Diary of a Reluctant Güera_archives

APPO to government: "We're Ready!"

In our fourth month of civil unrest, we have a heightened sense of normalcy. We go about our business as always but feel absurd, acutely aware of our own mundaneness in the face of crisis. In the markets, around the water cooler, we talk about the conflict the way we once talked about the weather.

Today we are lining up at grocery stores, which will be closed for the next two days, as will most local businesses. This is the second work stoppage organized by the business community to pressure Fox into interfering in the conflict.

But I’m hearing something very different from business insiders. They say the work stoppage is just a cover for an invasion by federal police. And they are quite pleased about the prospect! These are not greedy fat cats, but hardworking entrepreneurs with families to feed, but they are willing to see fellow citizens killed to save them from financial ruin. Fascism has a very human face after all.

I confess there have been moments when I felt the same, especially when the crisis affected the international program I coordinate. But as I confront the increasing likelihood of a federal intervention, I cannot justify the human cost.

But until that day is upon us, we’ll just carry on, more obstinately normal than ever. They’ve cried wolf too many times before.

A boy walks to school past the remains of the last night's burning baricade. He's a student of a private Catholic school whose teachers are not participating in the strike.

Posted by Anna at 04:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (63)

Sunday’s rumor became Monday’s headline. But this being Oaxaca, even the press can’t agree on what actually took place.

What we do know is that at around 2 PM, Governor (in name only) Ulises Ruiz made a public appearance at the city park, the most recent victim of his administration’s “modernization” project, which has stripped the city of much of its historic charm. Ruiz just had time for a photo-op with a humble tortilla vender before the APPO got wind of his presence and rallied its troops of stick wielding teachers and campesinos.

Ruiz’s police escort, which urban legend has it includes a scimitar-wielding martial arts master, whisked him away. At this point newspaper accounts diverge. Some report he took refuge with other state officials in the Camino Real, a colonial-era convent which has been converted in Oaxaca’s swankiest hotel. Some say he retreated to a nearby restaurant. Others deny he was anywhere in the vicinity.

In any case, the APPO and its supporters broke into the Camino Real, the last stronghold of the affluent, and ransacked it in search of Ruiz. Plainclothes officers of the Policia ministerial succeeded in rescuing the officials (who may or may not have included Ruiz) from the building by firing into the mob. Report vary as to whether fire was returned. One APPO member suffered a gunshot wound. Two others, including a female teacher, were badly beaten in the conflict. All received medical attention from my friend, Dr. C, at the Hospital Civil. Some witnesses claim that police picked up one or two other injured APPO members who have not been seen since.

By Monday morning, the bullets had been swept away or picked up by morbid souvenirs hunters, and cars and pedestrians hurried up and down the street where less than twenty hours before people ran for their lives. But the red spray paint on the bolted door of the Camino Real triumphantly proclaimed: Hotel APPO.

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I got some emails this week from the US this week, full of sympathy for the “stressful” circumstances of life in Oaxaca during this time of civil unrest. It made me feel a bit guilty to be the object of compassion, when I’ve spent all week writing travel articles by day and carousing with ER docs by night, without much interference from the APPO and the teachers, in spite of endless rumors about the army’s arrival.

But the conflict never goes away, even when you get so accustomed that you walk past burned buses without seeing them. Take this afternoon. The vecindad where I live is the usual happy chaos of dogs and children. Their shouts float up to my third floor hideaway where I’m engaged in my Sunday chores of laundry and lesson planning. I’ve just come in from the rooftop with an armload of still damp clothing, because the afternoon rainstorm is upon us, when I receive a text message.

“How are things in the center,” she says. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I respond. “Shouldn’t I be? What did you hear?”
“Something about an assassination attempt and a bomb at a barricade. Don’t go out.”

I go out on my roof and strain my eyes toward the center, but I can detect nothing out of the ordinary. I turn on the TV, which only offers soccer and badly dubbed Arnold Schwartzeneger movies. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out if the rumor is true, or what parts of it are true. With not much change or advancement in the crisis, rumors have come to occupy our conversation. I can’t help thinking that my Doc would be tickled to have some bomb blast victims to attend.

Posted by Anna at 05:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

My date is still wearing his stethoscope, slung casually around his neck like a fashion accessory. I wonder if he purposely forgot to leave it in the hospital. Maybe he wants everyone to know he’s a doctor. I notice that for a twenty-something he receives unusually referential treatment from the restaurant staff.

He probably doesn’t realize that I’m far more impressed that he’s taken me to one of Oaxaca’s two Japanese restaurants than the fact that he saves lives for a living. The glamour of the medical profession is mostly lost on me. I’ve always been annoyed how many TV shows there are about doctors. Watching ER or Grey’s Anatomy (a recent arrival to Mexican network TV) I always wonder why anyone would possibly subject themselves to such a stressful profession, and with blood and guts to boot.

“Today we had a man with first degree burns over one third of his body,” he recounts cheerfully between sips of Miso soup.
“Do you want to see a picture?”
“I’d really rather not.”

I admit I do like a man who is passionate about his profession, as long as I don’t have to share in his enthusiasm for burn victims.

“So what did you do today?” he asks me, and I think I detect irony in his eyes.
“Uh, I taught English, I turned in an article about Ecotourism…My work is not so exciting as yours.”
He’s nice enough to launch into one of those “teaching is such a rewarding profession” spiels. It always sounds inspiring coming from people who haven’t spent hours trying to explain the mysteries of the verb “to be” to teenagers.

When the sushi arrives he pokes the wasabi with a chopstick and asks, “What’s that?” Despite my explanation, he can’t seem to comprehend that it’s not some kind of chile. In the end, he’s happier with the dish of chipotles in oil the waiter procures him from the depths of the kitchen. I have to admit it’s endearing how he pours tablespoons of chile over his maki roll. George Clooney never did that on ER.

After dinner we go to the hospital. We go in the back, employees only entrance, past piles of old rusty gurneys. He leads me by the hand down fluorescent-lit corridors with exposed ducts– unintentional industrial chic - the hospital smell, antiseptic and terror, getting stronger. I wait while he talks to his supervisor, next to some out of use incubators that have been shoved off to the side like empty shopping carts. I can barely see into the ward across the hall. The sign on the door, “Pediatric Hydration.” Doesn’t explain much to me. When the door is pushed ajar by the nurses bustling in and out, I can see a woman’s lower half, long skeletal legs protruding from a blue hospital gown.

Posted by Anna at 05:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The Mexican as well as the US media forced 9-11 flashbacks upon their audiences this week. Not that the attacks should not be remembered; but there is something morbid about the repetitive footage of the airliners slamming into the towers, especially when the commercial breaks bring us trailers for 9-11 themed movies.

But on this side of the border, we were spared much of the maudlin self-examination and defensive nationalist sentiment. As far as Mexico is concerned, it's not even up for debate. Did the Bush administration handle the crisis appropriately? Are we safer five years later? The answer to both is an unequivocal no. The only question which remains unanswered is this: When will the next terrorist attack occur?

The anchor of TV Azteca’s nightly newscast editorialized: “The US hasnot taken advantage of the international outpouring of sympathy following the attacks but has instead embarked on a unilateral warpath which has only succeeded in alienating the rest of the world and producing new terrorists.”

Now, Azteca is hardly a bastion of progressivism. To the contrary, they are widely believed to have been in collusion with the PRI and PAN to fix the 1988 and possibly the 2006 presidential elections.
So we know we're in trouble when Azteca condemns our foreign policy.

We may criticize Mexicans for destabilizing their country by questioning their electoral system. I can't help thinking that if we have just a little less confidence in our electoral system we wouldn't have a president that's the world's laughing stock.

Posted by Anna at 04:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (1)

All we talk about in Oaxaca is the political conflict. We’re sick to death of talking about it, but we can’t help ourselves.

Don’t think it’s about the teachers, about whether or not they receive their annual token pay raise. The movement has come a long way since then. It’s tapped into something much more profound. Oaxaca has become a symbol for Mexico, for a people fed up with institutionalized inequality.

In the United States, until recently, no matter how much we despised our politicians, we at least possessed a basic faith in the democratic process. In Mexico this is not so. After 70 plus years of the PRI’s “elections of state,” followed by the broken promises of the Fox administration, Mexicans have a right to distrust their political institutions.
Now the people are rising up against the ruling political class.

Believe me, it’s not as romantic as it sounds. Revolutions are messy; it’s not all idealism and shouting slogans. When revolutions succeed, as in the case of the US, the costs are relegated to footnotes in the history books. If you think Americans are more civilized, remember the revolutionary mobs that tarred and feathered Tories or suspected Tories during the American Revolution. I thought of that last week when presumed APPO members publicly humiliated a government official, splashing him with green paint and forcing him to march to the Zócalo holding a portrait of Gov. Ulises Ruiz Ortiz, and was then blindfolded and tied to the bandstand.

It’s difficult to keep the big picture in mind when you see you’re friends losing their jobs and businesses, when you yourself are hit in the pocketbook, when you see your beloved city covered in trash and graffiti.

I lost half my income when the international program I worked for was cancelled. But I shouldn’t complain, I can leave if I choose, go back to the “land of opportunity.”

Most people do not have this choice.

I know a widow who earns a living selling jewelry door to door. Even if she can reach her clients through the roadblocks and burning tires, they’re not buying like they used to.

I know a young couple who own a restaurant in the Zócalo. It was their dream: now it might be shut down.

I know a single mother who lost her mid-level government job and fallen into a depression, leaving her parents to care for her teenage son.

I know mothers who’ve had to quit their jobs to stay with kids who should be in school.

A revolution is all or nothing; if it succeeds in bringing about real change, these people will benefit in the long run. But if it fails…? The Mexican people deserve a true democracy, not the parody put on by the PAN. I hope they can achieve it without more violence.

Posted by Anna at 05:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (6)

So I'm walking through the zócalo, happy as can be, looking for my morning tamal and hot chocolate, when a man walks up to me and bellows:
"USA?"
I ignore him but he only tries harder.
"How you from?"
Am I being overly politically correct in finding this behavior rude? I could live in here twenty years and people would still speak to me in broken English. How do they know I speak English in the first place? With my pale skin and light brown hair I could easily be German, French, Dutch or even Spanish.
Can you imagine what would happen if you walked up to a hispanic-looking person in the United States and said: "Hola amigo! Es tú mexican? Would you not be punched in the face?
But I 've lived in Latin America long enough that I know that political correctness is as foreign to them as cannabalism.
In my uncaffeinated 8AM state I am in no mood to pander to his attempts to speak my mother tongue, so I brush past him to the food stall, where I spit out my order in rapid fire Spanish.
"Wow, she's Mexican," I hear him mutter. He turns to walk away before he sees me bursting with pride, my triumphant look giving me away as a gringa.

Posted by Anna at 10:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Well, it may be that my male love interests can’t get around to putting the credit in their phones to call me, but my nights are not lonely.

My illicit lover arrives punctually at 8PM every night, stealthily gaining access to my room through the open window.

She greets me with ardent cries of desire, but whether she is desirous of me or the brimming bowl of Whiska’s I provide, is open to debate.

After devouring her fill she demands quality time, rapturous cuddling sessions which take priority above all else: eating my dinner, preparing my classes, finishing an article for a deadline, doing laundry, talking on the phone. I strain to see my telenovela over the well-endowed (with fur) arch of her reclining form.

If I assert my willpower by dislodging her from my chest and making a dash for the computer she turns from beauty to the beast. An unsheathed paw puts me back in my place.

We sleep entwined in each other arms (or paws) her until she head butts me to tell me its time for breakfast (approximately 4AM) . At dawn’s first light she escapes silently through the window, leaving me sleeping next to her warm imprint on the bedclothes. I wake up with the chill from the open window and a vague feeling of worthlessness.

I know this relationship is abusive, but I’m afraid to leave. I’m trapped in a vicious cycle. You see my family always had cats, and my mother’s family and her mother’s family. A house without a cat is not a home. That’s the belief I was raised with. So I cover my scratches with makeup and go to work like everything is all right. I even defending her to my friends. She just a dirty stray, they tell me, you can do better. Get yourself a puppy, or a parakeet that you can keep in a cage.

But I love her, I say, and she needs me.

I know this relationship is unhealthy, but look at that face.

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Alongside the angry, anti-government graffiti in the zócalo, this image of the Virgin of Guadalupe

My life, a busy blur, was put on hold Saturday. I had to make a decision that hurt. I cancelled the international program I coordinate here in Oaxaca.

4AM my phone rang. But I was already awake, listening to the explosions in the street and asking myself if they were fireworks or gunshots. I didn't need the caller ID to tell me who it was.

The voice on the other end, belonging to one of my program particpants, was calm.
"There are gunshots right outside my window;¨she said.
I was calm too, as if we'd rehearsied this moment together. I could see her shadowy apartment in my mind, the funerary drape of the white curtains over the window that faced the street.
"Go into the bathroom,¨ I said. ¨"You´ll be safe in there.¨"
"Are you positive they are gunshots, not firecrackers? OK. Don't worry. Tommorow we'll get you out of there. How about we go to the beach for a couple days?"

But it was too late and we both knew it. By noon she was on a plane back to Minnesota. My remaining participant and myself went through the brand new stuff she left in the apartment she'd moved into the week before. It was as if she died. In some ways she had. She left a new job, new friends, and dreams of a life in Oaxaca. For that we mourned, our sadness even overshadowing our fear about our own safety.

The other particpant, (ironically also named Anna) has decided to stay, at least for now. Together we wait. Wait for the Teachers, the APPO and the government to come to an agreement, wait for the situation to explode into an all out revolution, or wait for the army to come in and bring it all to a bloody halt.

Posted by Anna at 12:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (12)

The day is deceptive. The fires burn out. Within hours they’ve been reduced to streaks of ashes covered in tire tracks. You step over and around sheet metal and barbed wire barricades, still talking on your cell phone. The sun is bright, the sky is blue and cotton clouds collect around the purple peaks on the horizon. It’s hard to remain watchful, even though you know you might be mugged at any moment (you’ve the stories, holdups in front of Five Star Hotels, juvenile delinquents wielding their mothers’ kitchen knives).
Normalcy exerts its force on you, more powerful than anything you read in the newspapers, and you relapse into the habit of happiness.

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