More Mexico...



It's always a little sad to leave a place, isn't it? Especially in the middle of the night. Like kissing a lover, perhaps for the last time, and wondering if you appreciated those last moments enough...

I got a midnight bus out of Oaxaca and arrived in mexico City early, checked into a hotel recommended by Eloy at about 6 a.m. and craweled into bed for a few hours.

Admittedly I started off the day slightly cranky--an uncomfortable bus packed with people, and very little sleep. But I signed up for a tour to visit a few places in the city, plus Teotihuacan, one of the ruins I'd been wanting to see.

It was me on a little bus with all Spanish-speaking people, plus two older gentlemen, guides in English and Spanish. We stopped first at La Plaza de Las Tres Culturas to observe where Aztec ruins sat alongside a 17th c. (?) church and 20th c. modernity. What impressed me the most is that Mexico City is SINKING, and you could see the church and the plaza leaning.

The entire city, in fact, is a big swamp, but was built in this location because here was spotted an eagle with a serpent in its talons, perched on a cactus, a prophetic sign for the Aztecs to build a city after wandering nomadically for several centuries.

For modern-day Mexico, taht means that all over the city, there are leaning, sinking buildings, and even some ruins which used to protrude further out of the ground, have been sinking down for centuries.

We then stopped at the Basilica de Guadalupe, a modern structure (hideous, I think, and totally out of architectural sync with the adjacent churches) which holds 10,000 parishioners and faces a plaza where you can also see the old Basilica (sinking), La Colegiata (sinking), and high on the hill behind is El Templo de Cerrito.

The story behind La Virgen de Guadalupe (which has produced a kind cult following in Mexico, as well as becoming central to Catholicism there)...Legend has it that around 1530 something or other, an Indian was walking over the hill on his way home from church (the Indians walked for miles to attend services in the city), and the Virgin Mary appeared to him. Over a short period of time, she appeared to him several more times, each time telling him to send a message to the bishop to build a church on a nearby spot.

When the Indian approached the bishop, he wouldn't believe him (that the message came from the Virgin), and asked for proof. When the Virgin appeared to him again, he told her that no one believed him because he was an Indian, and they wanted proof. She gave him a bundle of red roses and told him to fold them in his jacket, take them back to the bishop, not showing anyone until he got there.

When he returned to the bishop he opened his jacket and the roses fell out. Imprinted on his frock was a perfect image of the Virgin. The bishop believed, and had the church built (the old Basilica).

The entire square is considered a holy place, a mecca for millions of people who make the pilgrimage to visit the site. Even poor people come from outer regions of MExico and camp out in tents on the plaza for several days. On the periphery are hundreds of vendors selling rosaries and images of the Virgin. Across the plaza, people crawling on their knees, approaching the Basilica in prayer position.

While church services are going on, visitors can enter a passage behind the church altar and shuffle by the huge 24K gold framed frock of the young Indian--a colorful image of the Virgin peacefully looking down. The guides joked that instead of being called "catolicos," Mexicans are often called "Guadalupanos."

We moved on towards Teotihuacan, stopping first at a tequila-making place, explanations of the hundreds of different types of cactus found in Mexico, and the amazing number of uses found for them by pre-Hispanic people. Another type of "mague"...when a large conical piece of the cactus (from a giant, larger-than-life-size plant), you can peel the outer layers and you have paper...if you slice the tiny point off the end, and pull it out, you have sturdy, white strands of string for use in weaving...and finally, cactus sap was used as a solidifier on dwelling walls, among other things. The juice from the central "heart" of the plant is used for the making of tequila.

Finally we made it to Teotihuacan--real live pyramids, built and utilized from 300 BC to around 700 AD by the Teotihuacanos, a pre-Aztec group, probably influenced by and exchanging ideas with the Maya. Again the pyramids (one to the sun, one to the moon) boasted remarkable feats of geometry and symmetry, as well as astrological functions.

Even earlier than these groups and the Mayas, were the Olmecs, of which little is known because their cities were violently destroyed around 900 BC. It is known, however, that a writing system, calendar, and great knowledge of engineering and mathematics, was passed down by the Olmecs.

My guide said Edgar Cayce had taken a particular interest in Teotihuacan, suggesting that such sophisticated knowledge had come from an alien race, perhaps the Atlantians (if you are open to the idea that the Atlantians were did in fact exist, and could've been from another planet).

We had a few hours to roam on our own, so I ended up climbing over 700 steep stone steps--almost to the top of Piramide de la Luna, and then down again, walked over to Piramide del Sol, a smaller pyramid, and climbed halfway to the top of that one.

I was distracted on my way, however, by a ritual ceremony being performed at the base of the Piramide del Sol. A group of people dressed in tribal wear of the Teotihuacanos, men dressed in leather loincloths (now-now girls...) with huge fanned feathered headdresses, clusters of bells made from nuts, wrapped around their ankles...A kind of shaman, dressed in regular clothing, was talking about the sacred ground they were on, and the need to appreciate and pay tribute to the gods, and their ancestry (but the funny thing about Mexico is that all the participants in this ceremony would also consider themselves Catholics). By the time I climbed and descended, they had formed a huge circle and were dancing to the beat of a hollow drum and huge crowd had gathered.

My legs were about to give out, seriously sapped by the huge climbs, so I headed back to the bus. We stopped for a late lunch so I sat down with the two guides and ate. we talked a little in Spanish, some in English, Japanese words still eking their way in, but not as bed as when I first arrived.

I sat facing the guide who'd been doing the tour in Spanish, but he spoke really nice English, had managed a restaurant in SF for awhile. He asked me how old I was, 24, 25...? I blew him a big kiss and said 29.

"What do you do for a living?" he asked.
"Nothing right now...but I'm kind of...working on being a writer."
"Aah..." his eyes lit up and he smiled big. He was charming in a paternal, heavy-set kind of way. "You want to write for newspapers?"
"No, actually, travel writing, for magazines."
"So you're travelling now..."
"And writing."
"Where you going after this?"
I told him I'd be on the road for about six months, until the money ran out.
"And then?"
"Back to Mom!"
He laughed. "How many are you...brothers and sisters?"
"Just me. I mean, I have half-brothers, and a half-sister."
"You must be spoiled then," he grinned.
"No, I don't think so. My mother wouldn't allow it."
I told him about working and saving in Japan, "but after this is gone, I'll be broke again. I think I'm destined to be poor," I laughed, and he laughed with me.
"Me too," he said, "I know I'll never be a rich man. But," he looked me in the eye, "you're happy."
"Yeah."
"You read a lot?" he asked.
"I try, but there's too much to read."
"No," he corrected, "ther's too little time to do it."
We talked about Carlos Castaneda and other writers. He suggested I read "Zarrathustra" (Nietzsche), "as a writer, you know...because he talks about the chair, the table, the man, the woman..." I nodded and smiled.
"You will make it," he was suddenly looking into my soul, "it's hard sometimes. You're doing exactly what you want to do, and that's the most important thing. But sometimes it's lonely."
He seemed like an angel at that moment. Then he made a confession, "I'm a writer, too."
His background was in sociology, and for the last four years he'd been studying/researching shamanism, the topic of a book he was working on. "Now if I can only find somebody to pay me for this, National Geographic or something," he chuckled.
"Yeah, I tell people if they see my name in National Geographic, then everything's okay, I've made it." A moment of silence and mutual understanding.

Meanwhile, the other guide had gotten up from the table. From then on he seemed intimidated because I spoke a little Spanish, and for the rest of the day he spoke only in Spanish to me. I felt, somehow, as though I'd betrayed him, as I was bonding more with the other guide, and it must've seemed as though I no longer needed him.

Riding back to Mexico City I sat staring out the window, two snow-capped volcanoes in view, almost never visible because of heat and haze. And my thoughts, gratitude to a stranger for making me feel like I'm doing the right thing by not doing the "right" thing.

"It's refreshing to meet someone like you from the States," he'd said, "Most Americans are caught up in making money and all that...the job, the house, the car..."

I nodded and sighed. "I dunno, it just kind of...bores me."
"But it's hard to do what you want to do when everyone else does something else, or their values are different."

I didn't need to even say anything. He knew me inside and out sitting across the lunch table for 30 minutes. Weird.

When I got off the bus back in the city, I handed him my card and asked him to please send me his book someday when it's finished. We shook hands, smiled and said goodbye, another parting, another person who strikes you but you probably won't ever meet again.

Walking around the streets and the Zocalo of Mexico City, a loud symphony orchestra blaring, resonating throughout the city. Preparations for Independence Day--huge government buildings lit up like Christmas with the colors of the Mexican flag, huge lightbulb mosaics of famous fathers of the Revolution, children squealing incessantly on horns and noisemakers like New Year's Day, flags waving, little stands of food, drinks and candy.

Things to miss, or not, in Mexico, the greedy glares and sometimes playful glances of Mexican men, the shameless compliments and hisses as you walk by..."Muy bonita...me gustan tus labios...Que bonita tus ojos..." So constant that you doubt it could possibly be true, as if it's all a game to see if they can get your attention, but you never make eye contact or let them know you understand every word.

In the bookshop, buying "Popul Vuh", an Engish translation of the ancient Mayan text on the origins of life, they didn't have "Zarrathustra" but walking away, after I had asked, "Que bonita...querida....blahblahblah" in easy earshot.

In Mexico City, so much begging, mothers with children on the streets, or whole families beating on drums and a forlorn father on the accordion. It's a metropolis, sophisticated, charming...yet dark and sad when you look hard enough, same as any place I guess.

I go back and forth between my room, a cheap but very clean little hotel for $20/night, out to cafes and restaurants to eat and write, then back to bed to read or watch TV. I can hardly walk from the pyramids, plus the guys at the restaurants all warn me to be careful walking around, and I'm trying not to spend any more money. I've gone $300 overbudget in Mexico alone, shopping like mad, collecting things for a home I don't yet have, but spurred on by the possibility of not having this chance again.

And why have I not suffered Moctezuma's Revenge even once? I guess I've been careful, didn't eat anything off the street except those delicious, crispy churros in Zaachila. The water in restaurants is all "agua pura" and even the ice must be okay because I've had glass after glass of delicious natural lemonade, served in tall cocktail glasses or huge Henry VIII challises.

The Mexican people, apparently, develop immunity to it when they're children, but it's next to impossible for an adult to come here and develop the same immunity. Signs for pure water and taking care to wash hands for the prevention of the spread of choler, are everywhere. So I feel lucky, to say the least, as I was fearful of some torturous, bouncy bus ride when it would all just start happening. Eek.

The Last Supper...my last evening before leaving, a fajita packed with green peppers, mushrooms, cheese, onions, pineapples...haven't said enough about the food because I'm a lousy food critic, but every table I've sat at comes equipped with red and green salsas, and a dish of limes--squeezed over every little thing you eat. In Oaxaca, I had a hard time finding things without meat, so I ate a lot of beans and rice and salsa, plopped in warm tortiallas which are served--stacked--in little round, woven baskets.

The festive feel is welling up as evening approaches. The music gets louder, the zocalo fills up, and the voices of national pride take over. Mariachis stroll along the cafes, asking a few pesos for the entertainment.

Something so strking about Mexican people, that strong sense of pride in themselves, their heritage--no shame or kowtowing before the "extranjeros". At times I've experienced downright rudeness from postal workers, shopkeepers, etc. because my Spanish failed me and I couldn't understand the repetition of a simple explanation. But as many or more times, I've been indebted to the gentle kindness and helpfulness of strangers.

Remembering living in San Francisco, and learning about the mistreatment of field laborers (to this day, there is horrible abuse--moral, physical--committed by white farmers), working alongside guys from Central America and Mexico in the restaurant, hearing the indignant cries of Bay Area people who argued in favor of deportation and denial of services to immigrants (Proposition 187 I think)--and to come here and remember that California, Nevada...was once theirs. What are we thinking?

Large anti-government banners go marching by: "The new government doesn't have the capacity to solve our problems..." And protests against the government for kidnapping and suppression of the voices of those who tell the truth. In Latin America, they're called "los desaparecidos," the disappeared. Usually men who the government sees as stirring up the people against them (which is true, as the governments are plagued by corruption), men who usually are poor, working within their communities to try to bring about change. They are kidnapped ("disappear"), tortured, sometimes murdered.

There are entire movements to save and bring them back, one well-known one called "Los Madres de los Desaparecidos". The mothers stage huge demonstrations, carrying huge photographs and banners of their dead or missing sons and daughters.

The USA, in its over-zealous attempts to ward off communism has often backed governments and dictatorships which were guilty of such atrocities. But of course we rarely look much further than our own concerns, or we justify what we are doing in relation to a supposedly more grim alternative.

Sensationalism...alive and well in Mexico. Books and magazines about Princess Diana and all the intricacies of the case, the great scandal of the American president and his girlfriend, people get excited about this stuff, which I guess they do at home, too. But I have no patience for, nor interest in any of it. Why don't we pay attention to anything that really matters. "The unexamined life is not worth living." (Socrates)

I'm reading the book Chris swapped me, Graham Greene's "Journey Without Maps," describing his 1930 expedition into Liberia...the places, the cultures are all different, but the feelings and insights mirror my own. He talks about the sense of cautious sacrifice to the people and practices of that culture, more than "when in Rome," but the idea that what you know, think and believe, are practically useless, or should be rendered so, when you enter a strange land. And how the white standard of beauty is so easily abandoned.

But much of it is the intrigue, the little surprises that surpass your usual expectations. Like sitting here just now, one of the waiters propositioning me in Spanish, to go dancing, enjoy the fiestas, you don't have a boyfriend, good, then I have a chance--it makes you laugh, all the bullshit aside, but of course all the bullshit piled on as well.

And then he tells me it's the dream of all Mexicans to go to the US to work because the economy's so bad here. So of course that IS a problem for us...but one which I can't help but think we've created. Like Daniel Quinn talks about in "Ishmael", in the world there are the "leavers" and the "takers". We, and other wealthier nations, are societies of "takers," and in the taking, have created an imbalance in economies and ecologies all over the world. But if I were living among "leavers," would I, too, wish to become a "taker"?

Go to Fiji.