2.28.2004

FUNEARIL
My last night in Guada I met a woman from Kansas who I had seen around the hotel for 2 days, but who I hadn´t bothered to meet on account of her very bizarre look. Her hair cut was short and spiky. Her lips, a wild fushia. Her ear lobes always drooped from the weight of rather strange, chunky, round, gold orbs.
Last night she showed up at the graduation dinner to eat and meet and investigate the school and that´s when I found out where she was from. After a round of chicharon and quesadillas made by Quetzechotal himself, we went to the Mutualista for Victorias and a mexican band belting pretty damn good american covers. Over our drinks, she says that back in the states she was studying to be a Speech Pathologist, and did I know what that was because it's okay that most people don't.

Actually, once she tells me what a speech pathologist is, I remember that I had one of my own, although neither I nor my mother can now remember why. Still, in the third grade I got pulled out of class once or twice a week to sit in a lab repeating words I heard from giant headphones much like the ones my ear nose and throat specialists had hooked me up to in sound booths so many times. The speech tapes were a breeze compared to the hearing tests I'd been taking. The only penalty I'd get from speech therapy was a verbal correction and be forced to repeat myself.

With the hearing booth I agonized over the penalty for my wrong answers: best case- oral antibiotics, then ear drops, or the worst of yet another gassing at the hospital for more tubes (it could take 4 nurses to hold my 6 year-old-body down). Once, I was even threatened with tonsilecomy.

I'd adapted into a creature too crafty for my own treatment. I was far too good at reading people, and so the later tests I remember conducted in solitary; in a dark, sealed, sound-proofed booth, pinned to a chair by a headset and facing a corner under a dim light. At first the tones would make a pattern, and then alternated between each ear. A long silence tricked my brain into believing that I was missing something...and sometimes I'd raise my left hand or right just because the timing between tones seemed off and I was scared to be wrong. I'm surprised I wasn't prescribe psychiatristcs right then and there.

So, I found out those hearing problems were the big clue as to why I was in those speech classes. Sometimes she said, kids that have hearing problems get sent to the speech therapist because they don't learn how to pronounce some words that they miss when they were sick. Sometimes the words come out from the back of the throat like Helen Keller.

2.26.2004

Now bursting with babies in every bite!
So everyone here either has a baby, is having a baby, or had a baby that refuses to grow up. Peter took note of this last exception while was in town. Clearly, everyone here loves babies and even the babies here love the babier babies. Admittingly, being a baby in Mexico is the best place to be...we all worship them and give them whatever they want. I've never seen so many people eating candies and ice creams as I have here.
Anyway, the baby problem...
Case in point: Two children 2 and 4 are eating with their family beside us at ( -- Undisclosed Restaurant that Peter Stevens pressured me into eating at, but where I proceeded to guiltily have a good time...not Ponchos, but close). One of the men at this particular baby table is obese and toad-like with dark framed glasses and he talks by placing his fingers over a tube in his throat (this has nothing to do with the story).
Both kids are sitting in high chairs, but clearly the 4 year old has squeezed himself into his even though he is way too big for it. The two year old wants in and out of his highchair, and I happen to notice that he is wearing a green fuzzy jumpsuit that is too little for him. He is falling into baby tantrums with every passing whim. The four year old tries to follow suit, but it just comes out forced. He cannot admit the baby phase is over and he's lost his touch. The two year old wails louder in his triumph, and the big kid hangs his head to reflect upon the technique.
I can't think of a time I've seen such a thing in the states. No one has every been anxious to remain a baby, but rather in a race to grow up. Strange....

2.23.2004

After falling asleap I walked myself to a class for those wanting to learn to die. When I came in, the instructor asked if I wanted to take the practice with or without drugs. The process, she said, would be same, that death is driven by acceptance and determination. The drugs were only there to relax more deeply into it. I accepted the pill and headed to the back left hand side of the classroom and a vacant stack of cushions.
Once there, I laid myself down comfortable and grabbed a book to read and rest for a bit. I sat up for a second to survey the room, and to my right saw a man who's body was contorted and burried beneath many large heavy books. His eyes were open wide and vacant and his tounge hung from his mouth a bit. He was not quite dead yet, but he was working on getting there. Strange, I thought, that someone should make letting go so painfully difficult.
I settled back into my pillows and closed my eyes to concentrate for the death to come. I saw the history of my grandparent's grandparents, and the history of their children, and their children's children. I recognized some of these stories as dreams I'd had before many nights ago. Dreams about graveyards where the headstones had been moved around and the spirits were restless.
I was watching all of this from the front of my brain with my open book spread over my belly when I felt someone tapping and then shaking my shoulders. My brother´s Tony and Ken and Ken´s fiance, Leslie were pulling me up from my sleep and lifting me up from my bed. I don't remember feeling angry or upset or happy to be back. I felt a little dissapointed that I had failed, but okay about being with them. Together we four walked out of a glass door in the back of the room and back into the world of the mundane.

2.21.2004

Arroz Mexicana
I am still trying to refine my techniques for this....

Fry one part rice in a pan with 1/8 inch of hot oil. Fry rice until dry, brown, and slightly translucent. Before rice is just about finished frying, add one third of chopped onion.

In a blender blend one or two tomatoes and a bit of onion and salt. Add to the fried rice with cooked peas and diced carrots and three parts water. Cook covered for about 20 minutes or until soft.

Salsa Picante
Onion
Salt
Tomato
those little red pepper (the kind you put on your pizza at dominos)

Roast tomatos on a flat surface over fire or gas stove until black on the outside. Cook peppers the same until very dry and crispy. Put both in blender with salt and onion and blend until smooth.

Yesterday I was walking past the Plaza del Carmen, and thought to glance over at the sidewalk cafe on the south side hoping to find some friends sipping something cold; I did.
Polly is a sixty-two year old widow from Washington. She is a Berkley summer of love alumni, a visitor of week long buddhist retreats, and lives in a glass house that sits on 12 acres of an island that has only 400 inhabitants. Jose is a friendless, nervous, thirty-two year old Guadalajara native who suffered a nervous breakdown 2 years ago when his house was wrongfully re-posessed by the Mexican government. I say he has no friends, but he has us- his classmates from ITTO.
Jose is self-taught. He finished 6th grade, taught himself english and left home at 15 to move to Seattle where he first slept under bridges and cardboard. He later made a life for himself there despite his illegal work status as a medical lab technician. In the plaza he tells the story of how at 23 he missed a life in the priesthood by one minute. When he knocked on the seminary door, they told him to return at 7 the following day to replace the one amongst them that had just left. When he showed up at 7:01, the next day and knocked, the wooden doors would not budge an inch. He decided he had misinterpreted the calling after all.
They are headed to a tarot card reader and would I like to go. My mother's voice springs up, and I remember her admonitions against fortune tellers. I recount the message to my friends at the table. The widow chuckles softly, and Jose explains that he himself will not be having his cards read for the future; his own history forbids it. He recounts the memories of his own mother, a magic practicioner and catholic. He says he saw her burn a string she held between two fingertips, and that a ring dangling between them levitated before his very eyes. He says his parents told him stories of witches on broomsticks, and wild animals being tamed. Again he asks if I would like to go.

When I was a teenager in El Paso, I told my mother that I wanted to join the convent, go to Mexico and study the catholicism of the latinos. I'd write a book and tell of the disparities and the reasons for all this vodoo magic and why the lines are so smudged. After explaining my thesis my message my calling, my mother paused for a moment and said 'Heather, I really think the bishop would be mad at you if he found out that you were going to all of this trouble just to write some book.'

We payed the cuenta and started the trek to the card reader. We got lost for 15 minutes and really had to look for it. When we got to the place, the door was closed so we stood confused for a minute staring up at a decorative mirrored circle used to deflect demons and the evil eye. Suddenly, the door opened, and a fifty-something-Santa-Claus looking man in a white t-shirt with three gold medalians opened the door. He could do one reading he said, but then he had to wash up. We agreed and walked up the stairs to his second floor apartment.
Upstairs, we first came into a modest reception area with fung shui mirrors in every corner. The wall adjacent to the entrance was filled floor to cieling with a shrine to the nativity. The baby Jesus and family were tucked safely in their cove as the wise men creept around the corner -captured in the brief instant before discovering them and the shepherds already in mid-homage. I crouched down low to examine the details, as the man jumped behind it and with a click lit the whole thing up in Las Vegas-style honors.
He lead us into a connecting room that seemed to be his library and study. It was dusty and disheveled and a hodgepodge of every major world religion. A big desk and a table filled up it's center, and the walls were lined in book cases and books, a stuffed owl, army medals and memorabilia, a shrine to the Virgin of Medjagorgi, Yugoslavia, a shrine to buddha. On the walls hung pictures of the suffering Christ, depictions of the kabbalistic seifroot, allegories of the astrological icons, and images of saints. Somehow amidst all of this, he unfolded two white folding chairs, one for Polly and one for me while Jose shuffled the tarot deck. He sat down opposite of Jose at the center table, pulled out a photocopied and bound book, lit his ciggarete with a camera shapped lighter and then began to read outloud in Spanish while Jose translated.
What he talked about was fundamental oriental philosophies that we all knew and understood. These were general spiritual conditions transparent to all faiths. He talked about the interconnectedness of the human body, mind, and spirit, the connection of this body to the whole of mankind, the whole of this mankind to the planet, to the universe. How God creates the pulse that stems in our brain that manifests into action and subsequent reactions. He spoke of the self inflicted pain and suffering that man creates for himself when God in truth wants nothing more than for us to enjoy this life in the present. That spending time frustrated about why we have been placed between birth and death was a waste of time when we should just live and breath in the spirit of God. That all of the confusion of the past and questions about what happens have answers imprinted already within us and the state of mind we make for ourself. He looked at my friends the whole time while explaining this and they nodded their heads in agreement. I thought him to be laughing at them for kocking on his door three times already to beg for answers so obvious already.
At this point, my throat began to tickle and I created a major disruption that brought his attention to me. He rushed into the other room to bring me a pitcher of water, and then asked why I was coughing, if it was because I was upset by what he had said. No, I replied that I was sick. Do you want to be sick? he asked me. No, I said with a smile. When is your birthday he asked. July 14 I said. You are kind, and quiet and pensive he said. You are compassionate to other people and you tend to cry a lot he said. No, I said. No llarona. You don't cry? he asked. No.
What followed was a reading of tarot in spanish that Jose didn't really take the time to translate, then questions asked of a crystal pendulum, and then back to flipping through books and passages that Jose chose at random.
I didn't feel anything from this experience. The man showed me no proof of any great gift as my friends had thought. He just seemed to me an intellectual and a seeker of the spiritual and religious in general. Nothing seemed all that mystical. The two questions Jose had asked was a)whether he would be an inventor b)whether he could invent the cure to his mother's illness. Of course any decent person would swing the pendulum clockwise and yes for the first question to give the man hope for his dream and counterclockwise for the second to keep the man realistic and sane.

Marta's Chile Rellenos

Poblano Chiles
Pañela Queso
Flour
Eggs
Vegetable oil

Salsa
tomatoes
onions
salt
water

Roast chiles on a gas stove top or grill, turning ocassionally until black on all sides. Once roasted, place in a sealed plastic bag for 15 minutes.

Combine tomatoes onions and salt and blend until smooth. Place on the stove with thinly sliced onions and cook until thickened.

Remove chiles from plastic bag and peel off blackened skins. Cut a 2-3 vertical incision on the side of the chile and remove as many seeds as possible (it's okay if some are left inside).
Stuff with either picadillo or queso pañela.
Set aside

Separate egg yolks from the whites. Beat the whites until stiff and recombine with the yolks.
Holding the chile by the stem, dredge first in flour and then the fluffy egg bath.
Holding battered chile by the stem, place in hot vegetable oil on the stove and fry until golden brown.

Cover chiles in tomato sauce (salsa). Serve immediatly. If you must wait to serve this dish, set fried chiles aside and cover with sauce just before serving.

2.17.2004

Love is so short. Forgetting is so long. --Pablo Neruda
...forgetting is unneccessary
Saying goodbye felt like a really long time. At first, I'd decided to save myself the messy taxi trip to the airport to see him off, and then thought twice about it. Greedy for every minute I could stand.
On the ride there, we both sat in the back seat and talked of secret plans, and made out like the locals in the park had taught us. At the terminal he elbowed his ways through the inspections, turning to look for me every 2 seconds. He boarded the escalator up, and scrunched down low to make it last.

At the airports in Mexico no one cries at the departures, only at the arrivals.
They cry for joy, and stand stoic for the sad.

I felt like everyone was starring at me; confused.

Like a true abuelito, the taxi cab driver tried to lighten things up my making fun of my spanish, and I played along by trying to immitate him better behind the sobs, dark glasses, and tissues.


2.16.2004

"The Plaza de los Mariachis, just east of the historic center, is a good place to get a taste of it, but it is unwise to linger here after about 9pm. Most tourists now get their mariachi experience in one of the sanitized (but safe) venues provided for it's purpose." --Lonely Planet
We found the historic Plaza de los Mariachis quite by accident. We were strolling along hand in hand through Zona Centro just past the cathedral argueing about whether one could or should interact with public art. I was insisting that public art shaped like chairs in the center of a plaza is just asking to be sat upon, but he argued the sanctity of the bony bronzed creatures.
In mid-debate we noticed the disintegrating, vertical, orange and yellow 'Teatro Alameda', but then followed the letters down below to the scarcely lit street where a few bloated silver buttoned suits stood shipwrecked upon the median. They were the loner mariachi, the stragglers, and at the street intersections and corners they showed no intention of crossing. It seemed strange and surreal to us that the scattered men should be standing solo without a troop of comrades; we shivered at the lonliness of them.
As we advanced toward the pimps and the teatro, the squads of musicans began to solidify and cling together along the plaza lining. After a block of this reception, we came upon a tree filled courtyard with lights strung across the top, and yellow SOL umbrellas attached to white plastic tables planted below. As luck would have it, some wealthy mexican locals had gathered a party, and a band of ten or twelve musicians had them surrounded with brass, violin, guitar and belting vocals while we snuggled up beside them to absorb the decadent serenade.

When the guide books say that this territory is dangerous, it does not mean you are surrounded by knives, or guns, or pickpockets, or sexual deviants (but BYO-TP). This place is dangerous because it can make your old life seem like a dream. You will drink too much of the locals tequilla, you will make too many friends, you will buy too many trinkets, soak in too many songs, too many cigarettes, too much romance and ritmo. You will unconciously shell out $1500 in 45 minutes without any regard for your travelers budget. You will hatch too many plots about calling up hollywood for the 'Making of a Mariachi Idol', or 'Real World Mariachi', or else you will try to devise a walk down the asile with your love in a full on 200 Mariachi salute (stay tuned for the invite my faithful readership). It is dangerous because you will wake up the next morning stiff, tired, still drunk, and cheated and think only of how to make it back there again.

2.11.2004

Lost in Mexico, please send tampons...
cuz in Guada, it´s like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

My brain is already in the weekend.
To the beach or to the city?
Peter Stevens flies in, at 20:00.
Thats in 3 hours and 45 minutes 10 seconds.

2.10.2004

Escape from Gringolandia
In Guada's Cathedral District, or Zona Centro, faces of the small scattered gringo population appear only once every 2 or 3 days. I hate the name 'gringo', though my fellow ex-pats say it means nothing bad; that it isn't 'wetta' or anything like that. Gringo is all of us occidentals not of the Latino tierra, but of stiff hectic gringolandia.
When we gringos pass eachother on the streets, even if we are in groups with or with out other gringos, we notice eachother, but make no acknowledgment. Perhaps we do this because we are not sure why the other has left home to come here. Perhaps it is because they don't want anything to do with gringolandia anymore and don't want to be bothered. Maybe they suspect that you yourself have escaped something and are in hiding (a convict, a draft dogger, etc). Maybe it is because you yourself have escaped an abstract, and you haven't discussed it with yourself yet. Maybe it is because you have had your fill of gringos here already, and if anyone is to be accepted into your mutual friends portfolio, it will be a mexicano or a mexicana. You are just plain gringoed out, and nothing is going to be accomplished in Mexico by knowing them.
I for one am gringoed out. I love teaching my classes, because I feel like I am at last one of Mexico. After this month, I don't know what I might do with myself, but get deeper into them.

2.09.2004

First Breaths

In Guadalajara the streets are lined in orange trees, so no one is ever hungry.
I for one, haven´t had a chance to get hungry.
I have landed on a new planet filled with new pastries.
I order them one after anther in some language I learned in a past life, or else a dream.. though I can´t remember which.
There are hundreds of parks, where new lovers want nothing more that to sit holding eachother under the trees, and where teenagers walk proudly beside their parents.
On Sunday though, the city is a ghost town.
I´ve attended their churches. They are still the tallest buildings in town. There are no missals because everyone knows the words and songs by heart. When the sacardote speaks, his sermon echos so that everyone in the back will hear, and everyone at the party in the courtyard outside can hear as well. There they are selling corn on the cob, tamales, home made baked treats and children´s toys...because everyone is holding a 10 month old.

I have not learned to breathe in Guadalajara yet. In fact, every day it has gotten a little bit tougher. In the canyon, I was finally able to get in a good hour of puffs, until we reached the bottom, where a huge waterfall crashed in the rocks and burning bougavelia. The scene and the smell of waste complimented the plants, but kept us foreigners away.

And this is a good analogy of Mexico I think. All the beauty a little corrupted. You must cut off one of your senses, or unlearn a thing or two...
to let yourself 'love like you´ve never been hurt' or 'dance as if nobody is watching'... or smell the flowers and forget the waste.

2.05.2004

sangre!
And he comes to me to mexico in just one week, 1 day and 20 hours. On Wednesday we eat, we walk, we settle back into eachother. On Thursday the plaza orchestra for sunset and hand holding. The rest...so drunk by him it hardly matters.
Mexico celebrates her consitution today be doing absolutely nothing, and nothing I did.
Strolling in the park and eating churras with a friend from UK.
Sipping cafes at Chai on the piazza beneath umbrellas.

2.04.2004

'He who dares to teach, must never cease to learn'--Bacon

2.03.2004

Guerilla de San Juan
I am jumping up and down for my new teacher. He is a lover of Chomsky, and holds what other´s might call conspiracy as cierto. As verdad.
He says that the government of Zacatecas is paying the 1000 dollar trip charge to smuggle illegal immigrants across the US border. That it is an investment in the economy. That the US dollar in Mexico makes it the 2nd biggest boost to Mexican finance, beating out it´s illustrious and expensive yucatan tourist industry.
Whether it is true or not, Í imagine it so.
I am a soldier in the crusade for education reform in the third world.
I have a place to provide expansive theory in a humanistic way
Ways that that superpower is too busy to remember.
My new world begins in the 3rd.