Thursday, May 24

quick response to questions axed

Yeah, I’ve eaten at Frida’s a few times already – the one right there on Valentine Gama and Caranza, right?

The only race related conversations I have in my classes are the ones that I can more reliably testify to; the racism that I’m familiar with in my region. It would be a little presumptuous to nosy my way into their can of worms. This doesn’t exclude my ability to reflect on what I think I see however, at least not with members of this region. This liberty permitting, this is my opinion (which after re-reading, might apply to all forms of prejudice, etc.): I think the acceptability of pointing out another’s differences which correlate to their social status and/or negative public and personal perception is at least saliently oppressive. This is so because it cultivates and maintains a false mode of thinking that there is some sort of causality happening there – that these sorted qualities direct their plight. And surely this is somewhat believable from the accepted understanding that the generally held thoughts of a group-mind are rarely logical and easily swayed. So at least for these reasons, the circularity of their respective plights persists (ranging from criminalization to poor self-esteem).

I’m guessing that your Spanish phrase there translates to something to the likes of ‘take it as it comes,’ hinting at that words have their respective meanings per context. Yep, it seems that’s pretty normal for languages (see Wittgenstein).

Sorry I haven’t taken this opportunity to continue the southern trip, but your message’s topic seemed to roll right off my fingers faster than it would have. Next time perhaps.

Sunday, May 6

installment 2

The bus ride to Tuxtla was cold. When we stopped half way through the trip I figured that it was going to be cold as hell because the bus was. On the contrary – wherever we stopped was hot as hell. I guess the air conditioner on the bus was just cranked up full-blast.

We arrived early in the morning, before most businesses were open and people cluttered the streets (which we found to be the norm – streets filled with people – during normal business hours). While eating breakfast I found myself talking to another foreigner. We were talking in Spanish because it was obvious that English wasn’t his first language. Turns out it was French. He was a French Canadian. I suppose that explained his standoffishness. His attitude wasn’t consistent with his behavior however; he directed me to where I could find a cheep hotel and where to go in order to catch the bus to Cañón Del Sumidero. 

The first hotel we found was dingy. It was smart of us to inspect the room that we’d get before actually paying for it (aquí, se paga antes). The next one we found was much nicer. 150 pesos a day for 2 people (vale la pena si se gasta dolores).

The streets are narrow and filled with short darker-skinned people. Racism is thinly veiled here by the way (though I can’t exactly say that about southern Mexico). I mean, shit, moreno and guerreo mean “darky” and “whitey”, respectively. And they’re often used. One time while walking down the street the dude at the local economic kitchen, which I frequent, hollered at me, “que onda, guerreo?” I confirmed with Carolina if he said what I thought he said.

After she did, I responded, “que tal, moreno? He was cheerful in his greeting to me as much as when he received my response. It’s really strange – I almost want to associate how their behavior contrasts with the meaning of what they say, i.e. it’s context, with how us U.S.Anz (at least socal) use racial references in jest – you know, like Chapell style. It’s only a hunch right now.

Anyway, The awnings in front of the shops were daunting, considering. Several places sold dried fish (cod?  I don’t know), shrimp, and crickets. When my Spanish teacher learned that I was going to southern Mexico, she assigned as homework to try some dried crickets. I got a zero on that assignment. Story of my life (well, it was anyway, to be honest).

Tuxtla is too small of a place to use full-blown city buses. Instead they use colectivos, a taxi like concept but with lots of people crammed into a mini-mini van. The sort that you’d expect more so on a southeast Asian or Japanese road. Boy, it’s cheep though. Think of it as a hybrid between a taxi and a bus. They have a specific route, but will pick people up and drop them off wherever they like as long as it’s on that route. The fee is pretty much at the whim of the driver. I got the feeling he just sort of guesses how far he went for the particular person. It’s sheep though, regardless. We took one of these such contraptions down to the canon, a 20 minute ride that only cost us 9 pesos each. In San Luis that would have been at least 50 pesos with a regular taxi.

Later we paid for and boarded a long boat with dual formidable sized Evenrudes strapped on the back. It was opened aired with 4 benches that fit about 3 people. These boats were so elongated that when there wasn’t anybody, or very few people in the boat, the driver, who was in the back, couldn’t see forward because the nose would rise above his head when it moved. Instead, they’d be constantly turning to see ahead of themselves. there were others with raised seats in the back though.

The boat ride was down the river that runs through the canon right on into Guatemala. For about an hour we brainstormed about actually going to Mexico’s southern pal, but then decided that it would be more trouble than it’s worth – time and money. I did get a gnarly chapaneco poncho though. Later you’ll find that as awesome as my poncho may be, it did me little good for the whole trip, which may be more so my fault than the poncho’s.

Wednesday, May 2

a short begining

So we left at around 6am from our house and waited without the sun at the bus stop a half a block away for what likely the very first bus that runs along Himno Nacional. It was dark and there was a slight breeze – nobody was on the road. The first bus we saw was hauling so much ass that we weren’t able to read the route number on it’s windshield quick enough to realize that we had to flag it down until it was too late. The next guy with our route number, I think it was 5, was crawling. And when he stopped at our bench (which here, are much better than some rotten old wooden SoCal bus stop benches liable to give you splinters and always have either an advertisement of some DUI attorney, lousy used car dealer, or says this space for rent), it actually waited until more than us 2 were it’s passengers. Some lady came and we were off; a middle aged woman probably hustling to get to her job. She struck me as morbidly determined and unhappily accustomed to being who was probably usually the first person on this bus.

            We waited around the bus station for a few minutes until Carolina showed up. Her father, mother, and sister all came to drop her off. She was going to be gone with 2 guys and another girl (who we were meeting up with later in Oaxaca), so I guess they just wanted to make sure that nothing seemed fishy. She’s 24, but you know, things are different here. Anyway, we got 2 drinks – non alcoholic – for the bus ride to D.F. norte, which actually takes 4 ½ hours despite the 3 hour projection by MS Map Point. I slept most of the way anyhow.

            The Mexico City bus terminal is ridiculous. Pushin’ and shovin’ all over the place. It’s pretty big, too. I’d say that it shares the same amount of foot space with the San Diego airport (I forget the name right now – Jefferson?). It didn’t bother me really. What did bother me was that we had to wait eight and a half flippin’ hours for the next, and probably last, bus to Tuxtla Gutierrez, Oaxaca.

            Only an hour had passed until I decided that it was in my best interest to find cheep beer and make the wait fly right on by and at the same time guarantee solid sleep on the 12 hour bus ride. It’s win-win, right? Eventually all that I was concentrating on was keeping my cool in a Mexico City bus terminal. During this, I spent a lot of time spacing out watching the shoe shiners. There’s something transfixiating about observing their craft. This is, of course, until you’re approached by what may very likely be the most underqualified hooker ever. This happened to me, and I think she told me that it’d be alright if I had her baby – that I didn’t have to worry about it. After a moment she finally gave up on me.

            Before I knew it, it was time to “board” the bus. As it turned out, it's really 15 hours to Tuxtla.