Sunday, February 25, 2007
The professor
It is so good to be back in Mexico, in a city that is crumbly around its edges, under a sky like a blue flannel sheet washed pale and worn soft. The jacaranda trees and the bougainvillea are blooming, as are lovely flowers I don't yet know the names for.
So yesterday morning, walking to the mercardo, I stopped in the Zocalo, the huge town square, for a rest, and before too long, a man came up and asked me for a pen. I lied and said I didn't have one. He sat down anyway and started chatting.
I'd love to tell you his name...it adds immeasurably to the story...but I don't feel comfortable doing that, because he is a teacher, and quite politically active - a member of a political party that unites the interests of about 26 or 28 indigenous groups - and I haven't quite figured out what that means here.
I think most folks know that Oaxaca recently emerged from a lengthy teachers strike that grew into a much bigger political protest that occupied the Zocalo and other parts of town, and ended badly, with clashes between the protestors and the government, some fires, injuries and deaths. While I haven't yet seen many physical signs of the former conflict, there is some fear here that the whole thing will start up again in May, when it began last year.
The professor doesn't speak English, but Spanish is his second language (he grew up speaking his tribal language.) Oaxaca is famous for the markets in the city and in the tiny pueblos around it...each is on a different day and each specializes in a different type of handicraft. He laid all that out for me, and then said his town's market was the best (of course.) After we chat for about a half hour, he begins concocting an elaborate walking tour that he suggests we take so he could teach me more about the city. It includes trips to two museums, the Santa Catalina convent, which has been turned into a hotel, a look at some of the churches and a couple stops at famous cantinas where Mezcal, the pride of Oaxaca, is served.
Now...I know what you're thinking, and of course, so was I. I let him ramble on, politely thank him and say it isn't possible because I had to get home for lunch with my family. "You live with a family?" he seems a little surprised, and his attitude shifts a bit. I've found it's always a good thing to mention - makes it clear that there's a group of people who care about where I am and what happens to me. And it pushes me just a tiny nudge away from wanton US hussy and toward respectable woman.
He suggests we get together after lunch and skip right to the Mezcal lesson. (As I said, shifted a little bit.) I counter that women aren't supposed to go to cantinas. No, no, no. This isn't so, he says. At least, not always. Not all of them.
Right.
So.
I make a plan to meet at 4.
Now I know what you're thinking. In Oaxaca, they even have a name ...Zocalo boys - not a particularly creative name, if you ask me...to describe the guys who hit on tourists. But, sometimes you have to go with your gut. I learned, from the day Estelle and I spent with Ofi and Pulpo (see Costa Rica), that there really are guys out there who are not out to maul us - at least not necessarily - but simply enjoy hanging out with new people. That was one of my best days in Costa Rica. It is true that some men harrass tourists; it is true that some women tourists throw themselves at men. But I seem to have met more women who act like even looking at a man here, much less saying good afternoon, is going to get them attacked. And this guy really did seem to be who he said he was. He obviously knew a ton about Oaxaca history, politics, culture. I wasn't attracted to him, but why not spend a couple hours chatting? Though I admit, as I walked back to meet him, the former cop reporter in me was saying "What if he spikes my drink?" I form a plan to stick within two blocks of the Zocalo and leave before dark.
And once again, I am so glad I trusted my instincts. (The ones about going, not about forming the emergency escape plan.) When I say I got a lecture on mezcal, I mean, I have notes. He wrote them out for me in my notebook while we sipped in a tavern that dates back to the revolution. There are 8 kinds of mezcal, which comes from the maguey plant, is not tequila, and is made best in the state of Oaxaca. In case you care, the 8 kinds are Gusano (a kind of mealworm looking insect that supposedly smells like gusano mezcal and comes with it, which he happily ate), anejo, pechuga, cedron, natural blanco, reposado, escorpion and pulque, which i don't think is really mezcal, but another kind of (disgusting, milky) liquor that is so foul it's only sold in pulquerias. I tried gusano (without the bug) and reposado, and both tasted smokey and smooth, very pleasant, better than tequila, which i like.
I also have notes -- all written by him -- on Maria Sabina, the indigenous woman/shaman known for discovering and popularizing hongos magicos (that's magic mushrooms) in another oaxacan pueblo, huatla de jimenez. Celebs like John Lennon dropped by to take her trips, and now the town has developed quite a little, legal (he says), tourist industry providing shamans for folks from the US who want to give it a whirl.
I can name 10 of the 26 parties in the Partido Indigena Unidad Popular. I have a couple of pages of spanish sayings. I learned a lot about International Woman's Day which is coming up on March 8 and supposedly will include a march of 12,000 women in Oaxaca. He showed me some flyers with his platfrom from the last election he stood in...he lost. I am poor, he says. En Mexico, un politico pobre es un pobre politico. (In Mexico, a politician who is poor is a poor politician.)
We talk quite a bit about politics and poverty. I tell him about the book I just read, Three Cups of Tea, about an American mountaineer who builds schools in remote parts of Pakistan without financial help from any governments. We discuss microloans, and why that hasn't been as successful in Mexico. I wonder whether he could raise private funds for some of the projects he's proposed, rather than waiting for the government to fund them.
But politics is also one place where it gets a little tricky. Apparently, Cuba sponsors quite a few contests and events and training sessions and such and through such things, the professor has "won" some trips to Cuba. He's a big fan of the country, and ...education for all, health care for all....i know, i know....it's hardly an ideal world there, but it's easy to see why someone who works with the poor in Mexico might be drawn to it. So he's worked with Cubans in Cuba, and some Cubans have come to Mexico to work with teachers. And my Spanish is not good enough to be sure I really understand what it is they're doing.
When the sun starts to set, I tell him I have to go. "I understand you have to get back to the family. You must show respect." (See! Told you it works.)
He starts to lay it on a little bit, but when I tell him I'm only interested in friendship, he thanks me for living in the moment and deciding to spend time with him. Despite my protests, he has bought roses for me from a kid working the room (Only white and pink! For frienship!). He has also given me a simple Spanish book about Che Guevera (!) that he says he bought for me that afternoon, and tells me he can get me to Cuba really cheap.
I turn down the trip. He walks me out of the bar, gives me a kiss on the cheek and again thanks me for the pleasure of my company (literally used those words). I give the flowers to a student who is living in the house with me. Started reading the book this morning.
So yesterday morning, walking to the mercardo, I stopped in the Zocalo, the huge town square, for a rest, and before too long, a man came up and asked me for a pen. I lied and said I didn't have one. He sat down anyway and started chatting.
I'd love to tell you his name...it adds immeasurably to the story...but I don't feel comfortable doing that, because he is a teacher, and quite politically active - a member of a political party that unites the interests of about 26 or 28 indigenous groups - and I haven't quite figured out what that means here.
I think most folks know that Oaxaca recently emerged from a lengthy teachers strike that grew into a much bigger political protest that occupied the Zocalo and other parts of town, and ended badly, with clashes between the protestors and the government, some fires, injuries and deaths. While I haven't yet seen many physical signs of the former conflict, there is some fear here that the whole thing will start up again in May, when it began last year.
The professor doesn't speak English, but Spanish is his second language (he grew up speaking his tribal language.) Oaxaca is famous for the markets in the city and in the tiny pueblos around it...each is on a different day and each specializes in a different type of handicraft. He laid all that out for me, and then said his town's market was the best (of course.) After we chat for about a half hour, he begins concocting an elaborate walking tour that he suggests we take so he could teach me more about the city. It includes trips to two museums, the Santa Catalina convent, which has been turned into a hotel, a look at some of the churches and a couple stops at famous cantinas where Mezcal, the pride of Oaxaca, is served.
Now...I know what you're thinking, and of course, so was I. I let him ramble on, politely thank him and say it isn't possible because I had to get home for lunch with my family. "You live with a family?" he seems a little surprised, and his attitude shifts a bit. I've found it's always a good thing to mention - makes it clear that there's a group of people who care about where I am and what happens to me. And it pushes me just a tiny nudge away from wanton US hussy and toward respectable woman.
He suggests we get together after lunch and skip right to the Mezcal lesson. (As I said, shifted a little bit.) I counter that women aren't supposed to go to cantinas. No, no, no. This isn't so, he says. At least, not always. Not all of them.
Right.
So.
I make a plan to meet at 4.
Now I know what you're thinking. In Oaxaca, they even have a name ...Zocalo boys - not a particularly creative name, if you ask me...to describe the guys who hit on tourists. But, sometimes you have to go with your gut. I learned, from the day Estelle and I spent with Ofi and Pulpo (see Costa Rica), that there really are guys out there who are not out to maul us - at least not necessarily - but simply enjoy hanging out with new people. That was one of my best days in Costa Rica. It is true that some men harrass tourists; it is true that some women tourists throw themselves at men. But I seem to have met more women who act like even looking at a man here, much less saying good afternoon, is going to get them attacked. And this guy really did seem to be who he said he was. He obviously knew a ton about Oaxaca history, politics, culture. I wasn't attracted to him, but why not spend a couple hours chatting? Though I admit, as I walked back to meet him, the former cop reporter in me was saying "What if he spikes my drink?" I form a plan to stick within two blocks of the Zocalo and leave before dark.
And once again, I am so glad I trusted my instincts. (The ones about going, not about forming the emergency escape plan.) When I say I got a lecture on mezcal, I mean, I have notes. He wrote them out for me in my notebook while we sipped in a tavern that dates back to the revolution. There are 8 kinds of mezcal, which comes from the maguey plant, is not tequila, and is made best in the state of Oaxaca. In case you care, the 8 kinds are Gusano (a kind of mealworm looking insect that supposedly smells like gusano mezcal and comes with it, which he happily ate), anejo, pechuga, cedron, natural blanco, reposado, escorpion and pulque, which i don't think is really mezcal, but another kind of (disgusting, milky) liquor that is so foul it's only sold in pulquerias. I tried gusano (without the bug) and reposado, and both tasted smokey and smooth, very pleasant, better than tequila, which i like.
I also have notes -- all written by him -- on Maria Sabina, the indigenous woman/shaman known for discovering and popularizing hongos magicos (that's magic mushrooms) in another oaxacan pueblo, huatla de jimenez. Celebs like John Lennon dropped by to take her trips, and now the town has developed quite a little, legal (he says), tourist industry providing shamans for folks from the US who want to give it a whirl.
I can name 10 of the 26 parties in the Partido Indigena Unidad Popular. I have a couple of pages of spanish sayings. I learned a lot about International Woman's Day which is coming up on March 8 and supposedly will include a march of 12,000 women in Oaxaca. He showed me some flyers with his platfrom from the last election he stood in...he lost. I am poor, he says. En Mexico, un politico pobre es un pobre politico. (In Mexico, a politician who is poor is a poor politician.)
We talk quite a bit about politics and poverty. I tell him about the book I just read, Three Cups of Tea, about an American mountaineer who builds schools in remote parts of Pakistan without financial help from any governments. We discuss microloans, and why that hasn't been as successful in Mexico. I wonder whether he could raise private funds for some of the projects he's proposed, rather than waiting for the government to fund them.
But politics is also one place where it gets a little tricky. Apparently, Cuba sponsors quite a few contests and events and training sessions and such and through such things, the professor has "won" some trips to Cuba. He's a big fan of the country, and ...education for all, health care for all....i know, i know....it's hardly an ideal world there, but it's easy to see why someone who works with the poor in Mexico might be drawn to it. So he's worked with Cubans in Cuba, and some Cubans have come to Mexico to work with teachers. And my Spanish is not good enough to be sure I really understand what it is they're doing.
When the sun starts to set, I tell him I have to go. "I understand you have to get back to the family. You must show respect." (See! Told you it works.)
He starts to lay it on a little bit, but when I tell him I'm only interested in friendship, he thanks me for living in the moment and deciding to spend time with him. Despite my protests, he has bought roses for me from a kid working the room (Only white and pink! For frienship!). He has also given me a simple Spanish book about Che Guevera (!) that he says he bought for me that afternoon, and tells me he can get me to Cuba really cheap.
I turn down the trip. He walks me out of the bar, gives me a kiss on the cheek and again thanks me for the pleasure of my company (literally used those words). I give the flowers to a student who is living in the house with me. Started reading the book this morning.
# posted by Anne @ 2:36 PM 
