony all fold into a smile, and I walk to my gate.
19:30: After speaking with a man named George for a bit, I am finally aboard the Aeroméxico plane for the final leg of my journey.
20:00: Pati, a Ciudad Juárez resident and my seat companion, and I speak about Juárez, about work, about cell phone plans. She graciously offers to help me find a good cell phone plan with excellent domestic and international rates, and we exchange contact information. As our box lunch food arrives, conversation peters out, and I eat in silence and thoroughly the view outside the plane, as we fly parallel to a line of thunderstorms producing nearly constant lightening off in the distance.
21:30 MST: We land in Juárez, finding a landing strip in the middle of a sea of lights illuminating the expanse of Cd. Juárez and neighbor El Paso. George helps steer me through the airport through baggage claim, where once again, my bags don’t appear. He accompanies me to the Aeroméxico counter, where we inquire about my bags. After a couple of minutes waiting, an airline employee emerges with my big bags, and I am reunited with my luggage after nearly 18 hours of separation.
21:55: I call Ivone on some generous stranger’s cell phone, who says Cristina had gone to the airport back-and-forth in search of me, as had Ivone. I apologize for not getting a hold of either of them, she tells me not to worry, she’ll come for me right away. Pretty soon I’m one of two people left in the airport; even the women staffing the taxi tequilla (fare sales) have gone home.
22:20: A white, 1990s car pulls up, and Ivone calls out “Carliene” as both a question and exclamation. We greet one another with a hug, and she helps me to load my bags into the trunk and the back seat. We drive into the city along the Pan Americana, which begins in Juárez and runs through Central and South America to the southern tip of the continent.
22:35: While driving, we talk about the fiasco of my travels, the adventures, the lovely people whom I’ve meet and who have helped me a great deal. She informs me that she has been invited to a party and that I can come, too. Sure, why not, I tell her. But the house where the woman lives (lived) is dark. So we go to el Restaurante Deg’a, one of Ivone’s favorites. I get a light chicken soup, which is delicious, and we talk about history-she’s a member of the Juárez historians group-and of MN, and of traveling.
23:20: And we’re home. We dump my suitcases in my room, I get some water, and move to the telephone to call home. No answer; it’s well after midnight at home on a Saturday night (Sunday morning), late. I leave a message on Mom’s cell phone, and I decide to call Peter to let him know I got in safely.. He answers sleepily, woken up by the stranger number appearing on his cell phone screen. It is so good to hear a familiar voice!
24:00: Ivone is asleep, and the house is quiet. I think I put on some pajamas, but I don’t really remember. I pull out my alarm clock but don’t turn on the alarm for tomorrow. I have arrived safely with all of my belongings, I have eaten, I am at home. Soon I am asleep, finally able and willing to relax and permit exhaustion to take over.
05:00: Grouchy U.S. Airways check-in attendant barks that my luggage is overweight and invites me to retreat from the check-in counter and “figure it out.”
05:20: I successfully re-distribute weight so as to avoid an extra-extra overweight baggage cost. Returning to the counter to have my suitcases tagged, Ms. U.S. Airways hisses, “This bag is probably going to break open, and we won’t be responsible for it. You see this seam? This bag is overpacked. They’re both overpacked.” “They’ll tape it up, right, in case it would break open?” I ask. “Yeah, but you’ll probably lose some stuff. I worked baggage for 19 years,” she said, with a tone of “trust me, I know, you stupid-packer-young-traveler-know-it-all.” Meanwhile she goes out of her way to console the dressed-up, stressed-out, teary-eyed mother of two whose flight on another airline to visit grandma was just cancelled. Thanks for the reassurance, lady.
05:25: Same check-in attendant gets chipper with me for a moment when she realizes I may be related to a U.S. Airways pilot of the same last name. “No, not that I know of.” The smile disappears from her face pretty quickly and she sends me off with a dry “Have a nice trip, Ms. Quist.” I should have said I was related to the pilot who shares my last name.
05:45: I’m riding the moving sidewalks as other people stride past me. Just riding them, not walking—Now I’m one of those people whom Ellen DeGeneres makes fun of in her stand-up comedy show, “Here and Now.”
06:00: The sky awash with pink morphs into bright oranges and purples and reds, and the blazing sun emerges from behind some clouds. Now that’s a good way to start the day.
07:00: The smooth take-off feels different sitting in the front of the plane, as opposed to the middle or back where I usually find myself. I’m in the aisle seat of the first row behind first class. Lots of leg room! I stretch out, and I’m asleep.
08:30: I awake, stretch, and glance across the isle, where the very cute young blond boy smiles at me and tells me that my head was rolling around as I was sleeping. I chuckle and give him an instant replay of how silly I must have looked. He laughed again. I asked him what music he was listening to on his headphones. Confusion washes over his face. “How did you see me with headphones if you were sleeping the whole time?” he asks, bewildered. Magic, I said. The boy freely offers information about his destination when I ask him where he’s going, assisted here and there by mom, whose name I learn is Laurie. She went to CSB for a couple years before transferring to (I forget where) to study. Now she sells to Target. The 6-year-old boy, Logan, I learn, tells me he lives in the Twin Cities (Minneapolis?) on Venus Street—The kids at school ask him if he lives on another planet, he tells me, and we both laugh. We talk about Venus (the planet) for a little while, about its gasses and how we couldn’t live there. The conversation progresses to discussing moons, and we review the difference between the moons and planets, we talk about the sun… and pretty soon we’re marveling at the creation of the universe. “What did come before the planets and moons and stars?” Logan ponders aloud.
09:00: Logan’s younger sister, Avery, a beautiful two-year-old with frizzy golden locks, button-nose, and radiant smile, is showing interest in the new girl talking with her brother and mom. She slides off of Logan’s lap and begins to stand on the floor. I pull out my zucchini bread for some breakfast. “What’s that?” she asks. “It’s my grandma’s homemade zucchini bread for my breakfast.” “I want some,” and Avery holds out her hand. After checking with mom (Laurie, who went to CSB for a couple of years!), she’s rewarded with a fistful of bread, all of which she shoves into her mouth at once, showering the floor with crumbs. Logan asks politely, and the three of us chow down on bread.
09:30: Logan goes back to the window seat and starts telling me what he sees and asks me to come over and look. Pretty soon I’m seated with Avery on my lap and Logan standing before me, peering out the window. We marvel at the clouds (snow!, exclaims Avery) and mountains and waters. Avery and I pull out the phonics book and start identifying colors. And then it’s time for the descent, and I return to my seat. Avery is now sitting in the seat across the isle from me, and she wants to get out. “Where’s your smile, Avery?” I ask. She puts it back on, and then she’s fine with waiting the 10 or 15 minutes until we land.
10:30: The mountains are closing in on us on either side of the plane, and that’s enough to keep Avery and Logan looking from one side of the aircraft to the next. And then we’re on the ground and saying goodbye.
08:55 PST: Moving sidewalks once again transport me to my gate, where I am greeted by an energetic bilingual Mexican-American named Octavio. Soon he mixes up his regular announcements about passports to trivia: the first person to answer the question correctly wins a first class seat on the flight to Mexico City! Seriously! The passengers stir, excited at this opportunity. The first question goes without a correct answer (What are the two wonders of the world—one natural and one of human craftsmanship—that are in Mexico?). The second question is answered correctly by a man who consults google via WiFi to learn the Best Picture in 1970-something. He doesn’t keep it secret that he used the internet, and Octavio invites him to the counter to receive his first class seat.
09:15: Octavio pipes up again: “Okay, I’ll give you two more questions: one for the English speakers and one for the Spanish speakers. First, the English question: ‘Four U.S. states have capitol cities that start with the same letter as the state. What are they?” I get as far as Honolulu, Hawaii. “Y la pregunta para los hablantes de español: ‘Hay cuatro países en Sudamérica que no hablan español. ¿Cuáles son?” No problem, thanks to Señora Mansell’s insistence that we memorize the Latin American countries and capitols during high school Spanish courses! I quick jot them down on my piece of note paper and go to the podium. A man gets there before me and gets Brazil and the two Guyanas. He can’t get the last one. He is dismissed, and I state all four: Brazil, Guyana, French Guyana, y Suriname. “The gringa gets it!”, Octavio exclaims, and I exchange my coach boarding pass for my first ever first class seat! Woohoo! After a couple more minutes, a middle-age woman announces correctly the four capitols and states, and our seats our set. (For the record: Honolulu, HA, Oklahoma City, OK, Indianapolis, IN, and Dover, DE.) “To those who answered the questions correctly: Congratulations, you’re smarter than a fifth-grader.”
11:00: We take-off an hour late, after adding more than 5000lbs of fuel in case we’d have to re-route to a different airport because of Hurricane Dean weather. I settle into my large leather first class seat with plenty of room and enjoy my complimentary meal with cold Heineken beer as the movie plays. I can handle this first class travel. :)
16:00 CST: We’re descending into Mexico City, and as I’m marveling at the expanse of the city, the nice Mexican businessman with dual American citizenship, points out places of interest. I get an aerial tour of the largest city of the world! Perfect!
16:20: “¿Vas a Ciudad Juárez?” an airline attendant flags me down as I emerge into the densely crowded Aeropuerto Internacional Benito Juárez de México D.F. “Sí, sí,” I respond, and I am subsequently told to wait for further instructions about my connection. I quickly go on alert—“is this valid, or am I being played?” Somehow I start speaking with a Mexican-American man, born in southern Mexico and currently working as a special ed. teacher outside of San Diego. He laughed at me as I told him about my present in-limbo situation and chuckled at the irony of my wanting to go through Mexican Customs. Finally, after the plane is fully boarded, the attendant tells me that because of our delays in Phoenix, I’ll miss my connection to Juárez. He instructs me to a gate that seems miles away for re-booking ,which I accomplish without any problems, thankfully.
17:45: Nearly an hour after my original flight is in the air, I finally make it through the winding customs line, sandwiched between passengers from an Air France flight. Now off to find my checked luggage to pass through customs as well—I’m nearly positive someone at the airline or immigration told me to do this. I find it puzzling why I would need to be reunited with my luggage before my final destination, but Mexico City is my entry point to the country, so it makes sense to pass through customs here in the airport.
19:00: I have traversed nearly the entire airport searching for my bags, which are nowhere to be found. Nowhere to be found! With my flight to Juárez leaving in an hour, I can’t afford to spend any more time looking for my bags, at the risk of missing another flight. If worst comes to worst, I think, I’ll be returning to Mexico City in a couple days for the Fulbright Orientation, at which time I can figure things out. I move to the check-in counter to receive my boarding pass, and I ask the mostrador (check-in personnel) about my luggage. Within moments I am informed that my bags made my original connection flight and are waiting for me in Ciudad Juárez. Relief, frustration, irony all fold into a smile, and I walk to my gate.
19:30: After speaking with a man named George for a bit, I am finally aboard the Aeroméxico plane for the final leg of my journey.
20:00: Pati, a Ciudad Juárez resident and my seat companion, and I speak about Juárez, about work, about cell phone plans. She graciously offers to help me find a good cell phone plan with excellent domestic and international rates, and we exchange contact information. As our box lunch food arrives, conversation peters out, and I eat in silence and thoroughly the view outside the plane, as we fly parallel to a line of thunderstorms producing nearly constant lightening off in the distance.
21:30 MST: We land in Juárez, finding a landing strip in the middle of a sea of lights illuminating the expanse of Cd. Juárez and neighbor El Paso. George helps steer me through the airport through baggage claim, where once again, my bags don’t appear. He accompanies me to the Aeroméxico counter, where we inquire about my bags. After a couple of minutes waiting, an airline employee emerges with my big bags, and I am reunited with my luggage after nearly 18 hours of separation.
21:55: I call Ivone on some generous stranger’s cell phone, who says Cristina had gone to the airport back-and-forth in search of me, as had Ivone. I apologize for not getting a hold of either of them, she tells me not to worry, she’ll come for me right away. Pretty soon I’m one of two people left in the airport; even the women staffing the taxi tequilla (fare sales) have gone home.
22:20: A white, 1990s car pulls up, and Ivone calls out “Carliene” as both a question and exclamation. We greet one another with a hug, and she helps me to load my bags into the trunk and the back seat. We drive into the city along the Pan Americana, which begins in Juárez and runs through Central and South America to the southern tip of the continent.
22:35: While driving, we talk about the fiasco of my travels, the adventures, the lovely people whom I’ve meet and who have helped me a great deal. She informs me that she has been invited to a party and that I can come, too. Sure, why not, I tell her. But the house where the woman lives (lived) is dark. So we go to el Restaurante Deg’a, one of Ivone’s favorites. I get a light chicken soup, which is delicious, and we talk about history-she’s a member of the Juárez historians group-and of MN, and of traveling.
23:20: And we’re home. We dump my suitcases in my room, I get some water, and move to the telephone to call home. No answer; it’s well after midnight at home on a Saturday night (Sunday morning), late. I leave a message on Mom’s cell phone, and I decide to call Peter to let him know I got in safely.. He answers sleepily, woken up by the stranger number appearing on his cell phone screen. It is so good to hear a familiar voice!
24:00: Ivone is asleep, and the house is quiet. I think I put on some pajamas, but I don’t really remember. I pull out my alarm clock but don’t turn on the alarm for tomorrow. I have arrived safely with all of my belongings, I have eaten, I am at home. Soon I am asleep, finally able and willing to relax and permit exhaustion to take over.
Friday, August 17, 2007
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