Have now lived in Colombia for over a month (?!?!?!). No more sign of my secret admirer, but meanwhile more important things have been happening.
First, the event with my internship three weeks ago, the Congreso de los Pueblos – huge gathering of thousands of people from all over the country, five days long, with speeches, forums, cultural events, and a massive march through the city at the end. I went with another guy from Witness, Diego, to accompany the event, meaning we were there to sort of… observe passively. The idea of accompaniment is that, as internationals, we don’t participate in demonstrations, but just by being there, we show that an issue is getting international attention, and that attention is a form of protection and encouragement for people that have chosen to stand up against some really powerful, influential opponents. A lot of the people at the Congreso, for example, were indigenous or Afro-Colombians, farmers, students, etc, who often don’t get a strong voice in national decision-making. And they came with a lot of demands concerning land rights, labor rights, etc., that most politicians and big businessmen don’t really want to hear. Here, confronting such powerful people can be seriously dangerous to one’s life. So that’s why we were there.
The weekend was fascinating. It was like they brought their small towns and rural lifestyle and just transplanted it right into the middle of Bogotá. Everyone camped out on a university campus. People started cooking fires, boiling giant vats of soup for lunch, smoking pigskins, and brewing fresh, homemade chicha. Tents and tarps formed little settlements. A long pipe was constructed to pump out water for simple, open, community showers. Little kids played in the grass. Small informal music circles broke out. I saw a Bogotano student on clarinet join in with an Afro-Colombian drumline, a whole new sound you wouldn’t traditionally hear. That was the point of the whole thing. To join forces. But the most magical part of it all was the weather. Prior to the Congreso, it rained every single day in Bogotá for two weeks, like clockwork. Miserable. That weekend, though, some of the events’ indigenous leaders let us know that their tribes’ elders had been at work in the mountains, performing rituals to ask Mother Nature to bless the event with good weather. And it stayed sunny for seven whole days. Only a few scarce drops, and the rest of the time we saw beautiful, clear skies. The power of being in touch with nature like that is astounding – I absolutely believe it made a difference.
So we saw the whole event, met a lot of people from all across Colombia, as well as some other accompaniers from various countries/organizations. We sampled regional flavors, observed dances, music, and works of art, and we witnessed a lot of passionate people at work. Many in Colombia really do struggle to hold onto some of the most basic of human rights. It was amazing to watch the emotion and the resolve they displayed when talking about their communities’ challenges, and even more, their personal experiences. Once again, you can read the blog post I wrote afterwards, here.
With the Congreso and work surrounding it, my birthday arrived before I could blink. Since it fell on a Monday, and since 23 is not exactly a landmark year, I didn’t really expect much, but I got a good extended weekend out of it. A friend from Mexico, Andres, arrived Friday to help me celebrate, and he was barely off the plane before I rushed him off to party hop. Most interesting was a bicentennial-themed party, since Colombia also celebrated 200 years of independence this year. People in 17th-century costumes everywhere, in a really old house with lots of creaky-floored dark rooms, music on every floor, and a fire. Chevere, as they say. Then, Sunday, met up with a friend from AU, Jorge Andres, and his friend from the States, Ryan, who, small world, is also from Saint Louis. Jorge showed us what Bogotanos do on Sundays – leave Bogotá. We got lunch in Chia, a little town about an hour outside the city that pretty much only exists for upper/middle-class Bogotanos to visit on weekends. Great food though, and a pretty drive.
Finally, then, the big day: I rang in my birthday at midnight with shots of cheap rum in the restaurant next door, surrounded by loud Italian Miguel, his Colombian wife Ingrid, the waitress, Sandra, my neighbors – Italian Walter, Puerto Rican George, Colombian Eduardo, Israeli Raz, and his dog, Chico – and Andres. Ingrid played a video of “Las Mañanitas” on youtube for me – the traditional Latin American birthday song, with a little cartoon mouse in a sombrero serenading you. Sometimes I think about how I used to imagine my life when I reached this age. Like I’m so old, I’m reminiscing on the illusions of my youth. Anyway this is definitely nowhere near what I pictured, and that makes me happy.
Birthday-day, went up Montserrate with Andres, Jorge, and Ryan. Montserrate is pretty much THE tourist attraction in Bogotá – church on top of a mountain that overlooks the city. We took a small train up, but they say if you hike it, you get absolved of all your sins. Amen. Anyway at the top, besides the rather generic little church, there’s an amazing view of the city and tons of vendors selling really typical Colombian food and beverages. We lunched on ajiaco, arepas, mazorca, canelazo, and coca tea. After one last look down the mountain, we descended, took a walk around downtown to check out some other landmarks (Presidential Residence, Casa de Monedas, Plaza Bolivar, etc.), and went for dinner and drinks. Aaaand just to make the good times last, we rounded it all off with dinner again the following night at Andres DC, a restaurant/club that reigns as the favorite celebration spot in the city for twenty-somethings. Since I arrived, there has been some kind of party at Andres at least once every weekend. Never a bad choice.
And so time flies!
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Well, that's new to me.
I have a secret admirer. Twice now I’ve found mysterious little gifts attached to my door – a flower crafted out of wire, and a heart-shaped balloon. Of all the unexpected occurrences that I could potentially encounter in this country, this would happen. Kind of fun though. I suspect the neighbor boy across the hall. We hung out a bit the weekend before last – Saturday night, went to a spot down the street to hear a band play costeña music and spy on the U.S. ambassador, who was there attempting to soak in a little culture incognito. And Sunday morning we went to the Gold Museum, which was surprisingly more interesting than I expected. But I believe now this boy is smitten. Or the real culprit is still out there…
More importantly, that Sunday I also attended an event as part of my internship, a concert supporting a group of men who are going through some complicated, and completely unjust, court procedures. All for organizing a workers’ strike two years ago – something they have every right to do. Even more alarmingly, for their leadership role in the strike, these men and their families have been the target of some serious intimidation tactics, even threats on their lives. This is not uncommon. Labor rights are a huge issue in this country. For example, out of 101 unionists murdered last year worldwide, 48 were Colombian. So almost half. Often because they choose to exercise rights that we in the States take for granted.
After the event Sunday, one of my duties was to write a short blog post about the event for Witness’s website, which you can read HERE, the first entry for October. Other duties lately: making speakers’ tour promotional videos, translating, and accompanying another event this past weekend (I’ll elaborate on this in the next post).
Back home in hostelworld, I pass the evenings with my neighbors and occasionally get to witness happy travelers making memories. The other night, for example, I came across Miguel in the restaurant, having a few beers after hours with some guys from the neighborhood. I joined, and eventually a few backpackers wandered in – a Brazilian and a Canadian who wanted food but settled for the wine that Miguel offered. More time goes by. Miguel is being loud and dancing. My other neighbors egg him on. The Israeli guy from across the street comes in, Hebrew-speaking black lab always in tow. A bum outside passes by the open door with his cart and stops, a huge teeth-baring smile plastered on his face, eyes glazed over. Miguel calls out to him, the guy keeps smiling brainlessly, Miguel praises him as the happiest man he knows, then blasts the music and goes on singing in Portuguese. It wouldn’t have been that noteworthy of a night, except what I really liked was watching how much the backpackers were enjoying the whole scene. They absolutely loved it. “Life is so random,” the girl says, and it’s fun because I know that feeling when you just stumble upon the unexpected. And when a situation so normal to some people, seems so extraordinary to someone else.
Some other ordinary things that are new to me: Using the Transmilenio, the city’s mass transit system, which is highly confusing and obnoxious in my opinion. But a challenge. Also, foods like arepas – corn patties grilled and usually filled with cheese or meat, or just loaded with butter and salt, and chicha – traditional indigenous fermented corn drink, really sweet and somehow delicious, unlike the Mexican counterpart (pulque) which I hated. I also drink a lot of tinto – black coffee, served in tiny, tiny little cups.
I could go on. But long story short, there’s plenty to discover in Bogotá.
More importantly, that Sunday I also attended an event as part of my internship, a concert supporting a group of men who are going through some complicated, and completely unjust, court procedures. All for organizing a workers’ strike two years ago – something they have every right to do. Even more alarmingly, for their leadership role in the strike, these men and their families have been the target of some serious intimidation tactics, even threats on their lives. This is not uncommon. Labor rights are a huge issue in this country. For example, out of 101 unionists murdered last year worldwide, 48 were Colombian. So almost half. Often because they choose to exercise rights that we in the States take for granted.
After the event Sunday, one of my duties was to write a short blog post about the event for Witness’s website, which you can read HERE, the first entry for October. Other duties lately: making speakers’ tour promotional videos, translating, and accompanying another event this past weekend (I’ll elaborate on this in the next post).
Back home in hostelworld, I pass the evenings with my neighbors and occasionally get to witness happy travelers making memories. The other night, for example, I came across Miguel in the restaurant, having a few beers after hours with some guys from the neighborhood. I joined, and eventually a few backpackers wandered in – a Brazilian and a Canadian who wanted food but settled for the wine that Miguel offered. More time goes by. Miguel is being loud and dancing. My other neighbors egg him on. The Israeli guy from across the street comes in, Hebrew-speaking black lab always in tow. A bum outside passes by the open door with his cart and stops, a huge teeth-baring smile plastered on his face, eyes glazed over. Miguel calls out to him, the guy keeps smiling brainlessly, Miguel praises him as the happiest man he knows, then blasts the music and goes on singing in Portuguese. It wouldn’t have been that noteworthy of a night, except what I really liked was watching how much the backpackers were enjoying the whole scene. They absolutely loved it. “Life is so random,” the girl says, and it’s fun because I know that feeling when you just stumble upon the unexpected. And when a situation so normal to some people, seems so extraordinary to someone else.
Some other ordinary things that are new to me: Using the Transmilenio, the city’s mass transit system, which is highly confusing and obnoxious in my opinion. But a challenge. Also, foods like arepas – corn patties grilled and usually filled with cheese or meat, or just loaded with butter and salt, and chicha – traditional indigenous fermented corn drink, really sweet and somehow delicious, unlike the Mexican counterpart (pulque) which I hated. I also drink a lot of tinto – black coffee, served in tiny, tiny little cups.
I could go on. But long story short, there’s plenty to discover in Bogotá.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Colombia: the Final Chapter (this year)
I’ve hit the final destination. Until December, I’m renting a room in Bogotá’s historic, colorful, charming yet dirty downtown center, in a neighborhood called La Candelaria. A long hallway connects my room to five others, occupied by one Italian DJ, two Colombian EMTs, and two other girls I have yet to properly meet. With the bunch of them, plus the owner, Blanca, who lives behind us, and another Italian, Miguel, who runs the adjoining restaurant (complete with secret door that connects to our hallway), there is always activity happening, and always music blasting. When my room starts to feel too small, I sneak into the restaurant to hang out with Miguel – the most stereotypical Italian I’ve ever met with his LOUD voice and over-expressive gestures – and his two waitresses. Hopefully picking up some cooking tricks.
I try to avoid spending too much time in my room, because I’m getting what I pay for, which is not much. Since I’ve been to Bogotá before, I’ve already hit some main attractions during past visits – the Plaza Bolivar, for example, and the Botero Museum (both great). Besides tourist stuff, though, just walking around the city makes for a decently entertaining afternoon, especially in my neighborhood. La Candelaria is backpacker central, overflowing with hostels and all their supplementary perks: restaurants, bars, internet cafes, laundry services, etc. This works to my advantage because I have everything I need at my fingertips, and there’s never a shortage of random foreigners to talk to. Unfortunately there’s also no shortage of pickpockets ready to target careless travelers. But I’m not terribly worried.
So far, the best moment hostelworld has yielded happened last Friday night, my second night in town. After the bars shut down, I ended up in a hostel down the street with two Irish backpackers and a Colombian ex-helicopter-pilot-turned-musician. Picture: Four people in a tiny cell of a room. Colombian guy singing and playing guitar, Irish guy joining in on his little Irish flute, both of them improvising, working out the music together as they went. Irish girl and me swaying, humming, singing along to the songs we knew, trying to learn the ones we didn’t. I don’t expect I’ll ever again hear a traditional Irish flute accompany an acoustic ballad sung in Spanish.
This past week, I also got to reunite with a few Colombian friends who used to study with me in DC. One of them took me with her parents to a park outside the city called Panaca – like a glorified farm, where you can see pig races, horse shows, etc, and pet the animals, or even just sit and enjoy the gorgeous mountain view. This is where I got my first taste of panela, made of dehydrated sugar cane juice and used in teas and other sweet dishes, especially in different corn and/or dairy combos. I’m seeing that food-wise, where most Mexicans would use chili, Colombians often use either sugar or butter. Score one, Colombia.
And finally, to bring some productivity to the scene, last Wednesday I started my internship with Witness for Peace. In brief, Witness works on social justice issues in Latin American countries, specifically with relation to U.S. foreign policy. In Colombia, this includes a wide variety of complicated problems that I could spend days explaining. My first day of work alone included a meeting with RECALCA – a coalition of NGOs working against free trade agreements in Colombia, and a second meeting with a woman named Daira who was forcibly displaced from her home in the southwest of the country, and who is about to travel with Witness on a speaker’s tour in the States. She was outstanding.
All together, a good start to what will hopefully be a great experience. I’m excited to see what unfolds!
I try to avoid spending too much time in my room, because I’m getting what I pay for, which is not much. Since I’ve been to Bogotá before, I’ve already hit some main attractions during past visits – the Plaza Bolivar, for example, and the Botero Museum (both great). Besides tourist stuff, though, just walking around the city makes for a decently entertaining afternoon, especially in my neighborhood. La Candelaria is backpacker central, overflowing with hostels and all their supplementary perks: restaurants, bars, internet cafes, laundry services, etc. This works to my advantage because I have everything I need at my fingertips, and there’s never a shortage of random foreigners to talk to. Unfortunately there’s also no shortage of pickpockets ready to target careless travelers. But I’m not terribly worried.
So far, the best moment hostelworld has yielded happened last Friday night, my second night in town. After the bars shut down, I ended up in a hostel down the street with two Irish backpackers and a Colombian ex-helicopter-pilot-turned-musician. Picture: Four people in a tiny cell of a room. Colombian guy singing and playing guitar, Irish guy joining in on his little Irish flute, both of them improvising, working out the music together as they went. Irish girl and me swaying, humming, singing along to the songs we knew, trying to learn the ones we didn’t. I don’t expect I’ll ever again hear a traditional Irish flute accompany an acoustic ballad sung in Spanish.
This past week, I also got to reunite with a few Colombian friends who used to study with me in DC. One of them took me with her parents to a park outside the city called Panaca – like a glorified farm, where you can see pig races, horse shows, etc, and pet the animals, or even just sit and enjoy the gorgeous mountain view. This is where I got my first taste of panela, made of dehydrated sugar cane juice and used in teas and other sweet dishes, especially in different corn and/or dairy combos. I’m seeing that food-wise, where most Mexicans would use chili, Colombians often use either sugar or butter. Score one, Colombia.
And finally, to bring some productivity to the scene, last Wednesday I started my internship with Witness for Peace. In brief, Witness works on social justice issues in Latin American countries, specifically with relation to U.S. foreign policy. In Colombia, this includes a wide variety of complicated problems that I could spend days explaining. My first day of work alone included a meeting with RECALCA – a coalition of NGOs working against free trade agreements in Colombia, and a second meeting with a woman named Daira who was forcibly displaced from her home in the southwest of the country, and who is about to travel with Witness on a speaker’s tour in the States. She was outstanding.
All together, a good start to what will hopefully be a great experience. I’m excited to see what unfolds!
Monday, September 27, 2010
Mexico Wrap-Up
As of last Thursday night, I’ve officially settled into my new spot in Bogotá. Before the switch, though, I had to make sure I explored all of Mexico City’s previously untouched essentials.
Independence Day passed more calmly than I expected. I went with some friends to the parade downtown – a super impressive show of absolutely all that is Mexico, including cactus leaves, raspadas, and other foods, at least ten types of dance, flags, toys, historical figures, Aztec symbols, Spanish colonialists, and on and on. Lunch along the parade route was an appropriately patriotic chile en nogada.
From the parade, we moved on to a party, a very family-oriented “Noche Mexicana” where we ate the traditional independence meal of pozole and watched the president give the “grito” (“shout” or “yell”) on TV: standing on the balcony of the Palacio Nacional the man rings a bell (same site where independence was originally declared, in the same manner) and yells several “Vivas” something like this… President Calderon: Viva la Republica!, Crowd: VIVA!, Pres: VIVA MEXICO!, Crowd: VIVA! Meanwhile the family gathered around the TV at this party was making fun of the first lady’s clothes. Apparently both she and Calderon are widely disliked. After the grito we blew horns and shot off fireworks, and the TV showed a really fantastic light show and fireworks display happening downtown, which several of my friends criticized for the fact that it cost so many millions of dollars. But it did look cool.
That September 15th was only day one of the race to see it all. Like I mentioned, I made an early dent in sightseeing, with the pyramids and Bellas Artes, etc. Since then, I’ve hit tons more:
Museo Nacional de Antrolopología – extensive display of artifacts from all of Mexico’s indigenous cultures. Most important part of course is the Mexica (Aztec) room.
Condesa/Zona Rosa – neighborhood inspired by French culture. Popular for yuppie bohemian types, so naturally I enjoyed it. Went here for hookah and hummus, and OMG I forgot how much I love hummus.
Templo Mayor (Main Temple) – ruins, supposed site of the Aztec’s founding of the capital, right in the middle of the city even today. Hard to imagine what it would have really looked like, but so cool to see, especially knowing that excavation of the site only began about 40 years ago. Before that, no one knew it was hidden under the modern city.
Xochimilco – weird area in the south of the city where you can rent trajineros (large, long, colorful boats) to take you for a ride down some old canals. A really popular place to drink during the day and/or have a family outing. Each trajinero is named after a girl – there were no ANDREA ones though, but we made the boatman change the sign just for me. There are also mariachi boats that you can pay to ride along side your own and play for you. Funny little place, all in all.
Palacio Nacional – finally went inside, to see several more Diego Rivera murals, some government chambers, and a special bicentennial exhibition. Worth it.
Castillo de Chapultepec/Museo Nacional de Historia – site of a battle during the war with the U.S. in the 1800s and the famous story of the Niños Heroes, also used to be a living space for dictator Porfirio Diaz. Best part – tons of Siqueiros murals (I like him better than Rivera). From the patios you also get a fabulous view of the city, and I went on a photo rampage. This, I think, was my favorite attraction within Mexico City. Plus, you have to walk through a bit of the Parque de Chapultepec to get to it – a pretty little bonus.
Besides cramming in a billion tourist attractions, I spent my last week in Mexico with friends, revisiting Coyoacán several times (favorite bar, still: La Bipo), getting my last dose of mariachi music, and still trying and failing to like mezcal. I never expected to be so happy in Mexico, or so sad to leave.
What I found there, above all, were the most genuinely open and generous people I’ve ever encountered. I really was told that their casa was my casa, wherever I went, by perfect strangers. And they meant it. It did take awhile for me to adjust to their pace of life; mainly, nothing happening on time, ever. At first, I couldn’t stand it, but I grew to appreciate the subconscious Mexican belief that, as Lonely Planet puts it, “few things are worth rushing for.” Meanwhile I got to know a totally distinct culture, one that people are really, really proud of, and I also had the privilege of seeing how they see their country’s challenges – they’re very aware, and very openly critical.
Most importantly, as someone from the U.S., knowing how we view Mexico, my eyes were totally opened to the way they look at us, and at our countries’ relationship. The news coverage I saw – of immigration, narco-trafficking, the war in Iraq, etc – was clearly different from what we see in the States. And I can’t even begin to count how many times I was asked for my opinion on Arizona’s immigration law. The answer was always, I hate it, it’s racist, etc, but I was surprised to get a variety of responses back from my Mexican friends. On immigration in general, I heard everything from “They [the Americans] treat us like animals” and Angela’s story of a cousin who got his finger cut off by migration authorities, to “Well, I understand… For example, if Mexico had as many Chinese people as there are Mexicans in the U.S., I would be upset too.” No matter what, though, it was a central conversation topic, one that I hope keeps its momentum in the U.S. as well.
Anyway, my conclusion is that it would do us all good if more people got a taste of Mexico, a real one. Not just a few news clippings and a viewing of Y tu mamá también. Not even twelve college credit hours. You have to live things to really understand them. Six weeks ago, I would have said Mexico wasn’t really my style. Now with just a few days away, I find myself terribly craving the place, pondering when I can go back.
Independence Day passed more calmly than I expected. I went with some friends to the parade downtown – a super impressive show of absolutely all that is Mexico, including cactus leaves, raspadas, and other foods, at least ten types of dance, flags, toys, historical figures, Aztec symbols, Spanish colonialists, and on and on. Lunch along the parade route was an appropriately patriotic chile en nogada.
From the parade, we moved on to a party, a very family-oriented “Noche Mexicana” where we ate the traditional independence meal of pozole and watched the president give the “grito” (“shout” or “yell”) on TV: standing on the balcony of the Palacio Nacional the man rings a bell (same site where independence was originally declared, in the same manner) and yells several “Vivas” something like this… President Calderon: Viva la Republica!, Crowd: VIVA!, Pres: VIVA MEXICO!, Crowd: VIVA! Meanwhile the family gathered around the TV at this party was making fun of the first lady’s clothes. Apparently both she and Calderon are widely disliked. After the grito we blew horns and shot off fireworks, and the TV showed a really fantastic light show and fireworks display happening downtown, which several of my friends criticized for the fact that it cost so many millions of dollars. But it did look cool.
That September 15th was only day one of the race to see it all. Like I mentioned, I made an early dent in sightseeing, with the pyramids and Bellas Artes, etc. Since then, I’ve hit tons more:
Museo Nacional de Antrolopología – extensive display of artifacts from all of Mexico’s indigenous cultures. Most important part of course is the Mexica (Aztec) room.
Condesa/Zona Rosa – neighborhood inspired by French culture. Popular for yuppie bohemian types, so naturally I enjoyed it. Went here for hookah and hummus, and OMG I forgot how much I love hummus.
Templo Mayor (Main Temple) – ruins, supposed site of the Aztec’s founding of the capital, right in the middle of the city even today. Hard to imagine what it would have really looked like, but so cool to see, especially knowing that excavation of the site only began about 40 years ago. Before that, no one knew it was hidden under the modern city.
Xochimilco – weird area in the south of the city where you can rent trajineros (large, long, colorful boats) to take you for a ride down some old canals. A really popular place to drink during the day and/or have a family outing. Each trajinero is named after a girl – there were no ANDREA ones though, but we made the boatman change the sign just for me. There are also mariachi boats that you can pay to ride along side your own and play for you. Funny little place, all in all.
Palacio Nacional – finally went inside, to see several more Diego Rivera murals, some government chambers, and a special bicentennial exhibition. Worth it.
Castillo de Chapultepec/Museo Nacional de Historia – site of a battle during the war with the U.S. in the 1800s and the famous story of the Niños Heroes, also used to be a living space for dictator Porfirio Diaz. Best part – tons of Siqueiros murals (I like him better than Rivera). From the patios you also get a fabulous view of the city, and I went on a photo rampage. This, I think, was my favorite attraction within Mexico City. Plus, you have to walk through a bit of the Parque de Chapultepec to get to it – a pretty little bonus.
Besides cramming in a billion tourist attractions, I spent my last week in Mexico with friends, revisiting Coyoacán several times (favorite bar, still: La Bipo), getting my last dose of mariachi music, and still trying and failing to like mezcal. I never expected to be so happy in Mexico, or so sad to leave.
What I found there, above all, were the most genuinely open and generous people I’ve ever encountered. I really was told that their casa was my casa, wherever I went, by perfect strangers. And they meant it. It did take awhile for me to adjust to their pace of life; mainly, nothing happening on time, ever. At first, I couldn’t stand it, but I grew to appreciate the subconscious Mexican belief that, as Lonely Planet puts it, “few things are worth rushing for.” Meanwhile I got to know a totally distinct culture, one that people are really, really proud of, and I also had the privilege of seeing how they see their country’s challenges – they’re very aware, and very openly critical.
Most importantly, as someone from the U.S., knowing how we view Mexico, my eyes were totally opened to the way they look at us, and at our countries’ relationship. The news coverage I saw – of immigration, narco-trafficking, the war in Iraq, etc – was clearly different from what we see in the States. And I can’t even begin to count how many times I was asked for my opinion on Arizona’s immigration law. The answer was always, I hate it, it’s racist, etc, but I was surprised to get a variety of responses back from my Mexican friends. On immigration in general, I heard everything from “They [the Americans] treat us like animals” and Angela’s story of a cousin who got his finger cut off by migration authorities, to “Well, I understand… For example, if Mexico had as many Chinese people as there are Mexicans in the U.S., I would be upset too.” No matter what, though, it was a central conversation topic, one that I hope keeps its momentum in the U.S. as well.
Anyway, my conclusion is that it would do us all good if more people got a taste of Mexico, a real one. Not just a few news clippings and a viewing of Y tu mamá también. Not even twelve college credit hours. You have to live things to really understand them. Six weeks ago, I would have said Mexico wasn’t really my style. Now with just a few days away, I find myself terribly craving the place, pondering when I can go back.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Getaways!
Time is flying. The past dozen weekdays have been occupied by my last days of teaching, capped off with a pizza/potluck party I helped put together for the students. With that experience ending, I have nothing but good things to say about the English school, but it was not my favorite part of Mexico. Not surprisingly, I enjoy my weekends much more, particularly my weekend getaways.
Two weeks ago I visited Queretaro, a smaller city about three hours away, where half of Blanca’s family lives. Known as one of the cleanest and safest places in the country, the town is a favorite for tourists and better-off Mexican families. I could have stayed for weeks. Favorite activity: strolling the downtown center – a web of narrow streets, old colonial houses and little plazas dotted with artisan and snack stands. Everything right now is decorated in red, white, and green for Independence Day (not Christmas), and street performers are out in full force. Besides the centro, another essential stop was the “arcos” or centuries-old aqueducts, underneath which currently runs an annual sculpture display of alebrijes – traditional imaginary monsters usually in the form of some brightly-colored animal combo, like dragon/fish/insect. After a lovely tour, we (me, Blanca, Mario and Andres – same two friends from our pyramids excursion) hit a few cantinas and ended our Saturday night with tequila and dancing in the bigger, more modern version of them all, La Cantinita. Loved every minute.
Weekend vaycay numero dos took me to Acapulco with the same three friends, plus seven others. We stayed in a gorgeous yet slightly run-down and shockingly cheap multi-level house overlooking the bay and the mountains beyond. Two pools, four balconies, and a 10 to 15 minute drive from the beach. At pretty much every waking hour (and every hour was a waking hour) we could be found swimming, drinking, or eating seafood. Often all three at once.
Friday night we went out to one of the more popular clubs, Paladium, situated in the side of a mountain with a panoramic view of the bay, featuring open bar, bright lights, loud music, and interchanging stage dancers, including one guy painted all in silver and dressed like an Indian. They say he’s been dancing there for decades. Cool? I guess. After the club it was naturally time for more beer and swimming back at the house. And so the cycle continued into Saturday.
Saturday included a round at the beach on an island offshore, and later, several rounds of tequila pong (we ran out of beer) which I helped organize and then lost, miserably. But with dignity =) We relished the sight of the sunset, dined on hot dogs and ramen, pumped the music a little louder, and somehow found ourselves in the pool on Sunday afternoon, counting down the hours til we had to leave. No one wanted that moment to come. But here we are, back in the DF.
A note on security: I have yet to feel unsafe in Mexico. However, I receive a number of frequent reminders that the situation here is constantly stirring. In Acapulco, for example, one friend was warned that it was not safe for us to stay out past 2 a.m., because tourists have been much more frequently targeted here than before. My friends were actually shocked to here such advice – they told me Acapulco is to them what New Orleans or Vegas might be to me, a place where people go to go crazy, to wander the streets at all hours and leave their senses behind. But now, it seems to be less so. In Mexico City too, I’ve heard rumors of a peace pact between narcotraffickers – no gang violence allowed in the city, so druglords can come here to live happily and peacefully (their own weekend getaway?). Some people say the pact might have been broken. Others say alternative groups – mad at the government for not doing more to fight the narcos – are planning some type of revolutionary act for Independence Day. While these are all rumors, the solid truth is that narcotrafficking, and its subsequent violence, is a penetrating reality here. Alfonso Jr. told me he always knows the narcos that come into his restaurant by the way they dress. It’s very distinct and actually pretty comical if you forget the drugs and death thing.
Anyway, not to alarm anyone. In Mexico City at least, the rule applies that if you stay away from the wrong people, they won’t come knocking on your door either. There’s little reason to worry.
To end on an up note, Independence Day is tomorrow. I’m ready to rock my red, white, and green, and dive into the celebration. Can’t wait!
Two weeks ago I visited Queretaro, a smaller city about three hours away, where half of Blanca’s family lives. Known as one of the cleanest and safest places in the country, the town is a favorite for tourists and better-off Mexican families. I could have stayed for weeks. Favorite activity: strolling the downtown center – a web of narrow streets, old colonial houses and little plazas dotted with artisan and snack stands. Everything right now is decorated in red, white, and green for Independence Day (not Christmas), and street performers are out in full force. Besides the centro, another essential stop was the “arcos” or centuries-old aqueducts, underneath which currently runs an annual sculpture display of alebrijes – traditional imaginary monsters usually in the form of some brightly-colored animal combo, like dragon/fish/insect. After a lovely tour, we (me, Blanca, Mario and Andres – same two friends from our pyramids excursion) hit a few cantinas and ended our Saturday night with tequila and dancing in the bigger, more modern version of them all, La Cantinita. Loved every minute.
Weekend vaycay numero dos took me to Acapulco with the same three friends, plus seven others. We stayed in a gorgeous yet slightly run-down and shockingly cheap multi-level house overlooking the bay and the mountains beyond. Two pools, four balconies, and a 10 to 15 minute drive from the beach. At pretty much every waking hour (and every hour was a waking hour) we could be found swimming, drinking, or eating seafood. Often all three at once.
Friday night we went out to one of the more popular clubs, Paladium, situated in the side of a mountain with a panoramic view of the bay, featuring open bar, bright lights, loud music, and interchanging stage dancers, including one guy painted all in silver and dressed like an Indian. They say he’s been dancing there for decades. Cool? I guess. After the club it was naturally time for more beer and swimming back at the house. And so the cycle continued into Saturday.
Saturday included a round at the beach on an island offshore, and later, several rounds of tequila pong (we ran out of beer) which I helped organize and then lost, miserably. But with dignity =) We relished the sight of the sunset, dined on hot dogs and ramen, pumped the music a little louder, and somehow found ourselves in the pool on Sunday afternoon, counting down the hours til we had to leave. No one wanted that moment to come. But here we are, back in the DF.
A note on security: I have yet to feel unsafe in Mexico. However, I receive a number of frequent reminders that the situation here is constantly stirring. In Acapulco, for example, one friend was warned that it was not safe for us to stay out past 2 a.m., because tourists have been much more frequently targeted here than before. My friends were actually shocked to here such advice – they told me Acapulco is to them what New Orleans or Vegas might be to me, a place where people go to go crazy, to wander the streets at all hours and leave their senses behind. But now, it seems to be less so. In Mexico City too, I’ve heard rumors of a peace pact between narcotraffickers – no gang violence allowed in the city, so druglords can come here to live happily and peacefully (their own weekend getaway?). Some people say the pact might have been broken. Others say alternative groups – mad at the government for not doing more to fight the narcos – are planning some type of revolutionary act for Independence Day. While these are all rumors, the solid truth is that narcotrafficking, and its subsequent violence, is a penetrating reality here. Alfonso Jr. told me he always knows the narcos that come into his restaurant by the way they dress. It’s very distinct and actually pretty comical if you forget the drugs and death thing.
Anyway, not to alarm anyone. In Mexico City at least, the rule applies that if you stay away from the wrong people, they won’t come knocking on your door either. There’s little reason to worry.
To end on an up note, Independence Day is tomorrow. I’m ready to rock my red, white, and green, and dive into the celebration. Can’t wait!
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Homemade Tamales and Other Satisfying Adjustments
This past weekend I reached the one-month mark in Mexico. As Saul reminds me constantly, I will never get a full taste of this country in the little time I have given it, buuut in the course of a month, certain things have ceased to confuse me.
I’m no longer startled at the sound of someone yelling at the top of their lungs or blowing a horn in the street at strange hours of the day. They are pushcart vendors, and they’re probably selling something delicious. It’s like hearing the ice cream man coming.
Rather than roll my eyes in protest or try to beat them to it, I wait for guys to open my car door, and I expect them to walk down the sidewalk between me and the street. What’s more, I’ve found I actually like it. The tiny I-am-woman-hear-me-roar, need-to-assert-myself impulse I used to feel in these situations is gone. I’m happily soaking up chivalry.
I know the order of stops on the pesero bus, and on my nearest line of the metro. I know to tip waiters but not cab drivers. I know the most common slang words and gestures, and cuss words. I know where they make the best agua de horchata, my current guilty pleasure of choice. I know what NOT to eat, even if everyone around me can stomach it. I know what hours of the night I can catch a bus, and when I will be shit out of luck. (Luckily I did not learn this the hard way.)
And I can give basic instructions on concepts that were once totally foreign. For example, how to make tamales oaxaqueños. Enjoy!
Step 1: Slap a handful of maza onto a banana leaf (or in other cases, boiled corn husk) and flatten into a patty.
Step 2: Add a large spoonful of salsa verde - made of green tomatoes, chiles, and love... or something like that. Sometimes the sauce is red, but everyone prefers green.
Step #: Add chicken, bone and all. It didn't look like she cooked the meat beforehand, but some online recipes say you should. Sergio tells me pre-cooking is optional with chicken, but not with other meats.
Step #: Fold.
Step #: Steam for about an hour, and they'll be ready to serve!
I’m no longer startled at the sound of someone yelling at the top of their lungs or blowing a horn in the street at strange hours of the day. They are pushcart vendors, and they’re probably selling something delicious. It’s like hearing the ice cream man coming.
Rather than roll my eyes in protest or try to beat them to it, I wait for guys to open my car door, and I expect them to walk down the sidewalk between me and the street. What’s more, I’ve found I actually like it. The tiny I-am-woman-hear-me-roar, need-to-assert-myself impulse I used to feel in these situations is gone. I’m happily soaking up chivalry.
I know the order of stops on the pesero bus, and on my nearest line of the metro. I know to tip waiters but not cab drivers. I know the most common slang words and gestures, and cuss words. I know where they make the best agua de horchata, my current guilty pleasure of choice. I know what NOT to eat, even if everyone around me can stomach it. I know what hours of the night I can catch a bus, and when I will be shit out of luck. (Luckily I did not learn this the hard way.)
And I can give basic instructions on concepts that were once totally foreign. For example, how to make tamales oaxaqueños. Enjoy!
Step 1: Slap a handful of maza onto a banana leaf (or in other cases, boiled corn husk) and flatten into a patty.
Step 2: Add a large spoonful of salsa verde - made of green tomatoes, chiles, and love... or something like that. Sometimes the sauce is red, but everyone prefers green.
Step #: Add chicken, bone and all. It didn't look like she cooked the meat beforehand, but some online recipes say you should. Sergio tells me pre-cooking is optional with chicken, but not with other meats.
Step #: Fold.
Step #: Steam for about an hour, and they'll be ready to serve!
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
My tour guide tag team
As I write this, it is Tuesday night, and our electricity is out. Again. It happens. As Nancy says, the house looks like a church with so many candles spread around. Yucari is running in and out of my room showing off her latest treasure – a shiny new Winnie the Pooh balloon – while her parents dine on the tamales Angela and Rocio made earlier today, from scratch as usual. So delicious.
Anyway, I wanted to get into the small but significant dent I’ve made in sightseeing over the past four weeks here. This far from the city’s center, my location is the opposite of convenient, but I have gained a few tour guides by living here. Last week, Rocio took me to Zócalo, the city’s center ever since the Aztec empire. It’s currently all decked out in preparation for the Bicentennial Independence Day celebration, coming in two weeks. On one side is the Palacio Nacional, one is the Catedral Metropolitana, and the others are government buildings. The nearby streets form a huge maze of shops, our real reason for going. We browsed the craft stores and gift shops, and Chio made me try papas adobadas – potato chips coated with what else? Chili powder, and nacho cheese. Not bad.
A few days later, Chio turned over tour guide duty to Sergio, who showed me around UNAM, the biggest and best university in Mexico, considered a landmark of national pride. We mainly went to check out the campus’s botanical garden and sculpture park, both beautiful and impressive. Besides some really large works of art, the sculpture park was heavily scattered with students taking advantage of the space to get together and start their weekends early.
As for my weekend, I checked the next sight off the list when Saul decided to kidnap me for another country excursion. We went to the Sierra de Ajusco, some small mountains about a fifteen-minute drive from our house. The woods there were almost all pine and would have made a great campground, but Saul told me camping isn’t the most common of pastimes in Mexico. We climbed a mountain, all the way to the summit, which was marked by a cross. Not much of a view, but a good accomplishment for the day.
Got back from the woods in time to go to a party with Blanca, had a great time and got limited sleep, as I had planned to get up early Sunday to visit the Teotihuacán Pyramids, an essential tourist stop about an hour outside the city. Since I’d crashed at Blanca’s, she assumed chauffeur/guide position, along with two of her friends. Armed with a giant water bottle to clear the last remnants of hangover, we arrived at the pyramids around noon. Entrance is free on Sunday for Mexicans only, so of course I tried to get by as a national, but the gatekeeper totally pegged me as a gringa, and Blanca gave up the act. Just when I start to think I’m not that obvious.
Teotihuacán dates back to Mexico’s pre-Aztec inhabitants. Once inside, we walked the Calzada de los Muertos (Avenue of the Dead), today lined with vendors selling clay whistles that sound like eagles and jaguars. We met up with my host family at the Pyramid of the Moon and hung out for a while, but parted ways again so we could climb the larger Pyramid of the Sun. At the top, people raise their arms to the sky, or take turns touching the pyramid’s highest center point, to take in the site’s supposed spiritual energy. Meanwhile we took our time to enjoy the beautiful weather, the view of the ancient city grounds in the distance, and the less-than-skillful orchestra of children blowing clay whistles.
Rather than end the day with Teotihuacán, we made our way to Coyoacán, a neighborhood that Blanca explained was once a vacation spot outside the city, but later got swallowed up into it. Love urban sprawl. The place retained its charm, though: cute, colorful houses, a pleasant little square full of well-tended greenery, a craft market, and lots of cantinas and street food. We wandered the streets, gradually eating and drinking our way through. I had already tried pulque – alcoholic beverage made of fermented fruit, gross! – from a stand near the pyramids, and added mexcal – “like tequila but stronger” – to the list of nasty Mexican alcohol that I’d rather not consume again. The food, however, more than made up for it, not to mention the company. I couldn’t have asked for a better Sunday.
When no one’s around, I become my own tour guide. I’ve made it to a few museums – the Palacio de Bellas Artes (Fine Arts Palace) and the Diego Rivera Mural Museum. The main features of both are huge murals by Rivera, which I can easily sit and lose myself in. The other artists’ works in both places, also wonderful. I wanted to take more photos than I was allowed.
Anyway, like I said, these are not even half of the sights I’ve yet to explore here, but I’m more than happy with how far I’ve come, and super grateful to everyone who’s shown me around.
Anyway, I wanted to get into the small but significant dent I’ve made in sightseeing over the past four weeks here. This far from the city’s center, my location is the opposite of convenient, but I have gained a few tour guides by living here. Last week, Rocio took me to Zócalo, the city’s center ever since the Aztec empire. It’s currently all decked out in preparation for the Bicentennial Independence Day celebration, coming in two weeks. On one side is the Palacio Nacional, one is the Catedral Metropolitana, and the others are government buildings. The nearby streets form a huge maze of shops, our real reason for going. We browsed the craft stores and gift shops, and Chio made me try papas adobadas – potato chips coated with what else? Chili powder, and nacho cheese. Not bad.
A few days later, Chio turned over tour guide duty to Sergio, who showed me around UNAM, the biggest and best university in Mexico, considered a landmark of national pride. We mainly went to check out the campus’s botanical garden and sculpture park, both beautiful and impressive. Besides some really large works of art, the sculpture park was heavily scattered with students taking advantage of the space to get together and start their weekends early.
As for my weekend, I checked the next sight off the list when Saul decided to kidnap me for another country excursion. We went to the Sierra de Ajusco, some small mountains about a fifteen-minute drive from our house. The woods there were almost all pine and would have made a great campground, but Saul told me camping isn’t the most common of pastimes in Mexico. We climbed a mountain, all the way to the summit, which was marked by a cross. Not much of a view, but a good accomplishment for the day.
Got back from the woods in time to go to a party with Blanca, had a great time and got limited sleep, as I had planned to get up early Sunday to visit the Teotihuacán Pyramids, an essential tourist stop about an hour outside the city. Since I’d crashed at Blanca’s, she assumed chauffeur/guide position, along with two of her friends. Armed with a giant water bottle to clear the last remnants of hangover, we arrived at the pyramids around noon. Entrance is free on Sunday for Mexicans only, so of course I tried to get by as a national, but the gatekeeper totally pegged me as a gringa, and Blanca gave up the act. Just when I start to think I’m not that obvious.
Teotihuacán dates back to Mexico’s pre-Aztec inhabitants. Once inside, we walked the Calzada de los Muertos (Avenue of the Dead), today lined with vendors selling clay whistles that sound like eagles and jaguars. We met up with my host family at the Pyramid of the Moon and hung out for a while, but parted ways again so we could climb the larger Pyramid of the Sun. At the top, people raise their arms to the sky, or take turns touching the pyramid’s highest center point, to take in the site’s supposed spiritual energy. Meanwhile we took our time to enjoy the beautiful weather, the view of the ancient city grounds in the distance, and the less-than-skillful orchestra of children blowing clay whistles.
Rather than end the day with Teotihuacán, we made our way to Coyoacán, a neighborhood that Blanca explained was once a vacation spot outside the city, but later got swallowed up into it. Love urban sprawl. The place retained its charm, though: cute, colorful houses, a pleasant little square full of well-tended greenery, a craft market, and lots of cantinas and street food. We wandered the streets, gradually eating and drinking our way through. I had already tried pulque – alcoholic beverage made of fermented fruit, gross! – from a stand near the pyramids, and added mexcal – “like tequila but stronger” – to the list of nasty Mexican alcohol that I’d rather not consume again. The food, however, more than made up for it, not to mention the company. I couldn’t have asked for a better Sunday.
When no one’s around, I become my own tour guide. I’ve made it to a few museums – the Palacio de Bellas Artes (Fine Arts Palace) and the Diego Rivera Mural Museum. The main features of both are huge murals by Rivera, which I can easily sit and lose myself in. The other artists’ works in both places, also wonderful. I wanted to take more photos than I was allowed.
Anyway, like I said, these are not even half of the sights I’ve yet to explore here, but I’m more than happy with how far I’ve come, and super grateful to everyone who’s shown me around.
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