Diary of a Reluctant Güera_archives

I was shocked Monday when I picked up the newspaper at work and saw not a mention of the opening festivities of the People’s Guelaguetza, put on by the striking section 22 of the SNTE teacher’s union.

Even though I disagree with many of the teacher’s actions, I took an active part in the massive popular celebration. As usual, I gained access by clinging to the coat tails of Sra. Guillermina.

With my 48-year-old “mom” at my side, I joined the Delegation representing Betaza, (her family’s ancestral home in the Sierra Juárez) in the greatest calenda Oaxaca has seen in years. First let me explain what a calenda is all about. A calenda is the ceremonial procession that kicks off a fiesta. It may consist of a small group of people or tens of thousands of them, as we saw Sunday. The one constant is the band and the dancers, although the music, the steps and the costumes very by region.

Traditionally, the day before the Guelaguetza dance festival, the delegations representing far-flung regions of the state come together for a Calenda in the streets of the historic center. Tourists and locals line up along the curb to watch them pass,

This year, with the cancellation of the official festivities, the Calenda took on new proportions. This Calenda was open to all participants, not just the photogenic delegations hand-picked by the government. The delegation of Betaza was mostly made up of Sra. Guille’s entourage of middle-aged matrons and gay men. Even though she wasn’t wearing the traditional white dress and red sash, Sra. Guille more than held her own among the dancers. In her faded skirt and hand-made blouse, she looked as regal as ever, prancing along the cobblestone streets before the admiring eyes of the onlookers.

The Calenda swelled in size as it snaked around the streets of the city center. A few tourists watched from hotel balconies. The thrilled looks on their faces confirmed that this made their trip to Oaxaca worth it after all.

Those of us dancing ( “dancing” being an overly optimistic description of my own participation) in the calenda were kept well supplied with mescal, sandwiches and fruit juice (thank God, since it took us over four hours to reach the Zócalo). When the band paused for breath, people began to chant. The more drunk they became, the louder they chanted.

“Arriba la Sierra!”
“Arriba!” we echoed
“Arriba Betaza!”
“Arriba!”
“Abajo Ulises!” (the governor)
“Abajo!”
“Arriba el magisterio!” (the teachers)

As the crowd chimed arriba, I noticed that Guilermina, as I, remained silent. We were there to support the culture of Oaxaca, not the political goals of the teachers’ movement. As for the governor, we have our own reasons to dislike him, which have nothing to do with the teachers’ conflict, first among them being that he was elected by blatant fraud. (Farmers actually discovered sacks of “missing” ballots at the bottom of the river).

When we arrived in the Zócalo, the teachers put on a spectacularly inept fireworks display. They attempted to launch fireworks from the roof of the cathedral (which the government stopped permitting years ago, for fear of damaging the historic façade). Unfortunately, the fireworks somehow ended up exploding on the ground directly below (even better for the centuries-old baroque stonework). At least there were no injuries (except to the egos of the teachers).

The teachers were equally unsuccessful with their “castillo.” A “castillo” is a wooden framework in the shape of a Christmas tree, decorated with a series of wheels and fanciful shapes, and most importantly, loaded with a ton of fireworks. When the first wheel is lit, it spins and the sparks from the fireworks light the next wheel, and so forth, until the fireworks reach the Crown of Christ, perched at the summit. The grand finale is when the crown catches fire and whizzes off into space like a flying saucer. I’ve always wondered where it lands.

Well, on Sunday night, the crown caught fire well before the fireworks had finished “climbing’ the castillo. To make matters worse, it shot straight into the air, then immediately plummeted to the pavement a few yards from the castillo, as the crowd scattered in panic. Later, this prompted a lot of jokes about “How many school teachers does it take to make a castillo…”

When the castillo fizzled out, the union leaders led the crowd in a rendition of “Venceremos” a revolutionary song I had not heard since Cuba. All across the zócalo, teachers and their sympathizers thrust their fists in the air and bellowed the words, while I quietly slipped away home.

In the mainstream press, even in Oaxaca, this massive civic spectacular did not receive so much as a mention. But even the national news reported how teachers had blocked the highway by the University and caused a nuisance to commuters..

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Every day, the media reports staggering statistics: hundreds of millions of pesos in lost revenues from business and tourism. The effects are felt from the large hotel chains to the little old ladies who sell tortillas on the street. The numbers are even more frightening when you add in the physical damage inflicted on downtown buildings and the Guelaguetza stadium. The government estimates that it will take six to eight months just to remove the graffiti from the colonial facades of the historic center (granted, the government is not known for the efficiency of its public works).

Usually this time of year, the tourists outnumber the locals in the streets. This year, a few plucky tourists, cameras and Lonely Planets in hand, clamber over the sheet metal barricades and wander, fascinated through tent city that has taken over the historic center. The ones I’ve spoken to, unlike most local residents, are not disgusted by the situation, but intrigued. Most come from countries like the US, where a similar popular movement would have been promptly and efficiently squashed by law enforcement.

The biggest danger faced by tourists in the city center is not violent demonstrations, but petty theft, which has increased since rock and stick wielding teachers drove police from the area last month. Unless the federal government sends in reinforcements, there will be no repetition of the June 14 clashes between teachers and police (which international news reports made to appear much more widespread than they actually were). A federal intervention is unlikely, however, as the PAN government in Mexico City is little inclined to bail out the PRI government of Oaxaca.

Besides, the Zócalo and the historic center are such a small part of what Oaxaca has to offer. Just a short bus ride from downtown are the timeless villages of the Oaxaca Valley: Ocotlán with its magnificent convent, where swallows swoop and sing on the crystal chandeliers, Arrazola, where family workshops produce psychedelic animal carvings, Teotitlan de Valle, where the stones of a prehispanic zapotec temple form the cornerstones of the Catholic church. At the Hierve el Agua mineral springs, you can swim in the sulphur pools at the brink of a cliff overlooking the blue waves of the Sierra. Here there are no teachers with machetes. Nor on the Pacific coast, only five hours away by bus, where you can still find pristine white beaches, like the one in the movie Y Tu Mamá También, which was filmed near Puerto Escondido, Oaxaca.

Almost every day, drug cartels in Acapulco murder their rivals and their families, yet tourism in the famous resort city has not suffered. It’s ludicrous then, that a bunch of rabble-rousing school teachers scare tourists away from Oaxaca.

So come on down!

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I went to the airport this morning. It was a morning like any other. Loud US tourists, business people and diminutive indigenous women in bright skirts mingled in the check in lines, by the luggage claim, and at the upstairs window overlooking the landing strip. You would never have guessed that today is Lunes del Cerro, the maximum cultural event in Oaxaca.

Every year, thousands of tourists, from all over the world, descend upon this provincial capital to take part in the Lunes de Cerro celebration. For two consecutive Mondays, delegations of dancers representing the 7 regions of Oaxaca, come together to perform the Guelaguetza. The Guelaguetza is a ritual of sharing which has deep cultural significance for the people of Oaxaca. The word, which comes from a Zapotec word for giving, refers to acts of reciprocity between families and communities; acts as small as sharing a meal, or as grand as the Lunes del Cerro, when the best folkloric dancers perform for an international audience.

But not this year. The Guelaguetza has been cancelled, because a radical faction of the teachers movement has blocked access roads to the stadium where it takes place.
The teachers make some good points. The Guelaguetza, has become increasingly commercialized in recent years. Ticket prices have skyrocketed, making what is traditionally a fiesta of the people, inaccessible to most Oaxacans. Never the less, the Guelaguetza remains a point of enormous civic pride. It’s cancellation is an enormous psychic blow to Oaxaca, not to mention the disasterous effect on the economy.

But there is no way that the teachers, nor the government can stop the Guelaguetza. The tradition continues, as it has for centuries, in the small communities around the state, places never reached by the tourists or the political campaign. The Guelaguetza is not celebrated only on Lunes del Cerro, but every time there is a birth, a death, a baptism, or a neighbhor who needs a helping hand.

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I’m sick of writing about the teachers’ movement or the “conflicto magisterial” as we call it here. But I’m compelled to, compelled by my writer’s instinct to record, to try to make sense where there isn’t any.

I’ve avoided making too many judgements, hiding behind my mask of foreigner. I’ve denied myself the right to opinion. It’s true that as an outsider I lack in-depth knowledge of the situation, of its roots and causes. But as a good Mexican friend recently pointed out, neither do most people. The average person in Oaxaca, same as anywhere in the world, is so immersed in their personal concerns that they are oblivious or apathetic to the larger political reality, until one day that reality bursts their bubble, be it in the form of a lost job, a road block, or a pipe-wielding striker.

For the little it may be worth, this is what I think. I think the leaders of the teachers’ movement, as much as the PRI government, are out for their own personal gain, for the usual prizes of fame, power and money. At the same time, I believe the movement, for all its surface hypocrisy, has a struck at something much deeper than pay raises and school lunches. What we’re experiencing now is the explosion of centuries of suppressed rage at the inequality in Oaxacan society, not just the divide, but the grand canyon between the rich and the poor, between the indigenous and the ruling political class, whatever its acronym: PRI, PAN, or PRD. And this rage IS something that needs to be heard.

What’s the remedy? How do we bridge the gap? These questions are too big for me. I’m just a writer, and a foreign one at that. I know my role: to watch, to listen, to record and reflect.

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The zocalo as it appears today: a carnival of civil unrest.

Who are the rightful owners of the Zócalo, the historic square that represents the physical and spiritual heart of Oaxaca? I’ve been thinking about this lately, as I’ve seen the Zócalo converted into a battlefield disputed by teachers, the government, businesspeople, residents and tourists.

When I first came to Oaxaca three years ago, like most visitors I quickly fell under the spell of the ´Zócalo. I felt as though time did not penetrate the shady canopy of the massive Indian Laurel trees. Seconds or centuries passed me by as I sat on a wrought iron bench by the bandstand and watched children play with balloons and indigenous women selling shawls. It was as if you could hear the pulse of the city vibrating from the very stones, the greenish cantera from a nearby quarry.

In 2005, recently elected Governor Ulises Ruiz Ortiz, ripped out our heart. The Zócalo was subjected to what the government described as a “remodeling” and “modernization.” For six months, construction barricades shut us out of the Zócalo. Our treasured green cantera stones, which absorbed the runoff from the rain, were wrenched from the earth and carted away. But what no one had anticipated was that the Laurel trees had anchored their roots around the stones. When the cantera was removed, the seemingly indestructible giants, who had provided centuries of shade, lost their footing. Two toppled, provoking public outcry. Up until then, we had tolerated the project with the usual cynical sarcasm reserved for politicians in general and the PRI in particular.
But when the trees came down, it suddenly became personal. It was as we had lost beloved family members. The trees were replanted, but their umbrella-like foliage was cut back, and wires strung between them for support. Thinking about it now, it seems like it was a premonition of things to come.

When the barriers were finally taken away, and the new “ improved” Zócalo was triumphantly revealed, this is what we found. The cantera stones had been replaced with cement slabs, their non-porous surfaces impervious to the rain, creating new puddles for us to walk around. The fanciful rot iron benches had also disappeared. In their place was chunky concrete seating that reminded us of mortuary slabs. Around the plaza, modern metal sculptures had been placed, mostly the work of foreign artists. Another difference was that the government had banished the unlicensed venders, mostly Triqui indigenous women in their traditional red and white-stripped tunics, who spread out their colorful wares in front of the Cathedral. Oaxaca’s historic heart was starting to resemble an outdoor suburban mall in the United States. “Ulises,” a graffiti artist inquired in spray paint, “When are you going to remodel Monte Alban?” Monté Alban is the ancient Zapotec city, whose majestic ruins overlook modern day Oaxaca.

With rare concession to public opinion, Governor Ulises made a grandiose gesture of returning us our wrought iron park benches, as if it were not he who took them away in the first place. Little by little, as people returned to the Zócalo, with their children, their balloons and traditional clothing, the square came back to life, until it almost resembled what it was before. Almost.

In recent weeks, Oaxaca residents have again been estranged from the zócalo, as striking teachers have set up camp there. Traversing the plaza is like playing limbo; you have to duck under the nearly invisible cords holding up the teachers’ tarps. Last week a teacher standing guard at the entrance to the Compañía de Jesus church, demanded to see my identification. I felt somehow violated. For almost two years I have been going to the Compañía de Jesus to participate in youth group activities and other charitable events. Who are these carpet-bagging teachers to deny me access? When I finally was allowed in, I saw the strikers’ pots and pans strewn among the historic relics in the atrium; the valuable oil paintings half-draped with dust clothes beside grease-splattered camp stoves.

But in some ways, the strike has brought new life and color to the city center, especially since rock and stick wielding teachers drove police away with their tails tucked between their legs. The unlicensed venders have returned and proliferated like bunnies. The triqui indigenous are back, selling their jewelry and scarves. Other entrepreneurs sell fruit, popsicles, shaved ices, tacos, tamales, hot chocolate, “jicaletas” (slices of jícama on sticks, dipped in chili powder) pirate CDS and DVDS, sweat shop lingerie, plastic flower arrangements, and wind up chickens. I love that for the first time I can afford to eat in the Zócalo. For five pesos I can buy steaming tamale wrapped in banana leaves. The same tamale would cost me five times as much in one of the street side cafes.

There are other vultures who have found ways to profit from the civil unrest. All over the Zócalo, TV sets plugged into extension cords replay the violent events of June 14th. Spectators gather to watch sneak previews of these exclusive home videos, which venders hawk for anywhere from 15 to 30 pesos. For around 45 pesos you can buy a T-shirt featuring the logo of the rebellious Section 22 of the SNTE Union, and the words: “June 14, 2006: never forget, never forgive.” The T-shirts are also available with your choice of images: tents in flames, police with clubs, or teachers fleeing from tear gas.

Passer-bys are spellbound by home videos of the June 14 police crackdown which venders hawk from fifteen to thirty pesos.

Although I am not a whole-hearted supporter of the teacher’s movement (especially since most of them make money more than I do!) I derive a certain grim pleasure from seeing Ulises’s brand new cement slabs covered in red spray paint, reading: “Ulises, murderer,” “Not one vote for the PRI,” or “free political prisoners” At the same time, the same scrawls on the historic buildings sadden me.

The zócalo belongs to the populace. We should be able to visit places that for us are almost sacred, without having to trip over tarps or show identification. But neither should we be priced out of the Zócalo. Why should only tourists and the wealthy be able to enjoy the plaza’s timeless charm? At any rate, when the local people forsake the Zócalo, the magic goes with them. All we’ll have left is another fashionable city square, same as can be found anywhere in the world.

Zòcalo in the rain.

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This week marked the 40th day that striking education workers have held the city center hostage. Although the violent clashes with police have dominated the headlines, most days are monotonous, teachers staring glassy eyed from under their tarps while downtown residents step over their them to go about their business. We grudging tolerate the interlopers who have become part of our daily landscape. They are like squalid neighbhors we love to complain about, but privately wouldn't know what to do without. When the teachers abandon the zocalo and the surrounding forty-some blocks, leaving their spraypainted slogans and rocks behind, who will we blame when we miss the bus, when we are late to work? The teachers having become a convenient scapegoat for everything from traffic jams to the lack of rain.

Union leaders have pledged to return to class on Monday. While some SNTE members plan to stay and ¨hold down the fort¨ in the zocalo, surely their presence will be dimished. In honor of their impending and long overdue departure, I'd like to share with you some of the artistic expression that has flourished during the long, hot days in the Oaxaca streets, the dead hours that have made up most of the strike (except for brief, cathartic spurts of violence).

Irreverent portrayal of the political connections between President Fox, Governor Ulises Ruiz Ortiz and the media. For weeks, this banner covered the facade of the governor's palace in the zocalo before it was destroyed during the violence of June 14.

Teachers display black and white photography of the movement in front of the Cathedral.

Examples of children's drawing depicting the violence events of June 14, when state police attempted to remove strikers from downtown. The exhibition of these pictures in the zocalo was an obvious attempt to gain public sympathy for the movement.

Spray painted murals on the street of Reforma depict the violence of June 14.

Art and trash in front of the Governor's Palace.

Irreverent portrayal of Gov. Ulises Ruiz on the steps of what was once an upscale hotel and cafe.

The glass facade of a once fashionable hotel has become a canvass for graffiti artists.

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Teachers: "Not one vote for the PRI or the PAN"

10PM
According to the Federal Institute of Elections (IFE), the presidential race is too close to call. This isn’t stopping both the PRD and PAN from celebrating victory, based on their own respective exit polls, tarot cards or pigheadedness. This is typical of this election. Sometimes you feel there are two parallel elections going on: on one hand the overwhelming populist uprising described by Andres Manuel “El Peje” Lopez Obrador of the PRD, and on the other the affirmation of the right-wing policies of the PAN.

I miss the blue and red jigsaw puzzle map of US elections. All we have here are confused correspondents reporting from the respective victory parties. Since we don´t have CNN to call the election, for us, we’re awaiting the next announcement of the president of the IFE, who'll appear on national TV at 11PM to project a winner or the continuing lack thereof.

The good news is that in spite of dire predictions, Oaxaca voters were able to carry out their civic duties without interference from the striking teachers union. The most serious violation reported was in Tehuanatepec, five hours from here, where the PRI campaign workers were accused of wearing T-shirts with logos larger-than-regulation logos.

Voters wait peacefully their turn to vote outside a polling place in the Zòcalo. Later in the day there were some disturbances when polls ran out of ballots.

11PM
The president of the IFE informs the breathless nation in the most roundabout manner possible that they still cannot ascertain with statistical accuracy which party or coalition received the most votes. He makes a perfunctory plea (knowing it´s already tooo late) to the political parties that they wait until Wednesday, when all the votes have been tallied, before hailing victory . Well, at least we can go to bed now.

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The nice thing about the Mexican electoral system is there is a gag order in place during the last five days leading up to the election. Although we are still confronted at every turn with the smirking faces of the candidates - their posters plastered on every available surface - at least we‘re spared the noise pollution of the radio and TV campaign spots (or “espots” as we say here).

After living through this very competitive campaign season (polls show the PAN’s Felipe Calderón in a virtual dead heat with PRD’s Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador) I can tell you that US politics has nothing on Mexican politics in terms of sheer nastiness.
But it’s different dirt they’re slinging south of the border.

I mean, how can it be election Eve and we don’t even know with whom the candidates have had sexual relations? (whether according to the Clintonesque or any other definition) in addition to their wives. The frontrunner (by a hair) Lopez Obrador, is a widower. How can it be that the charismatic populist leader has not slept with anyone inappropriate in the last five years? And thanks to some very poignant televisions spots, we all know that the lovely (and much younger) wife of the PRI’s Roberto Madrazo, is suffering from breast cancer. Doesn’t Roberto ever feel deprived and seek solace in the arms of an obliging intern? Come on, these are politicians we’re talking about. All Americans no that these are not ordinary men, but monsters with apparently insatiable libidos. What happened to the famous Mexican machismo?

And what about family values? Sure, each candidate implores voters to think of their families when they go to the polls. But they don’t feel the need to warn us about the dooms-day specters of premarital sex, abortion and (gasp!) gay marriage. I guess we have to wait for guidance until the Virgin appears again on in the grease on someone’s tortilla griddle.

Speaking of which, where is God? Whose side is he on? American presidential hopefuls are always quick to claim Him as their biggest campaign contributer. We know that soccer plays like “Kikin” Fonseca support Felipe Calderon, as well as the security guard character on the telenovela La fea mas bella. Maybe it’s a sign from above that beloved comedian Chespirito came out in support of the balding bespectacled PAN candidate. Chespirito has been immortalized, afterall, by his characters El Chavo del Ocho and el Chapulín Colorado (a giant talking grasshopper which doubtlessly inspired the Mexican in a bumble-bee suit who sometimes appears on the Simpsons).

To be sure, independent candidate Victor Gonzalez Ortega better known as “Doctor Simi” owner of the Farmacias Similiars chain, has declared that with the help of god and the people he will be the next president. But everyone knows that even god can’t help Dr. Simi (star of a comic book in which the white lab-coated hero fights corruption) win the election.

How can the Mexican people be expected to make an informed decision about the future of their democracy without such crucial information? No wonder this country is such a mess! No wonder its people risk their lives to reach the land of Kenneth Star and the Reverend Billy Graham.

To be fair, Mexican candidates have lots of other things to talk about, like, whether the Lopez Obrador (a moderate liberal by US standards) with his aggressive oratory style, is the next Hugo Chavez. (As Mayor of Mexico City, he gave pensions to the elderly, I mean, what a commie pinko!) And we can’t forget Felipe’s brother-in-law: was it coincidence that his company received lucrative contacts while Felipe was Secretary of Energy? Not according to the campaign of Lopez Obrador, which presented, with great fanfare, three boxes of proof to the contrary. Fortunately for Felipe, except for a couple manila folders, the boxes were empty. Then there is that pesky detail of Roberto’s unpaid taxes.

Stay tuned for the shocking conclusion of this telenovela.

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