For those of you keeping track, we leave Oaxaca in six hours, twenty five minutes. If all goes according to schedule, we touch down in San Francisco about seven hours after that -- the four of us, our four personal items, our four carry-ons, and the seven bags we will check through. I have felt like many different things during this trip, but a nomad is not one of them. We do not travel light.
We are going home with approximately twice the amount of stuff we brought, and that does not even include what our visitors already shuttled back for us. There is just too much cool stuff here to leave with empty bags! Of course, we also gave away bags of clothes and other things we will not take, and we have tried to use up any remaining food, wine, shampoo, and, obviously, temporary tattoos and face paints.
Here is what we plan to do in the next four and a half hours, before we leave for the airport:
* Finish packing
* Return borrowed bike to Miguel, who lives downtown
* Eat brunch at La Brujala, which is the cafe we went to on our first morning in Mexico. We were so excited when Max asked for a spoon in Spanish. Boy, does that seem like a long time ago. It was Max's idea to go there on our last day in Oaxaca as a way to get some closure. (Sniff, sniff.)
* Final straightening up of house
* Dummy check all drawers, closets, under beds, etc., for things we missed while packing
We are getting a ride to the airport from our friends Mercedes, José Manuel, Arely and José Andrés (in two cars). We hope to get there early enough to have a pitcher of fresh juice (something Natalie and I saw a group of businessmen doing on our way home from our scouting trip to Oaxaca last year and have thought about ever since then) and a shot of mezcal. And who knows, maybe we will try to sneak our friends into our baggage.
Ok, back to packing. --Harrison
OAK2OAX
Friday, July 29, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
So long, farewell, adios and goodnight
We all must find our own ways to say goodbye to the friends we have made. Some of the hardest goodbyes are to people we do not know if we will see again. Casual acquaintances from school, the butcher at the market, the old man who sells aloe vera gel up the street, who waves whenever we pass; each one has played an important role during our time here but it is not realistic that we will keep in touch. Also difficult, but in a different way, are the goodbyes to the close friends we have made. We will write, maybe they will visit us, and certainly we will visit them whenever we are in Oaxaca, but that is no substitute for living in the same city.
We have done a couple things to make it easier to stay in touch. On one of his last days of class, Max's teacher set aside 10 minutes for kids to fill out a form we had prepared with space for their contact information and a short note to Max. Max plans to paste the notes into the second half of a scrapbook that his class at home made for him before we came to Mexico. Here's one of the blank forms.
Helen's classmates are a little young to write notes, but her teachers made a wonderful poster with the kids' handprints, pictures of Helen at school, and notes from the teachers. Now it is hanging in Helen's bedroom here, but in a week it will be hanging in her room at home.
We also made cards to hand out -- one for our family, one for Max only, and one for Helen only. The cards, which look like business cards, have our names, address and e-mail address, plus a small picture. We have been handing out the cards and asking people to keep in touch. With enough of the cards floating around, we hope to hear from at least some of the people we have met. Just as likely, we will get a call from the boyfriend of the sister of the father of one of Max's or Helen's classmates, who is in Houston and wants to know if we live in the area. That could be fun too.
Max came up with his own way to be remembered by some of the friends he plays soccer with on Saturday mornings at the park near our house.
We have done a couple things to make it easier to stay in touch. On one of his last days of class, Max's teacher set aside 10 minutes for kids to fill out a form we had prepared with space for their contact information and a short note to Max. Max plans to paste the notes into the second half of a scrapbook that his class at home made for him before we came to Mexico. Here's one of the blank forms.
Helen's classmates are a little young to write notes, but her teachers made a wonderful poster with the kids' handprints, pictures of Helen at school, and notes from the teachers. Now it is hanging in Helen's bedroom here, but in a week it will be hanging in her room at home.
We also made cards to hand out -- one for our family, one for Max only, and one for Helen only. The cards, which look like business cards, have our names, address and e-mail address, plus a small picture. We have been handing out the cards and asking people to keep in touch. With enough of the cards floating around, we hope to hear from at least some of the people we have met. Just as likely, we will get a call from the boyfriend of the sister of the father of one of Max's or Helen's classmates, who is in Houston and wants to know if we live in the area. That could be fun too.
Max came up with his own way to be remembered by some of the friends he plays soccer with on Saturday mornings at the park near our house.
Who knows, maybe those autographs will be worth something one day! Ok, back to packing. --Harrison
Monday, July 25, 2011
Best seats in the house
One reason we planned our trip to run through July was to be here for the Guelaguetza. This is a special event in Oaxaca that runs for two weeks every year, during which there are parades, festivals, and dances all over the city and in surrounding towns. The word guelaguetza means "offering." It refers to the custom of dancers giving out small gifts to the crowds that come to watch the dances. They throw candy, straw hats, flowers, and pieces of fruit - even pineapples, which seems a little dangerous to me, but nobody else seems to mind. Nowadays when people talk about a "Guelaguetza," they are referring to a show where people in spectacularly colorful costumes perform traditional dances from different regions of Oaxaca. (And yes, throw gifts into the crowd.)
We have gone in circles trying to figure out where to watch a Guelaguetza. There are several to choose from. The most famous Guelaguetza happens in a stadium above the city, built especially for the event. Reserved seats were expensive, however, and we were wary of going early enough to land a seat in the free section. Plus, we did not know how Max and Helen would hold up for the three- to four-hour show.
The teachers' union puts on a more modest, but similar, Guelaguetza that we considered attending. Interestingly, the teachers initially sponsored a Guelaguetza to compete with the official event after the prolonged strike in 2006. (At the time, they also allegedly destroyed the official stadium, which reopened only this year -- last night, in fact.) The teachers' Guelaguetza has the advantage of being free, but several people told us it is not as good as the official show. Still, it was a possibility.
We also considered attending a Guelaguetza in one of the towns near Oaxaca. These events also are free, and have the potential advantage of small-town charm, but there is little information on when they actually happen. Towns that advertise their events usually list the day but not the time, and other towns do not bother advertising at all. We received so much conflicting information that there was a good chance we would go to a town only to find out we were there on the wrong day, or eight hours early.
Ultimately, we happened upon the perfect solution. It came to me in the middle of the night while lying awake wondering where to go. Here is where we ended up:
It turns out they broadcast the official Guelaguetza live. So rather than fork over $150 for tickets, or risk spending hours outside waiting for one of the alternative events to start, we enjoyed front row seats (together with coffee and tomales) in our neighbors' living room. In an effort to rationalize staying home to watch, Natalie compared it to watching the Rose Bowl Parade, which is more fun on t.v. Personally, I needed no rationalization. Even if we did miss the opportunity to catch a pineapple, we had a great time.
Moreover, because we did not spend any money on tickets for the Guelaguetza, we had no reservations about splurging on tickets to see a Lucha Libre show (heavy weight wrestling extravaganza, complete with masks and costumes) on Wednesday. We have been wanting to see Lucha Libre since we got here. We will go with our friend and taxi driver, Antonio, his son Mario, and another one of Max's friends from soccer. What better way to spend our second-to-last night in Oaxaca? --Harrison
We have gone in circles trying to figure out where to watch a Guelaguetza. There are several to choose from. The most famous Guelaguetza happens in a stadium above the city, built especially for the event. Reserved seats were expensive, however, and we were wary of going early enough to land a seat in the free section. Plus, we did not know how Max and Helen would hold up for the three- to four-hour show.
The teachers' union puts on a more modest, but similar, Guelaguetza that we considered attending. Interestingly, the teachers initially sponsored a Guelaguetza to compete with the official event after the prolonged strike in 2006. (At the time, they also allegedly destroyed the official stadium, which reopened only this year -- last night, in fact.) The teachers' Guelaguetza has the advantage of being free, but several people told us it is not as good as the official show. Still, it was a possibility.
We also considered attending a Guelaguetza in one of the towns near Oaxaca. These events also are free, and have the potential advantage of small-town charm, but there is little information on when they actually happen. Towns that advertise their events usually list the day but not the time, and other towns do not bother advertising at all. We received so much conflicting information that there was a good chance we would go to a town only to find out we were there on the wrong day, or eight hours early.
Ultimately, we happened upon the perfect solution. It came to me in the middle of the night while lying awake wondering where to go. Here is where we ended up:
It turns out they broadcast the official Guelaguetza live. So rather than fork over $150 for tickets, or risk spending hours outside waiting for one of the alternative events to start, we enjoyed front row seats (together with coffee and tomales) in our neighbors' living room. In an effort to rationalize staying home to watch, Natalie compared it to watching the Rose Bowl Parade, which is more fun on t.v. Personally, I needed no rationalization. Even if we did miss the opportunity to catch a pineapple, we had a great time.
Moreover, because we did not spend any money on tickets for the Guelaguetza, we had no reservations about splurging on tickets to see a Lucha Libre show (heavy weight wrestling extravaganza, complete with masks and costumes) on Wednesday. We have been wanting to see Lucha Libre since we got here. We will go with our friend and taxi driver, Antonio, his son Mario, and another one of Max's friends from soccer. What better way to spend our second-to-last night in Oaxaca? --Harrison
Friday, July 22, 2011
Tio Juan's: Coming soon to a neighborhood near you
One of Helen's favorite games is to "help" Cristi clean our house. Actually, the quotation marks are not fair, because Helen really does help. She loves to sweep, mop, fold clothes, and, most of all, wipe down furniture with a wet rag. Two of Helen's favorite toys are the child-size but otherwise real mop and broom I bought her at one of the outdoor markets. As I write this, I realize they probably are for kids Helen's size who actually do have to clean houses, which is sad, but in our house they provide hours of fun.
Helen also likes to take out pots, pans, dishes, and silverware to pretend she is a cook, waiter, and customer at her own little restaurant. She cooks imaginary dishes, using a chair as her stove. Sometimes she folds a towel over her arm, serves what she cooked and then pretends to eat it, but usually she gets too engrossed with the cooking to proceed to the next step.
The cooking game entered a new stage after we bought a small wooden tortilla press, some miniature utensils, and a couple of bowls made out of painted gourds at the Sunday market in Tlacalula. Helen filled the bowls with "salsa" made out of shredded hammock string, collected leaves to use as tortillas, and then she opened a taco restaurant -- run out of her bedroom! She named it Tio Juan's, after one of Gabriela's horses. For a couple weeks, Max, Natalie and I might be playing a game of Scrabble, reading, or doing anything else, when Helen would appear with a plate of "tacos" for each of us. Tio Juan's quickly became one of our favorite Oaxacan restaurants.
Yesterday, Helen took Tio Juan's to a new level. She engaged Max as a chef and Cristi as an assistant, and they made real tacos. We bought dried corn and lime (the white powder) to make tortillas from scratch. The meal also featured homemade red and green salsas, fresh avocados, grilled onions, and meat.
We took notes on the whole process, and the tortilla press and comal are going home with us. Helen and Max look forward to opening a Tio Juan's franchise in Oakland soon. As I learned, the prices are quite reasonable.
Changing subjects, yesterday Natalie received her diploma for completing 180 hours of Spanish classes at the Amigos del Sol language school. She gave small paintings to her teacher, Hector, and to the director, Rogelio, as parting gifts. Hector and Rogelio were both extremely nice and they played a significant role in Natalie's trip. Anybody who comes to Oaxaca to learn Spanish must check out Amigos del Sol.
On a final note, on Wednesday a relatively routine trip to the Centro took an unexpected turn. We went with Max and with our friend Taylor to make some final purchases at a crafts market. After a couple hours of shopping, Taylor went home and we went in search of something to eat. Before we could decide where to eat, however, we ran into one of Max's teammates and his father, who owns a juice stand in the market. They were on their way to a procession, and they invited us to join them. They were carrying some large shopping bags, a heavy box, and a megaphone.
Turns out this is the first year all of the downtown market vendors organized themselves into a parade, leading to a Guelaguetza, or dance presentation. Before we knew what was happening, we were part of the procession. Natalie and I chuckled over being part of the parade instead of being in the crowd watching it pass by. We especially enjoyed seeing the dancers in their brightly colored costumes. After a while, however, it got a little tedious since it was sunny, we were hungry, and we had offered to help carry the bags and the box Max's friends had brought. (They were full of candy, soccer balls with the juice stand logo, and other goodies to hand out at the Guelaguetza.)
Helen also likes to take out pots, pans, dishes, and silverware to pretend she is a cook, waiter, and customer at her own little restaurant. She cooks imaginary dishes, using a chair as her stove. Sometimes she folds a towel over her arm, serves what she cooked and then pretends to eat it, but usually she gets too engrossed with the cooking to proceed to the next step.
The cooking game entered a new stage after we bought a small wooden tortilla press, some miniature utensils, and a couple of bowls made out of painted gourds at the Sunday market in Tlacalula. Helen filled the bowls with "salsa" made out of shredded hammock string, collected leaves to use as tortillas, and then she opened a taco restaurant -- run out of her bedroom! She named it Tio Juan's, after one of Gabriela's horses. For a couple weeks, Max, Natalie and I might be playing a game of Scrabble, reading, or doing anything else, when Helen would appear with a plate of "tacos" for each of us. Tio Juan's quickly became one of our favorite Oaxacan restaurants.
Yesterday, Helen took Tio Juan's to a new level. She engaged Max as a chef and Cristi as an assistant, and they made real tacos. We bought dried corn and lime (the white powder) to make tortillas from scratch. The meal also featured homemade red and green salsas, fresh avocados, grilled onions, and meat.
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Taking the boiled corn and lime to the grinder. |
Grinding the corn into dough. |
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Rolling the dough into balls. |
Using the tortilla press. |
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Grilling a tortilla and the onions on a comal. |
Lunch at Tio Juan's. |
The bill Max gave me after lunch (conveniently, with my check book). The prices are in pesos. |
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Diploma ceremony with Rogelio. |
Turns out this is the first year all of the downtown market vendors organized themselves into a parade, leading to a Guelaguetza, or dance presentation. Before we knew what was happening, we were part of the procession. Natalie and I chuckled over being part of the parade instead of being in the crowd watching it pass by. We especially enjoyed seeing the dancers in their brightly colored costumes. After a while, however, it got a little tedious since it was sunny, we were hungry, and we had offered to help carry the bags and the box Max's friends had brought. (They were full of candy, soccer balls with the juice stand logo, and other goodies to hand out at the Guelaguetza.)
Max and Fabricio, each bearing a heavy bag. |
Me and my box. |
We were not the only people carrying things. |
Eventually we ducked out to meet Helen, who had been playing with Cristi and Susi at their house. While we did not stay for the dancing, setting out to by some gifts and ending up in a parade definitely makes it on the growing list of things we will miss about Oaxaca. --Harrison
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Looks like we made it
With less than two weeks left, we will not accomplish everything we set out to do here. But on Sunday we crossed an item off the list that we had not expected to achieve. It might mean that we truly have integrated into Oaxacan society.
Here is what happened:
As in many metropolitan areas, including San Francisco and the East Bay, Oaxaca has a couple of magazines that feature glossy photos of local happenings and people. In any given issue of the Oaxaca versions, there are pictures of fancy weddings, proud parents with their matching children, over-the-top quinceaneras (girls’ 15th birthday parties), business’ anniversary galas (usually next to a paid advertisement for the featured business), and so on.
Natalie and I enjoy flipping through the magazines to see if we recognize anyone. Thanks to our connection to the school and to some of the friends we have made, we do surprisingly well. We usually know at least one person in each issue.
Last Sunday the four of us were at a café watching the U.S.-Japan Women’s World Cup final. (A great game for those lucky enough to see it. Initially I was disappointed that the U.S., who dominated the whole game, lost in penalties. But I felt better after Natalie explained what this meant to Japan. Japan had considered pulling out of the tournament after the disastrous earthquake but instead it rallied behind the team as a symbol of hope during a dismal year.) The café where we watched the game had a collection of the Oaxaca magazines. Always one to introduce competition into an otherwise relaxing moment, I grabbed a few issues and challenged Natalie to see who could recognize someone first. We both felt stumped after about ten minutes without finding anybody.
Suddenly Helen, who we did not even know was playing, shouted, “I see José Miguel… and his sister… and his Mom! I win!” Sure enough, there was a picture of one of Helen’s best buddies from school with his family and a couple other school families at an art opening. Hands down, Helen was the winner.
José Miguel is wearing the superman shirt. His mother, on the far right of that photo, was class mother for Helen's class. |
But wait. A couple minutes later, without even sounding too excited, Natalie said, “Oh, here are some people we know.” You guessed it. Our moment had arrived.
We are in the bottom right of this photo spread in Intro: Estilo, Arte y Sociedad. |
We were photographed at the blessing of the new pool across the street, where Gabriela runs her swim school, Al Água Patos. My parents were there, but they are not in the picture. Max also missed out on the picture, because he was off getting food. (Helen is the little spot attached to Natalie's hip.) Max will have to wait for another occasion to make it into the society magazine, maybe as a visiting soccer star. As for our people-spotting game, I still consider Helen to be the winner, but Natalie came in a close second.
Speaking of crossing things off the list of things to do, yesterday I checked off another item by spending two hours with Joel the butcher at his stand in the Volcanes market.
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Joel's meat stand |
A popular way to serve meat here is as tasajo -- an extremely thin slice of grilled or sautéed beef. I often have wondered how they cut the meat so thin, so I asked Joel, who owns the stand where we buy most of our meat, to show me. Joel invited me to sit behind the counter and watch him prepare the cuts. Besides meat, we discussed bike riding, customs around death and cemeteries, knives and knife sharpening, how Joel got into the butcher business (his father started it; his brothers truck the meat up from Chiapas; and his wife and son run a stand at a different market), the advantages of an android phone over an iPhone, and more. We sampled some mezcal, and Joel gave me a bottle to take home. Joel also sent me home with a recipe for the meat I bought, which involved sautéing it with potatoes in a sauce made of tomatoes, onions, garlic, oregano, mint, and salt. It was good, but I was glad the meat came pre-cut. Demonstration aside, it takes a lot of practice to cut a true tasajo. --Harrison
Thursday, July 14, 2011
On the street where we live
We are at the beach town of Puerto Escondido. So far, Natalie and Helen got braids like Bo Derek in "10," Max got a henna tattoo between his shoulder blades, and I got a salt rash on my inner thigh. But even though I prefer mountains and fresh water to the beach -- unlike the rest of my family, who would be happy to live here -- I am having enough fun that I do not want to spend any more time in this internet stand. It smells like backpacker's sweat. It was with this in mind that I wrote and saved a blog post before we left. We will write more when we get back to Oaxaca, which will be tomorrow, Saturday or Sunday. (Ah, the pleasures of unscheduled time....)
Sorry for the canned nature of this post. Here it is:
============
With less than three weeks left in Mexico, we do not expect any more visitors. Nevertheless, just in case somebody decides to surprise us, here is some important information about getting to our house.
Our house number is 108. (If you know us well enough to visit, then you already know the street name so I will not write it here.) But here is what could happen if you ask the taxi driver to take you to number 108. First, the driver might stop at this house, which is not our house.
In fact, this house is not technically on our street, but it is easy to mistake it for being on our street because the street name is almost the same and it is just across from our street.
The odd side of the street is similarly disjointed, plus it has two even numbers, including one of the 108’s! Perhaps this explains why only a couple of the letters people sent via snail mail reached us. I pity the mail carrier who has to sort mail for our street. --Harrison
Sorry for the canned nature of this post. Here it is:
============
With less than three weeks left in Mexico, we do not expect any more visitors. Nevertheless, just in case somebody decides to surprise us, here is some important information about getting to our house.
Wrong Number 108. |
Next, the driver would stop at this house, which is on our street, but it is not where we live.
Wrong Number 108. |
Our number 108 is next, but if the driver happened to look up a moment too late he would drop you at this house instead. Once again, right number, wrong house.
Wrong Number 108. |
So. . . to make sure you get let off at the right house, be sure to tell the driver we are the number 108 with a broken down car in the driveway.
Our Number 108. |
Intrigued by the number of houses with the same number, the other day I wrote down all of the house numbers on our street. It was very interesting. Either there are several orderly systems overlaid on one another, or people just choose whatever number they feel like having. Here is the sequence of numbers on our side of the street, the even side:
108 – 104 – 102 – 200 – 208 – 200 – 402 – 300 – 302 – 106 – 106A – 302 – 304 – 108 – 108 – 308 – 310 – 322 – 216 – 120 – 200
Friday, July 8, 2011
Strike that
“Just like we have the right to block traffic on this street, we have the right to our sexual freedom.” So yelled the woman bearing the megaphone during a gay pride march I rode by last weekend. There were about 50 marchers of all ages and sexual preferences. They were parading down the middle of Porfirio Diaz street, one of the main boulevards and bus routes through the city, midday Saturday. Quite a traffic jam built up behind them.
The result is chaos, with cars and buses racing around neighborhoods trying to find a way through. (Since Natalie and I often walk, we usually learn about blockades when we see crowded buses barreling along small, residential streets.) The chaos is increased because most blockades happen during one or more of the four daily rush hours, which are morning (to work), before lunch (back home), after lunch (to work), and evening (back home). Imagine if protestors blocked the intersection of Market and Van Ness streets in San Francisco, or Broadway and Telegraph streets in Oakland, from four to seven on a weekday evening. Then imagine if it happened at least every two to three weeks, and at times, several times a week (and on a few occasions, several times a day at intersections throughout the city). That is what the blockades are like here.
I already have written too much for a single post, but if you have made it this far, I have one more thing to say. I hope nothing I have written deters anyone from visiting Oaxaca. As a tourist, the protests have little impact on what you see or do. It is easy enough to arrange your schedule to miss the blockades, or to take taxis, whose drivers use their radios to avoid them. Even during the teachers’ planton, when the newspapers reported that the teachers were rude and that the Zócalo was full of garbage, that was not our experience. When we walked through the occupied square with my parents, the teachers were perfectly nice and the only garbage we saw was where it belonged.
Nor are the protests violent. The events of 2006 were an exception, but nothing like that has happened before or after in Oaxaca. Nothing suggests it will happen again.
We are off to the beach tomorrow for five or six days. We are going to Puerto Escondido then to Puerto Angel, where the turtles come to lay there eggs. We think we are a bit early to see the turtles on the beach, but supposedly we can rent a boat to take us to swim with turtles offshore. We might not blog until we get back, but you never know. –Harrison
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Front of the march. |
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Marchers. |
I agree there is a right to sexual freedom, and I was thrilled to see such a diverse group of marchers publicly proclaiming it. To do so here, where people (in discussion, at least) are not openly hostile to gays but nor is there widespread acceptance, takes guts. But it seemed strange to compare the right to sexual freedom to the right to block traffic. I never thought of the latter as a fundamental human right.
Well, it turns out that in Oaxaca many people do think there is a right to block traffic. According to our American friend who lives here, blocking traffic in Mexico is a constitutionally-protected form of protest. (She jokes that next time she gets a ticket for double parking she will tell the officer she is protesting the lack of parking places.) The Mexicans I have asked do not agree that the constitution protects the right to block traffic, but they say it is a de facto right because no government official in his or her right mind would try to stop it.
What is the “it” I refer to? In the case of the gay pride march, it was a march down the middle of the street that blocked traffic for an hour or so. We have seen similar marches every few weeks, for causes ranging from students protesting a school’s uniform requirements to taxi drivers protesting the amount of new medallions being awarded to public retirees protesting the lack of benefits. We even read about a march in April to protest all the marches. Marchers carried blank posters and handed out blank “complaint forms.” They blocked traffic the whole time.
Another form of protest that involves blocking streets is the planton, or occupation. We have seen several groups from rural communities take over small streets in this capital city to demand something for their town, like a school or a medical post. The most famous planton happens every May, when teachers from around the state abandon their schools to set up camp in the Zócalo, which is the city’s central square, and in the streets around it. This year’s planton lasted about two weeks, which is fairly typical. In 2006, however, when the state governor arrogantly tried to remove the teachers by force, the occupation lasted six months and resulted in several deaths, including the shooting death of a journalist from the United States. Oaxaca received terrible publicity around the world, which continues to hurt its tourist industry today.
Most often, it seems, the protests here involve setting up actual blockades on main thoroughfares and highways. Protesters wielding signs and posters (but not weapons, as far as I can tell) stop four to eight buses and make everybody get off. They tell the drivers to turn the buses sideways, so they block all lanes of traffic, then they let the drivers go too. The protestors occupy the roadway for one to maybe four hours. During the blockade, the police divert traffic so you rarely see what the protest is about. Once diverted away from the blockade, you are on your own to find an alternate route.
Natalie was standing on the corner when the buses suddenly unloaded their passengers and blocked the street for this blockade. It happened on the last day of the teachers' planton. |
What stands out about all three kinds of protest – the marches, the plantones, and the blockades – is that they appear to target the general population instead of the specific government office or business that is causing the grievance. In this respect, the protests are different from most strikes in the United States. Strikers at home might set up a picket line to deter people from patronizing a company (or temporary workers from filling their positions), or hold a rally outside a government building, but rarely do they disrupt entire sections of the city. In contrast, the strategy here appears to be to interfere with all business as usual enough to force the government or other entity make concessions. (Usually it is the government.) Although not quite innocent bystanders – since most of the people affected by the protests are voting citizens who therefore can make a difference – the general population tends to get caught in the crossfire of whatever the dispute might be.
The question is whether this tactic works. I have postponed writing about the protests in hopes of finding a halfway decent answer to this question, but to no avail. The media coverage of the protests is pathetic at best, and usually biased against the protestors, making it impossible to evaluate whether they got what they wanted. This also means most people we talk to about the protests are uninformed. They offer kneejerk reactions, like saying the teachers occupy the city because they are too lazy to teach, but little else. (The “teachers protest because they are lazy” explanation always astounds me, since leaving home to camp out in the middle of a city several hours away during the beginning of the rainy season takes a lot more effort than showing up for class.)
In many cases, even the protestors cannot articulate their demands. We spoke to several teachers during the planton, for instance, who said they wanted better school facilities in rural towns and an end to privatization of schools, but when we asked for specifics they did not know how far short the governor’s budget proposal fell or whether there were any actual proposals to privatize schools. It almost seemed like the protest happened simply out of habit – a rite of spring for teachers in Oaxaca – although in the end the governor did make several concessions.
Yet the protests must accomplish something, or they would not keep happening. People I have said that to in Oaxaca usually disagree. They say the protests have become part of the local culture, and that the unions and other activists simply use protests as the default negotiating technique, before trying any other kind of discourse. But the protests bring a group’s message to people who might not otherwise take note – particularly in a city with a media that kowtows to whatever political party is in power. Since top politicians usually send their kids to private schools, they might not think much about the situation in public schools unless forced to sit through a blockade or two. Nor will people in the city of Oaxaca give much thought to opening a health post in a town four hours away unless protestors from the town set up camp in the middle of the capital. Further, it takes a lot of effort and resources to mobilize workers to take over the streets. I doubt the teachers’ union would have orchestrated the two-week planton if it could have gotten what it wanted without the effort.
Even if protestors do not gain specific concessions, the protests allow a group to flex its collective muscle. A lot of people think that is why the teachers’ planton happened this year, when the teachers seemed relatively content in the weeks before the planton. It would explain why the teachers we spoke to could not articulate what they were after. The principal objective may have been to show the union’s strength, not to obtain specific concessions. Indeed, a friend who works in the Oaxaca Mayor’s Office told me his colleagues consider the potential blockade ramifications of every decision they make. Thus when all of Oaxaca's garbage trucks parked in the middle of the main southern access to the city to protest increased dumping fees, the city did not lower the fees, but officials will think twice before raising them again. The blockade served as a show of strength, and as a threat of future action, not as a means to change what already occurred.
Unfortunately, the political discourse in Oaxaca seems to revolve around marches, plantones and blockades. (And this is a Oaxacan phenomenon. We are told that activists throughout Mexico look to Oaxaca for its expertise in staging protests.) Mere public demonstrations – like those that happen in front of city halls and in state capitals throughout the United States – are not enough. A group is not taken seriously until it takes to the streets and causes a traffic jam. Whether this is the fault of the government for ignoring issues until the city is brought to its knees, or the protestors for shunning less disruptive forms of advocacy, the sad reality is that the protests, and the huge social and economic costs they entail, have become a routine part of life in Oaxaca. It is not likely to change any time soon.
So, returning to the gay pride march, initially it struck me as odd to compare the right to sexual freedom to the right to block traffic. But on further reflection, what the woman with the megaphone meant is that the gay community has a right to be seen and heard as much as any other group has that right. In Oaxaca, for better or worse, the accepted way to be seen and heard is to march down the middle of the street, to camp out in the street, or to block the street with busses. When framed like that, although I hate to admit it, the right to block traffic is a right worth protecting.
Walking near the Zócalo during the teachers' planton. The teachers camped in the tents on the right while tourists carried on business as usual on the left. |
Nor are the protests violent. The events of 2006 were an exception, but nothing like that has happened before or after in Oaxaca. Nothing suggests it will happen again.
We are off to the beach tomorrow for five or six days. We are going to Puerto Escondido then to Puerto Angel, where the turtles come to lay there eggs. We think we are a bit early to see the turtles on the beach, but supposedly we can rent a boat to take us to swim with turtles offshore. We might not blog until we get back, but you never know. –Harrison
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