Went to Guanajuato last weekend for the Cervantino Festival and was thoroughly impressed with the brilliantly colorful town about 5 hours north of Mexico City. The Cervantino Festival is one of the most famous festivals in Latin America and although it is centered on celebrating cultural events based on an annual theme, it is also known for being a rager. We were there for 3 days and rage we did.
Still, I think my favorite part about being in Guanajuato for this festival was that it was a magnificent example of how Mexico combines tradition with modernity. The videos posted at the bottom can show you first hand. There is footage of a Callejoneada, which takes you on a musical historic tour of the town, then of our trip to a local club and of one of the concerts featured in the festival. You can see that Mexico has a lot to offer and that it has found a way to celebrate old customs while enjoying the new!
Below are my favorite pictures of the trip and the videos I mentioned:
Impressively beautiful town nestled in the mountains
Lost a staring contest with this little girl at the market
El Pípila: Statue of Mexican Revolution War Hero. The man strapped slabs of rock to his back as a bullet-proof vest to protect him as he ran out in front of the Spanish's fort and opened their gates to let Mexican troops in.
I tried to match my clothing to the colors of the city
View of the Pipila and the track that leads to the top of the hill (where we stayed) from the Main Square:
Examples of Mexico's amazing culture: *note: video quality was ruined after uploading it toBlogger so if you for some reason want to see the good versions of these, let me know.
The Callejoneada was led by students from the University of Guanajuato and took us through the town
We went to this club called Galleria that was one, amazing, and two, an example of how American music permeates the worlds's fiestas
Right before we left we saw this Mexican band rocking out at the festival and a legion of fans joining in on the show
On the very last day of orientation we had a much-awaited workshop on business practices in Mexico and how to handle business-interactions with our colleagues, clients and bosses. There were several helpful key takeaways like:
There is no seperation between home and work. It is perfectly normal and acceptable to take a personal call during a business meeting and taking care of your kid or parent is a perfectly acceptable reason for missing work. No judgement.
Meeting agendas are a nicety at best..don't ever expect that you will follow it or even consider the fact that you will finish early
If someone pauses for a "quick" interruption, it is probably everything but "quick" so fire up the Angry Birds on your phone
And then, the most intriguing of all:
Without trust, there is no business deal. Many business deals are made over several meals or drinks to establish a personal bond.
Our speaker, the Senior Advisor at Manatt Jones Global Strategies, John Bruton, followed this up with a strong statement that I've spent the past couple of weeks exploring.
"Mexicans have Trust Issues"
The conversation delved into the history of trust issues in Mexico which date back to the days of the Aztecs when misplaced trust led to their downfall in the hands of the Spanish. He gave the example of the Mexican government. Mexicans are aware and accept the fact that there government is corrupt. Many don't expect anything from them. Not protection, education, economic development, healthcare..nothing. They know that if they need something, the government and their cronies (like the police) are not exactly a reliable resource.
Still, I've started thinking about some of my experiences with trust in Mexico City and it becomes a complex issue marked by contradictions, confusion and just overall shambles...
My very first street food item. I got a weird look from the tamale man for paying him BEFORE I ate it.
For example, when you order food from a street cart, you can literally eat half of their inventory and not pay till you're done. You keep ordering, they keep serving, and no money is exchanged until the very end. This is obviously normal at a sit-down restaurant but at a street cart where your customer can just scurry away..it seems like a weird place to trust folks willy-nilly. But they do. In fact, the first time I ate a street tamale, I paid for it immediately after the man handed it to me, and he looked like I was such an incredible inconvenience. It was like he wanted to serve all the customers first and THEN receive their payments along with compliments of the food.
It is likely all these people eating haven't paid yet (pic from Grantourismo Travels)
And THEN the story of all stories about trust in Mexico City happened when I was on the prowl for apartments. My roomie and I were supposed to meet with a landlady to sign the final contract one evening after work. I was feeling sick (I thought it was gonna be my first taste of Montezuma's Revenge), tired and then I got lost and was an hour and a half late. Needless to say, by the time I got there, I just wanted to sign the damn thing and go home. We were there for another hour and a half, going over every single detail with this woman from a ridiculous $5,000 peso deposit for the phone to the difference betwen a pipe bursting and a light bulb breaking (the difference being we pay for maintenance and not infrastructure issues).
After all that, after a month of apartment hunting, we signed the contract. We were supposed to be done. BUT NOOO. The next day, this lady comes out with some new mess about giving her copies of our visas, our payment contracts, our Fulbright letters and recommendation letters (oh, and an extra month's worth of rent). Mind you, we had already signed the contract. You are no longer legally allowed to demand anything else except what was specified in the contract. Still, to make sure our landlady trusted us, we put together these elaborate packets. The day after, our friends Mexican dad called her up to ask why she was being so insistent and make all these new demands after we'd signed the contract. Her answer:
She thought I looked untrustworthy and didn´t feel comfortable with me living in her building.
Pause. WHAT?! I cried. It was actually my first time crying here. I wanted to write an entire blog post about my first time crying because I figured it'd have something to do with getting lost, getting sick, or getting scared and thus somewhat interesting. But no, they were tears of anger and frustration. I was offended, but mostly, I was annoyed. Annoyed because I highly doubt any human landlord would pull some crap about your "untrustworthy face" to deny you an apartment. I'm sure they'd say they found another tenant, that it was no longer available and even go as far as saying the damn thing burnt down before making you run around in circles, insulting you and leaving you apartment-less. I see no benefit in doing that, but hey, some people aren't cost-benefit analysis types.
Was it cause I'm an American? (turns out people think we're entitled), Because I was texting on my phone? (this was a real example she used to prove I was untrustworthy), Because I looked annoyed and exhausted? Who knows. I got over it. I have a much better apartment now and it gave me more evidence that trust is a bit of a complex concept here.
Obviously, trust-building is difficult everywhere but that word: confianza,I've never heard it as much as I have here. There is no confianza in the government, there is confianza in the folks that lunch at the street carts, people recommend things by saying son de confianza (they're trustworthy) and so on..
It will be a topic I continue to explore. Oh oh, Trust Issues...
Every time I think of this lack of clarity on the concept of trust, I sing the chorus of this song. Not because it has anything to do with the subject but simply because it's called Trust Issues and because I've found myself having some Drake withdrawals here..
I've only been in Mexico for 4 weeks, but I take public transportation every single day in DF and I've already been able to travel outside of the city twice. I have never felt unsafe. Until Sunday. I simply haven't felt like anybody was interested in stealing my iPhone or my cash or that anyone thought I would be worth particularly more in ransom money than any other person on the street.Still, yesterday when Sarah and I got into the taxi to take us home after our trip to Puebla, I realized that I couldn't just pretend like everything I've ever heard about danger here is a lie. The #1 tip EVERYONE says is key to remaining safe in Mexico City is taking safe taxis. They're referred to as sitio taxis or taxis seguros.
In 2008, Mexico City's government re-licensed all taxi cabs in the capital as part of a safety and quality campaign after the the number of "pirate taxis" taking people on "express kidnappings" skyrocketed at an alarming rate. Everything I've ever read about safety in Mexico City lists taxis as a huge precaution to take and lists the following as good advice:
Dress and Act Sensibly
The city government began issuing new plates that each have a chip in them for tracking the taxi. The number on the plate begins with a large letter ‘A’ followed by 5 numbers. All legitimate taxis, whether taken from the street, a taxi stand or a radio dispatcher, should have these plates. Also look for the
carta de identificación (also called the tarjetón), a postcard-sized ID which should be displayed visibly inside the cab, and ensure that the driver matches the photo. If the cab you’ve hailed does not pass these tests, get another.
The typical taxi in DF. Sometimes sitio taxis are completely unmarked cars that only responds to house calls.
As you can imagine, sitio taxis costs two or three times as much, but the extra cost adds an immeasurable degree of security. For that reason, I've yet to hail a cab off the streets.
On Sunday, our biggest mistake was probably yapping loudly in English as we made our way to the taxi and completely disobeying the "act sensibly" rule. We were exhausted and yapping loudly in Spanish seemed a bit out of the question. It's no excuse but it's an explanation.
We should've known this guy was sketch when he kept looking at us as we walked to the taxi but sometimes men in this city act like they've never seen a woman before so it wasn't TOO out of the ordinary. When Sarah asked why this man carrying our luggage wasn't taking us to the sitio for taxis and he mumbled something about it being the "terminal", we also should've known. The final clue that we decided to ignore was that even though he initially seemed to be the "bag boy" that usually helps you to the cab before your driver takes off, he turned out to be the driver after looking around suspiciously and hopping into the driver's seat.
Once we were in the car, Sarah asked the question that is always up for discussion in these situations:
¿Cuanto nos cobra?
How much are you charging us?
He whipped out this laminated price card (something I've not seen before here) and said that we were heading towards Zone 3 for $260 pesos. 260 PESOS?! Absolutely ridiculous. I have been in quite a few taxis here (which are SIGNIFICANTLY cheaper than the States) and I've yet to pay more than $80 pesos to get home from any point in the city. I don't know if it was because we were tired or if we were just sick of getting ripped off by people who think we're stupid Americans that won't fight back, but we both cruised right on in to sass mode. MAJOR sass mode. We were like 1.5 steps from snapping our fingers and doing the "oh no you didnt" neck roll. We stopped when Sarah finally said,
"LISTEN, we don't even HAVE the money to pay you that much".
The man stopped the car and sped back towards the bus terminal. He took a wrong turn, then put the car into reverse and zoomed backwards for a few too many seconds for comfort.
I turned to Sarah and said, "We probably shouldn't do that ever again". We both nodded silently and then when the car finally stopped, we kind of apologized and ran off like 2 little girls who had just been schooled on the dangers of real life. What were we thinking talking to some random guy who knew we were Americans and was driving our car with such attitude? What if he was carrying a weapon or if we hadn't stopped sassing him when we did? Scary times. We went back to the sitio, grabbed a taxi that was still overpriced (apparently these taxi drivers implemented night fees over the weekend) and got home safely.
The next day, I dropped my MetroBus card walking to work. It had $200 pesos on it (a good month's worth of trips to work) and some nice man chased me down to give it back.
Although the responsible thing to do after the Fulbright orientation would have been to search for an apartment, I decided to do what I would've never normally done and instead took a trip to Oaxaca with 2 fellow grantees (BBers we've dubbed ourselves. Get it? Binational Business-ers? yeah..).
It was amazing. My original plan was to write about the INCREDIBLE food and sites so as to fulfill some of the "become a foodie" and "take more artistic pictures" goals but I thought I'd add another goal to the list and start developing that one instead.
New Goal: Talk to random Mexican people and get them to give me as much of their life map as possible in the short time I have with them.
We met Antonio for the first time at the Zapotec ruins at Monte Alban, Oaxaca. He tried selling us some handmade turquoise masks as dozens of other salesmen had done in our time there but this man in particular stood out to me because:
1) He kind of looked like Grandma Willow from Pocahantas...just with a cowboy hat on and 2) his wizened face and wrinkled hands really seemed to have lived through things my privileged 22-year old self could not possibly understand.
He was also particularly memorable because he was just so much older than the average street salesman that you turn down. It made me think how unfair it was that people his age in the States were likely retired and sitting on a porch or traveling the world while he had to walk around every day asking tourists to look at the masterpieces he had spend hours making; tourists that like me, probably have no real understanding of the cultural significance of this place, his work, or the implications it has on daily life in Oaxaca and Mexico overall.
Still, I feel really lucky that he trusted us enough to share some of his Life Map with us as he headed to the market to buy rice, beans and milk for his grandchildren. I want to make sure I don't forget any of it soo...Here we go:
This is Antonio. Sorry it's so dark! When he said I could take his picture I just turned it on and snapped
Antonio is a talented artisan that takes a bus to Monte Alban every day to sell the masks that he makes in his small town nearby; a town that is inhabited by numerous skilled artisans that make their living primarily from farming and selling goods to the tourists. They even have a "trade association" that Antonio says regulates the farming practices of the locals so that the smell doesnt "scare" the tourists and that ensures the salesemen don't annoy visitors.
In 1956, Antonio moved to California for 3 years to work as a brazero under The Mexican Farm Labor Program that began under Franklin Roosevelt but lasted 22 years. While in California, he picked grapes and tomatoes although he'd later joke that he's picked every crop there is. Antonio reminisced about the time with his fellow brazeros, many of whom, he said, escaped from the camps and lived out the rest of their years in America with their families.
Despite the temptation to stay, Antonio returned to Oaxaca for a couple of years before trying his luck in America one more time. This time, he did it illegally. He told us the gut-wrenching story of the 9-day treck across the border that saw him and numerous other stuffed in various parts of a van. He said they had nothing to eat for 3 days straight during that trip and that when people started feeling sick or started having regrets, they'd be left on the side of the road. On the 4th day, the coyotes fed them fried chicken and Antonio said they were finally able to sleep.
Antonio arrived in Arizona and worked picking limes and oranges. He laughed as he told me that he didn't like being an illegal immigrant so he paid a coyote to bring him back to Mexico. He says he'd never do it now and sadly shook his head as he recalled how many times in the recent years he's known locals that died on the trip, leaving their bodies to blow away with the desert sand and their families to live off of memories alone.
Antonio is a father of 5 and lives with his wife, some of his grandkids and 2 of his children. His other 3 live in California.
One of his sons moved with his wife to cook for a man who was desperately looking for an authentic Oaxacan cook. They still work at the restaurant but that was all Antonio mentioned of them. His other son worked out on a field in CA but got a hernia. He couldn't afford to get it taken care of in the States, and his employers weren't offering any help so he moved back to Mexico to get the medical attention he needed.
He told us about his 3rd son in California with a weird mix of sadness and pride. The pride came from the fact that this son, works 2 jobs and lives alone in the U.S while his wife and kids stay with Antonio. At night, he works as a janitor at several office buildings and during the day works as an insurance salesman. Antonio says there were 150 applicants for that 1 sales position and that his son waited in line all day, but beat out everyone for the job. The sadness of this son's story was because Antonio saw how much his grandchildren missed their dad on a daily basis. Antonio told us that his daughter-in-law used to tell the kids that their dad would come back one day on one of those planes that pass closely over their town. When their 9-year old started asking if daddy was on every plane that flew above, they stopped telling them that.
To kind of lighten the mood, he randomly offered that he thought we were silly Americans for going to the Mercado de Abastos where even he doesn't like going because of the crime. Still, he was impressed that we went and were perfectly fine.
A few minutes passed and then, as if he thought he needed to end his Life Map with some food for thought, he sighed,
" Si, la vida aqui es dificil pero yo ya me acostumbre. Me acostumbre hace tiempo" Yes, life here is hard but I've already gotten used to it. I got used to it a long time ago.
We shook hands and got off at the same stop. He headed to the market and we headed to our first comida corrida in Mexico.
The other day, my Mom and I were walking our dog, Angel (Angela or Awn-hey-lah to my mom), around the Murf and randomly this lady stopped us to say hello. This never happens.
I truly believe that whole "southern hospitality" thing only applies at the grocery store and to casually wave at your neighbors as you hurtle pass them in your car. People simply aren't THAT nice on the streets so I was already approaching this woman with suspicion. I felt this was fine since Angel's ears were perked up and her sniffing sounds were getting louder in that typical dog way of saying..."who the hell are you?"
As usually happens in casual conversation, the question that follows "What's your name?" is of course, "where are you from?". I think for most people this is a pretty simple question but for my Mom and I, it was kind of weird. We gave each other a glance that conveyed slight terror but more specifically expressed an "Eff, YOU ANSWER IT!" type of emotion.
I just kind of fumbled on my words like I was in the witness protection program and reluctant to share such personal information and said:
“Oh, I’m from here and she’s from Ecuador”.
It seemed like such an inadequate answer but got me to thinking how I’m going to deal with this question as I head to Mexico, live there and throughout the rest of my life upon returning. If the complications of this question aren’t clear to you already, let us consider some of the answers I could’ve given our strangely nice neighbor:
Q: Where are you from?
A: "Oh,well, we're from Stonetrace Drive a couple of blocks from here"
-Pffft...since Stonetrace Drive is hardly another state or country, I feel this is an abnormal answer to this question.
A: "We're from America"
-I feel that only a drunk person abroad or somebody trying to prove citizenship status would say this...
A:"Well, we've been in Tennessee for years but we're originally from Miami"
-Well that doesn't really cover it all does it? I mean, I'm sure my parents have no problem claiming Miami as a "hometown" since they lived there for 20+ years but it does kind of exclude the birthed in South America part.
The only answer that would adequately convey the story of where my family is "from"is the following:
My dad was born in Colombia and my mom was born in Ecuador. They are now U.S citizens and have lived here longer than they did in their native countries but still have accents and other habits that most certainly impede them from being considered the average “American”. My sister and I were born in Miami and moved to Tennessee during the middle school years. We’ve spent more years in Miami than here, but if you’ve ever spoken to us, you probably couldn’t tell from the occasional southernism.
There is no doubt, Tennessee has been good to us. Here, we have accomplished things that may have been virtually impossible had we stayed back in South Florida. But if home is where the heart is, Miami is home.
At our house, football season is marked by the purchase of DirectTV’s Sunday Ticket so that my dad can watch every single Dolphin’s game and Basketball season this year ended sadly as the entire Villamizar clan realized “the decision” fell short.
Still, the truth of the matter is, the question,"Where are you from?", is really just a PC way of getting to what most people REALLY want to ask, which is:
“What ARE you?”
I used to hate this question. These days, despite its lack of tact, I tend to appreciate its directness since it always sucks having to decide whether people want to know where I live or if they want to hear: “My dad is from Colombia blah blah blah....”
And NOW, after years of living in a place where I’ve gotten questions like:
“You speak Spanish but you’re NOT Mexican? How does that work?”,
I am moving to Mexico and adding an entirely new element of difficulty in explaining where I’m from/what I “am”. Now, people are certain that I have some ancestral connection to Mexico and I have to give an entirely different spiel about my decision to apply for Fulbright Mexico, the fact that I have never been there, and that it is unlikely that despite the skin tone, anyone will believe I am actually a chilanga (slang for native Mexico City dweller). I am sure that for the rest of my life, I will be clarifying the fact that I lived in Mexico for a year but I am not from there in any sense of the word.
Interestingly, I have never had to make that clarification for the time that I spent studying in Spain.
In honor of the latest Hurricanes scandal, my attempts to see the splendid 2009 documentary, The U, and the fact that I’ve met 4 “The” Ohio State University folks in the past 2 weeks, here is a little clip that makes me happy that I have such amazing places to pick from when explaining where I’m from, where I’ve lived and who I am.
When the Miami Hurricanes lost to Ohio State in the 2002 Championship game in a double overtime play, we knelt in front of the TV, we prayed and then, when we lost, I cried, didn’t sleep that night and it’s never been the same since but still..loyalties don't change.
UPDATE: Been in Mexico DF, for a 1.5 days, and where I’m from has come up a lot. People want to know where my Browness and slightly Cuban twang comes from, I have already danced Bachata twice and the man at the breakfast counter this morning pondered, “Tennessee?” with an, “I’ve never heard of that place before” look on his face.
Crossing Niagra Falls on a Bicycle or "Pasar el Niágara en Bicicleta" is a Cuban idiom used to describe overcoming a difficult situation. It is also the title of one of my favorite songs. It's by Juan Luis Guerra.
Eeeeeek.. I swear this entire blog won't be about him (or even the rest of this post)!
Any who, listening to my daily dose of this song, which describes the "near impossibility of obtaining medical treatment in a developing country", got me to thinking about how real of a situation this would actually be in Mexico.
I thought back to the last day of my semester abroad in Madrid, when my roommate got sick and we had to get her to a hospital ASAP. Our host mother was of no help, which was no surprise after a semester of stomaching dreadful food and experiencing first-hand her total disinterest in being...helpful. Victoria and I took a cab to the hospital and as soon as we walked in, we knew we were NOT going to get help anytime soon. We weren't Spaniards, didn't have the right documentation and since Spain has a socialized health care system, the emergency room was packed. And to think, Spain is no developing country.
Similarly, during my Alternative Spring Break trip this year to the Dominican Republic, the dilemma of receiving medical treatment popped up when we realized that the nearest "medical center" (or 3 bedroom shack) was a 30 minute walk from our home in El Guayabo down this incredibly difficult mountain path that kicked our ass on a daily basis.
The only picture I could find of the medical center near El Guayabo. Pictured are myself, Valerie Kuznik and Julia Peredo of ASB 2011: Three Little Birds
When we went to visit this place, the doctor, whom apparently was the latest of a slew of temporary physicians, seemed to be accompanied only by a receptionist and an alarming amount of sass. She was the most stylish doctor I've ever seen, trading in that drab old white coat for a tight spandex shirt, skinny jeans and flip flops. Girl was looking gooood.
When Emily, one of the Site Leaders, came down with a case of pink eye, she had to haul ass down to the town 30 minutes away with Peace Corps volunteer and former Vandy student, Leigh, just to be told she didn't have pink eye and that she'd be fine. FINE?! Anybody who has ever seen pink eye, or has eyes in general, could see there was something wrong with her eye but it took a stern demand for eye drops for the lady to finally help them out. Not surgery, not an eye exam, not any kind of medical treatment at all...just eye drops.
So as I head out to Mexico soon, I wonder how pertinent this song really is to medical care there. Mexico City is HUGE so will it face the overcrowding we saw in Madrid or the lack of concern we saw in the DR? In reality, neither situation was urgent, so how concerned could we have really expected the doctors/medical staff to be? Is it really that much worse than walking into an overcrowded emergency room in New York with a stomach ache? I don't plan on getting ill in Mexico but hopefully this is something I can explore there too. What's real? What's hype?
Listen to the song. It's good, I promise.
No me digan que los médicos se fueron
no me digan que no tienen anestesia
no me digan que el alcohol se lo bebieron
y que el hilo de coser fue bordado en un mantel
No me digan que las pinzas se perdieron
que el estetoscopio está de fiesta
que los rayos X se fundieron
y que el suero ya se usó
para endulzar el café
Don’t tell me that the doctors are gone.
Don’t tell me that you don’t have anesthesia.
Don’t tell me that someone drank the alcohol,
And that the thread for stitches
Has been sewn into a tablecloth.
Don’t tell me that the forceps are lost,
And the stethoscope is on vacation, That the x-ray machine has burnt out,
And the serum has been used to sweeten the coffee.
