Oaxaca heat

Am spending the week in the state of Oaxaca, staying at the beachside bungalow of my friend and fellow music-lovin' Fulbrighter Phillip and his wife, Itzel. Phillip and I started scheming up a recording project back in September when we met at orientation, and we're finally getting it rolling now. Since returning from a sweaty, dusty trip through the rural Costa Chica yesterday, I can't wait to sit down and wrangle these hours of tape into something shareable. Till then, some pics.

The sunset over Phillip and Itzel's house in Puerto Escondido, Oaxaca

The Costa Chica is known for its afro-mestizo musical traditions, like echando versos (throwing verse), above.

Driving up the Cerro del Chivo (Goat Hill) to look out at the sea on one side, and the sierra on the other. 

Señor Gallardos sat in on our interviews and accompanied us on the truck out of town. Like everyone we talked to, many of his family members have migrated the U. S.

Audio Postcard: Waters of Chiapas

Back home, lots of times when I'd ask Mexican immigrants where they were from, they would say Chiapas.

Then I would nod and say, "oh sí, Chiapas," because, like Krakow or Nagasaki, I had heard of it. I knew what country it was in but not much else, and would be darned if I could find it on a map. I proceeded to feel bad when this made them raise a hopeful eyebrow and ask, "you've been there?"

"Er, no," I'd say, "but hopefully someday."

Deep down I didn't think I'd ever go there. This was mainly because I imagined Chiapas to be like a desert: dry, impoverished, and full of the kind of struggling pueblos that people have to migrate away from. In the world map of my mind, which despite my B. A. in International Studies still closely resembles the one I had in fourth grade, I spiced up my image of Chiapas with some horses and ranches, for no reason other than that Chiapas sounds kind of like "chaps."

Surprise...I was way off. Turns out Chiapas is deep green, lush, and next to Guatemala. I didn't come across a single horse or ranch, but I did see electric-blue waterfalls and sprawling Mayan ruins, all of which, I repeatedly psyched myself, have been quietly tucked into the mountains since long before the notion of a New World meant anything.



But being rural and relatively isolated, the struggling pueblos are definitely there. From inside my air-conditioned bus, I could see lights shining through the gaps in wooden shacks, and smoke from cooking fires piping out of rusted chimneys. It made me think ahead, to my return to the U. S. and my next conversation with a chiapaneco—a native of Chiapas—since I now have a better picture of what they left behind.

>

Flying Cat Lady

As I made my way through airport security at O'Hare, I heard meowing. Since I have a talent for attracting cats at airports, this did not strike me as unusual. Once at the Indira Gandhi International Airport in Delhi, a stray cat who had somehow gotten past security forced his company on me for two hours, even as I attempted to lose him in the duty-free shop.

The O'Hare cat was meowing anxiously from inside a designer caddy. His owner, a willowy woman who goo-gooed to him in Spanish, took him out so that they could cuddle their way through the metal detector together. Her accent, belted coat, and gold bling gave her away as a resident of Mexico City. This cat was going to be on my flight.

I was first annoyed, because of my allergy and general disdain for cats. But then I sensed an opportunity. I looked at my ticket: 34E, one of the worst seats on the plane. Located in the back, it meant I would be last to exit, and therefore last in line for the nightmarishly bureaucratic experience of clearing Mexico City airport immigration. Please let Cat Lady be my seat mate, I prayed.

Sure enough, when I threw my bag under seat 34E on the plane, I heard meowing from so close that it instantly triggered my body to assume a pre-sneeze position. I whirled around and, to my delight, Cat Lady was sitting directly behind me—In 35E, the Absolute Worst Seat on the Plane. Her carry-on was meowing woefully, and likely getting ready to poop, directly below my seat.

After a failed attempt to start a friendly conversation with Cat Lady (I opened by asking her if she drugged him for the trip), I instead tried to smile warmly and hoped that would make up for what I was about to do.  When the flight attendant came around, I whispered to her that there was a cat on the plane, that I was very allergic and I didn't mean to be a bother, but I would be happy to move to a different seat if that was possible?

Cat Lady overheard me and, now onto my little scheme, interrupted to tell the flight attendant that SHE would gladly volunteer to move to a different seat instead. The people in her row rolled their eyes at this, openly acknowledging the fact we all hated our seats.  The flight attendant assured us she would see to this immediately after takeoff.

Within 15 minutes, I was eating carrot cake in first class. 

"Well somebody lucked out for having allergies!" exclaimed a new flight attendant loudly while pouring my drink, reminding me and everyone else that I was still technically riffraff. Even though I was served dinner last, I happily told my story of upward mobility to my seatmates, who were nowhere near as excited as I'd hoped. 

I sank back into my seat and comforted my itchy eyes with a steamed towel that had been thrown into my lap, realizing I had managed to annoy everyone on an airplane.  After all, my advancement to first class required that I pass every single row....except 35, and they all knew exactly where I was.

When we landed, I was the first to exit, thank God. I dashed to the immigration desk, more grateful than ever for the chance to avoid the lines, since Cat Lady would be among them.