Audio Postcard: Midnight Fandango

Katie's Camp History:

• 1997: A nine-day trek along the shores of Lake Michigan with my 6th grade class
  
• 1999: A weeklong stint in the woods with other West Michigan teenagers (i.e. church camp)
  
• 2009: A weeklong series of workshops in Son Jarocho music and culture, on a sweltering ranch in Southern Veracruz, Mexico.

After each of the three times I've been away to camp, I always came back 100% jazzed about what I felt I had "gone through." I would scrapbook heavily on my experiences, making hideous collages out of leaves and gum wrappers. I organized my post-camp penpal correspondence with a Jeffersonian seriousness. I made frequent announcements that I was permanently cured of all bug phobias.

But looking back, I notice that my camp fanaticism consistently boomed and faded. I never did follow through on those plans to escape into the Upper Peninsula and live in a burned-out tree (1997), nor did I keep any promises murmured into my hand-knotted rosary (which I made in the craft tent to match my friendship bracelets) to grow up a devout and yet totally rad Catholic (1999).

But now, this time, at 24 years old, I am hoping that my camp hysteria will stick. Unlike at previous camps, last week's Son Jarocho camp, called a "seminar",was designed to equip me with a new skill: to play the jarana and learn the art of singing versos jarochos (verses from Veracruz).

At the same time, our teachers made no attempt to hide that some brainwashing was desirable. The seminario was as much as about getting a grip on Son Jarocho music as it was about adopting the cultural values from which it emerged. This meant learning to:

• appreciate nature [i.e. sleep in tents, bathe in river, and enjoy sporadic access to handsoap]
  
• eat rustic food prepared by local women [I will never eat packaged tortillas again]
  
• respect elders [sitting for two hours to watch a man weave a fishnet is a-ok]
• turn off technology [at one point, getting mildly sick of the sound of my jarana, I snuck away to my tent to listen to some Hank Williams on my iPod. It seemed so out of place that I lasted through only two verses of "Your Cheatin' Heart"...and yeah, the lyrics got to me]
• slow the heck down [see photo]

Daniel from San Antonio, TX, with his constant companion

Above all, our teachers aimed to reform us into respectful musicians. Our group was a confident mix of cosmopolitan Chicanos from the U.S., well-traveled Latin Americans, and two Fulbright scholars. With all of us itching to learn, it quickly became apparent in our lessons that most of us were raised on an American model of showmanship: try hard, try loud, possibly make ass out of self, eventually develop your own style, and stand out. Our teachers, who are painfully aware of this mindset having toured the U.S. and Europe several times, reminded us that Son Jarocho emerged out of the collective creativity of groups, not individuals.

Nowhere was this more important than at the fandango, the communal jam session in which Son Jarocho is traditionally played and danced. Every night, when the ranch was covered in total darkness, we used our flashlights to find our way to the tarima, the wooden dance platform around which the fandango would unfold and escalate until 3 in the morning. After a long day of structured strumming in the sun, the fandango was our opportunity to let the music take over; to surround ourselves with the sounds of more experienced musicians from the towns nearby, and to let our skills take shape in the dark.

Visitors in Veracruz

Had an awesome weekend with my visitors from the D.F., Q-Town and Guad. It was so good having lovely people in my apartment that I began to reconsider this whole living alone business. Monk-like solitude in the mountains is cool and all, but I was jonesin' for some company and very un-monk-like gossip (side note: thanks for leaving that book about monks, Mom)

After feasting on much local cheese in my apartment, our group headed to the art opening of our fellow f.b. friend Martie, an inspiring 78-year-old paper maker from New Mexico, whose command of the Spanish vosotros verb-form hints at an exotic European past. While checking out the exhibits I began discussing the afterparty options with my friends. Overhearing me, an older man initiated the following conversation:

Man: Do you need help finding your way to the club?

Me: Actually we do. I just moved here.

Man: Ok. So you know Juarez street?

Me: Er...no.

Man: Ok, how about the Monument to the Mother?

Me: Um....not exactly.

Man: (exasperated) Ok, Sears?

Me: Yes!

Man: Ok, from Sears you walk up the hill to the Municipal Library.

Me: (blank stare)

Man: To the Burger King.

Me: Got it!

Man: (in an unusually blunt manner) You know all of your monuments, but none of mine.

This must have prompted an involuntary chin-quiver on my part, because the man appeared to immediately regret saying this, and offered a suggestion to make amends. Why didn't I take my friends to Cafe Tierra Luna instead of the afterparty, as there was rumored to be a flamenco show?

Feeling like I suddenly owed a cultural debt to this man, to Mexico, and by extension to the entire Iberian peninsula, I loudly announced to my friends that were going to take in some flamenco. We thanked the man and piled into a cab.

Xalapeños doing some Friday-night flamenco at Cafe Tierra Luna

The next day, we traveled to the nearby town of Coatepec to attend Martie's papermaking workshop. It was held in the courtyard of an old museum, and well-attended by the town's artistic folk, including many f.b. people who've settled nearby for their research. We spent all morning with our arms submerged in tubs full of water and pulp, and left with placemats containing our creations rolled up inside. It reminded me of the best parts of preschool.

The next day we piled into Jose's car and headed to the coast. We landed at the tranquil beach of Chachalacas, which was as fun to visit as it was to say ten times fast. The day was cloudy and chilly by coastal standards, so we abandoned our plans to swim and stuck to enjoying some fresh fish and octopus before walking to the nearby dunes. I found some snazzy shells long the way.

(from left) Me, a tiger, a dead bird, and a shark at our seaside cafe in Chachalacas.

Veracruz beaches get a bad rap when compared to their glitzier counterparts in Cancun, Acapulco, etc. But I think their muddy sand, murky water and local bathing dress code of oversized T-shirts instead of swimsuits have a strange appeal.

That evening we pulled into Veracruz, the oldest port city in Mexico (where Hernán Cortés landed in 1519). Since this city is 50% of the reason why I am in Mexico this year, it deserves it's own entry at a later date. Good thing I'm about to hop on a bus and go back today, this time to pick up another visitor: my auntie!

(thank you M. Warp for the righteous photos)