One does not jog in Santiago de Cuba. One may rush, walk quickly, trot, or even run if they are hurrying from point A to point B; if they are avoiding a speeding car, motorcycle, or horse and buggy, if they are competing to hustle a tourist for a few dollars, or if they are retreating from said tourist, who is fed up with hustlers and threatens to call for the police. But one does not job for exercise or recreation. It simply is not done.
I know this, but I go for a jog anyways. I know that people don`t jog because it`s too hot, I know the sun is too strong, I know that many Cubans don`t consume enough calories to waste them jogging in circles. I know all of this and yet I still go jogging. In Cuba I eat white rice, white bread, personal pizzas that cost 20 cents (yes they really cost 20 cents and yes they taste like it), and multiple ice cream cones daily. I need to go jogging.
Never in my life have so many people stared at me so blatantly and so hard. I`ve walked the streets of St. Louis, Colorado Springs, Madrid, and Washington, DC in miniskirts. I`ve gone to breeder-bars and hetero-clubs in full drag face. I`ve been known on campus and the boy (?) with pink hair. I`ve been the only foreigner in rural Mexican towns. And still, I promise you, never before have I been stared at like I am while jogging in Santiago de Cuba.
People freeze in mid-step, their ice cream cones rapidly melting, to watch me pass. Twenty people congregating on the corner, all engaged in spirited conversations as they wait for the truck--once used to haul livestock but now used for public transport--suddenly become silent (all of them) and collectively watch me cross the street while dodging bicycle taxis, motorcycle taxis, car taxis, horse-drawn taxis, and the train. Old men engrossed in a game of dominoes look up from the table (unheard of unless it´s to argue) as I streak by. Small children point as I near them and ask their mothers, "what is he doing mamá?" Too confused themselves to chastise their children for pointing, they respond, "I don´t know. I don´t know." I feel as if I don´t pass a single person who doesn´t momentarily pause to ponder what the hell I am doing.
Maybe it´s my outfit, I think to myself. I´m wearing hiking shorts and my blaring white chest is bare. Around my left arm is my iPod, blasting reggatoón remixes to keep me motivated and running on-beat (Gywau, I find that Beyonce keeps me on my stride). My head is covered with a bright yellow bandanna to keep the sweat from my eyes. I have no illusions of blending in, but when I stop running to have a breather, I only get half as many stares. Half as many stares is about normal, I calculate I start running again and the stares redouble.
Jogging through the streets of Santiago is like running cross-country or an urban obstacle course. The sidewalks rise and fall dramatically. I rather run in the street where I only have to jump over pot-holes every third or fourth stride, but the constant passing of dump trucks keeps me hopping from the poorly maintained streets to the ever poorer maintained sidewalks. I come upon a pot-hole so large that it no longer can be called a pothole. This crevasse stretches the width of the street and is six feet long. It is one-foot deep with brown water. I climb a pile of rock and rubble to avoid the moat.
As I run I can feel the grit collecting on my face and up my nose. When a car or truck passes it spews out thick black exhaust that hangs in the air, refusing to dissipate until I run, wheezing, through it. I think to myself that breathing in the exhaust particles is doing more damage to my lungs than all the cigarettes I smoked in high school combined.
I stop to cover my mouth and nose with my bandanna and look at the soviet-style apartment complexes surrounding me. I´ve been passing these hideous structures (classic community style architecture is actually quite rare in Cuba, which is known for gorgeous neo-classical and colonial buildings) for ten minutes and haven´t a clue as to where I am (the communist living blocks some how didn´t make it into the guide book). Beginning to tire, I decide it would be best to ask for directions back to the city center. I approach a friendly looking middle-aged woman and politely ask if she could point me in the right direction. She looks at me, her mouth slightly open, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. She stares at me for a good 30 seconds, looking me up and down to take me all in before making me repeat the question.
"El centro?" she responds, "ooohhh its far away. You can´t walk from here. You have to find a truck along the highway."
"Oh, no, I`m going to run to el centro," I tell her.
"You are going to run there?" she asks, furrowing her eyebrows even more.
"Yes. Run. For excessive."
"Aaahhhh OK. It`s that direction, over there." She points straight down the highway. I smile, thank her, restart Chamillionare on my iPod, and continue, chuckling softly.
When I arrive back at José`s, I tell him about how everyone stared at me as if they had never seen anyone out for a jog before. He nods his head in an understanding and almost sympathetic manner. Today he is wearing camo shorts, a fitted camo t-shirt tucked in, and a camo bandana wrapped tightly over his head. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing.
"Siiiii," he says, "they probably think you are a little crazy, but pay them no attention. You`ll have a cuerpo diez (ten-body--as in a body rated a ten on a scale from one to ten) and then what can they say? NADA!" He slaps his hands together and then throws his arms up in the air. I smile, nod my head in agreement and repeat "NADA" also throwing my arms up in the air.
I return to my room and giggle while imagining how people would react if they saw me during my cardio striptease routine.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
¡Saludos Boludos!
I am writing to you from the land of boludos, che, chamuyeros, chetos, parillas, and porteños. In order words, I am back in Buenos Aires, and I couldn´t be happier. In the next week I´ll reconnect with friends, find a place to live, stroll the streets of my Buenos Aires querrido, stuff my face with Cumaná, and dance all night at Plop. I will update you on all of that in due time, but first I have a promise to fulfill.
Many of you have asked to hear "all about Cuba," and I think my initial post left many of you scratching your heads or concerned (however I´m glad to see that at least a few of you got the joke). Rather than explain it, let´s just move on. I think for many of us, Cuba holds endless mystery. Few countries have survived the cold war, a missile stand-off, a CIA-backed invasion, dozens of attempted presidential assassinations, sporadic acts of terrorism, and a strict US-trade-and-travel embargo, especially countries whose leaders boast (quite forcefully) of revolution and socialism so close to United States soil. For those of us who like to consider ourselves ´travelers,´ Cuba is in a class of its own. It´s forbidden and therefore intriguing. Cuba is the land of salsa, mambo, Hemingway, mojitos, daiquiris, resistance, and above all, perseverance.
I´ll be honest--to date Cuba has been the most difficult place in which I´ve ever travelled. Nothing I had read (and I had read quite a bit about Cuba) and no one with whom I had spoken (and ya´ll know I like to talk) about Cuba adequately prepared me for this country. There were many times I felt frustrated and that frustration turned to anger because I thought that every moment in Cuba was supposed to be adventure-filled and spectacular. A few afternoons I felt lonely and helpless even, and I slept for hours locked away in my private, air conditioned room. There was even a day I thought about changing my ticket and flying to Buenos Aires early.
It wasn´t until two days before I left that I added it all up--frustration, anger, loneliness, helplessness, irregular sleep--and realized I was experiencing the classic symptoms of culture shock. I had only experienced culture shock once before and that was upon returning to the US after studying in Argentina. Never had I been culture shocked in a foreign country. The reason? I can´t be sure, but I think it is because I usually do a fairly good job of clearing my mind of expectations when I arrive in a new place. If I expect nothing, than I am open to everything, and ready for anything. But I realized that I was so determined to fall in love with Cuba, so eager to connect with Cubans, to see their country through their eyes, that I didn´t recognize all the expectations I carried with me. So there I was, culture shocked and only a marathon swim away from the Florida Keys.
I don´t want to lead you to believe my trip to Cuba was a bust, because it was anything but. It was rewarding, refreshing, adventurous, and enlightening. I learned years ago that we learn and grow the most when we are uncomfortable, which means that I do not regret even the times I found most difficult. I just want to be honest, and I am going to write about all of my experiences in Cuba, not just the travel brochure moments (which don´t come too often considering my travel style). My first blog will be a series of shorts from my journal beginning at the beginning and ending at the end. In that way, I can write about Cuba from many different angles, and then expand on a few themes in later blogs.
As far as photos go, I hear you all clamouring, but I can´t upload them until I have my computer, which is currently in transit to Buenos Aires. Once I am able to sort through all of them, I´ll put them on my Flickr page, and let you all know.
As always, I love hearing from you all, either through email, gchat, or through comments on my blog.
much love and many kisses
tucker
p.s. maybe i should just say that all of this is based on what i THINK cuba would be like if i had actually been there.
I am writing to you from the land of boludos, che, chamuyeros, chetos, parillas, and porteños. In order words, I am back in Buenos Aires, and I couldn´t be happier. In the next week I´ll reconnect with friends, find a place to live, stroll the streets of my Buenos Aires querrido, stuff my face with Cumaná, and dance all night at Plop. I will update you on all of that in due time, but first I have a promise to fulfill.
Many of you have asked to hear "all about Cuba," and I think my initial post left many of you scratching your heads or concerned (however I´m glad to see that at least a few of you got the joke). Rather than explain it, let´s just move on. I think for many of us, Cuba holds endless mystery. Few countries have survived the cold war, a missile stand-off, a CIA-backed invasion, dozens of attempted presidential assassinations, sporadic acts of terrorism, and a strict US-trade-and-travel embargo, especially countries whose leaders boast (quite forcefully) of revolution and socialism so close to United States soil. For those of us who like to consider ourselves ´travelers,´ Cuba is in a class of its own. It´s forbidden and therefore intriguing. Cuba is the land of salsa, mambo, Hemingway, mojitos, daiquiris, resistance, and above all, perseverance.
I´ll be honest--to date Cuba has been the most difficult place in which I´ve ever travelled. Nothing I had read (and I had read quite a bit about Cuba) and no one with whom I had spoken (and ya´ll know I like to talk) about Cuba adequately prepared me for this country. There were many times I felt frustrated and that frustration turned to anger because I thought that every moment in Cuba was supposed to be adventure-filled and spectacular. A few afternoons I felt lonely and helpless even, and I slept for hours locked away in my private, air conditioned room. There was even a day I thought about changing my ticket and flying to Buenos Aires early.
It wasn´t until two days before I left that I added it all up--frustration, anger, loneliness, helplessness, irregular sleep--and realized I was experiencing the classic symptoms of culture shock. I had only experienced culture shock once before and that was upon returning to the US after studying in Argentina. Never had I been culture shocked in a foreign country. The reason? I can´t be sure, but I think it is because I usually do a fairly good job of clearing my mind of expectations when I arrive in a new place. If I expect nothing, than I am open to everything, and ready for anything. But I realized that I was so determined to fall in love with Cuba, so eager to connect with Cubans, to see their country through their eyes, that I didn´t recognize all the expectations I carried with me. So there I was, culture shocked and only a marathon swim away from the Florida Keys.
I don´t want to lead you to believe my trip to Cuba was a bust, because it was anything but. It was rewarding, refreshing, adventurous, and enlightening. I learned years ago that we learn and grow the most when we are uncomfortable, which means that I do not regret even the times I found most difficult. I just want to be honest, and I am going to write about all of my experiences in Cuba, not just the travel brochure moments (which don´t come too often considering my travel style). My first blog will be a series of shorts from my journal beginning at the beginning and ending at the end. In that way, I can write about Cuba from many different angles, and then expand on a few themes in later blogs.
As far as photos go, I hear you all clamouring, but I can´t upload them until I have my computer, which is currently in transit to Buenos Aires. Once I am able to sort through all of them, I´ll put them on my Flickr page, and let you all know.
As always, I love hearing from you all, either through email, gchat, or through comments on my blog.
much love and many kisses
tucker
p.s. maybe i should just say that all of this is based on what i THINK cuba would be like if i had actually been there.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
This is not Cuba.
This is not Cuba. I am not in Cuba. I did not arrive safe and sound. I am not having a grand time. Havana is not a city unlike I have ever experienced in my whole life. I am not obsessed with trying to figuer out how it "works." Last night I did not see a Cuban drag show hidden away from the meddling police officers in a far away park. I will not write lots of blogs and posts hundreds of photos once I arrive in Buenos Aires Oct 7th.
I am not sending much love and many kisses
tucker
I am not sending much love and many kisses
tucker
Friday, September 12, 2008
My name is not Moguely. Get me the hell out of the jungle.
In Tziscao the roosters have formed a chorus. One rooster crows "I´m a big bad rooster," and another rooster across the way responds, "I´m a bigger and badder rooster." Then a rooster down the road interjects, "well I'm the biggest and baddest rooster there ever was." It continues like this. If you are under the impression that roosters crow only at sunrise, let us remedy that now--they crow all day...and all night...even when I plead with them to shut up at 3 am. In Tziscao camping at on the lake with access to bathrooms and showers at the ecotourist lodge cost 80 pesos (USD 8). Camping down the road in someone´s back yard with the same services cost 30 pesos. In Tziscao vegetarian food at the comedor with the sign that reads: Hay Comida Vegetariana--Vegetariant Foods" means they serve cheese quesadillas.
In Frontera Corozal my hatred for perspiration is reaffirmed. I sleep with a sweat band around my wrist to more easily catch the drip, drop, drip of sweat from my nose in the middle of the night. I normally don´t use bug spray--its bad for the body and for the environment and it smells bad and makes you sticky--but in Corozal the mosquito bites (for which I normally have great tolerance) leave welts. I reapply the OFF every two hours. As I fall asleep in my tent I listen to the squeaks of animals that resemble rats but live in the trees above. I hope that the hundreds of wolf spiders I saw while pitching my tent don´t find their way inside. I tell myself that I was made for the mountains.
In Yaxchilán I can see Guatemala across the River. I feel like Lara Croft in Tomb Raider. I´m alone on remote jungle paths to Mayan ruins deep in the Lacandona Jungle. Above me are family groups of howler monkeys lazily strewn about branches of tall and sacred Ceiba trees. The males are screaming at each other. My Angelina Jolie fantasy continues until I get a face full of spider web and see the biggest spiders I´ve ever had the misfortune of seeing. I continue, but walk cautiously, waving a stick in circular motions in front of me in order to avoid attempted spider attacks. Now I just feel nelly.
In Palenque the ruins are spectacular (if considerably more crowded with tourists than Yaxchlán), but it is so stifling that I worry about heat stroke. I decide not to take the tour to the waterfalls of Agua Azul and the swimming hole of Misol-Ha--there are waterfalls in Argentina (big ones) and a swimming pool at the campgrounds, I tell myself. The US$15 I save by not taking the tour allows me to splurge on a large lunch at the restaurant rather than the cookies and tortillas I would have eaten otherwise. I suck on a fudgesicle for desert, and I am happy. I lounge at the pool for as long as I can tolerate the heat. I liberally apply sun-block but worry it doesn´t soak in, because I´m sweating profusely. It´s useless anyways as the sun is so strong it doesn´t tan before it burns, it just jumps directly to the latter.
After I skip Agua Azul and Misol-Ha, I skip Ocosingo and Toniná. I also skip Bonampak, in my hurry to get to Cancún (what are a few skipped ruins? I ask myself. They´ve survived 1,000 years. They´ll survive until my next visit (assuming I survive for my next visit)). I tell myself that my willingless to leave Chiapas early and thus decrease my chances of running into Subcomandante Marcos, my beloved Zapatista rebel leader, is evidence of travelling for too long of a stretch.
I sit in the bus station waiting, reading Cuba In Mind. I think to myself that it´s possibly the most appropriately titled book of all time. In Cancún I will rest. I will prepare. I will buy a skimpy bathing suit with the money I saved by skipping the waterfalls, the sinkhole, the ruins, and the other ruins. I´m excited to arrive in Buenos Aires on October 7th. But I have one small stop--one giant stop-- before I get there. When I get to Cancún, I´ll visit the bookstore and buy another book about Cuba, because it´s still on my mind. It´s all I can think about.
As Marcos says, vale and salud. As I say, much love and many besos.
tucker
p.s. I am sad that my low tolerance for jungle heat and jungle sweat and jungle bugs means that I can not live happily ever after with Subcomandante Marcos. Perhaps he will consider a vacation home some place more agreeable to my sensibilities and keep me as his mistress there.
In Frontera Corozal my hatred for perspiration is reaffirmed. I sleep with a sweat band around my wrist to more easily catch the drip, drop, drip of sweat from my nose in the middle of the night. I normally don´t use bug spray--its bad for the body and for the environment and it smells bad and makes you sticky--but in Corozal the mosquito bites (for which I normally have great tolerance) leave welts. I reapply the OFF every two hours. As I fall asleep in my tent I listen to the squeaks of animals that resemble rats but live in the trees above. I hope that the hundreds of wolf spiders I saw while pitching my tent don´t find their way inside. I tell myself that I was made for the mountains.
In Yaxchilán I can see Guatemala across the River. I feel like Lara Croft in Tomb Raider. I´m alone on remote jungle paths to Mayan ruins deep in the Lacandona Jungle. Above me are family groups of howler monkeys lazily strewn about branches of tall and sacred Ceiba trees. The males are screaming at each other. My Angelina Jolie fantasy continues until I get a face full of spider web and see the biggest spiders I´ve ever had the misfortune of seeing. I continue, but walk cautiously, waving a stick in circular motions in front of me in order to avoid attempted spider attacks. Now I just feel nelly.
In Palenque the ruins are spectacular (if considerably more crowded with tourists than Yaxchlán), but it is so stifling that I worry about heat stroke. I decide not to take the tour to the waterfalls of Agua Azul and the swimming hole of Misol-Ha--there are waterfalls in Argentina (big ones) and a swimming pool at the campgrounds, I tell myself. The US$15 I save by not taking the tour allows me to splurge on a large lunch at the restaurant rather than the cookies and tortillas I would have eaten otherwise. I suck on a fudgesicle for desert, and I am happy. I lounge at the pool for as long as I can tolerate the heat. I liberally apply sun-block but worry it doesn´t soak in, because I´m sweating profusely. It´s useless anyways as the sun is so strong it doesn´t tan before it burns, it just jumps directly to the latter.
After I skip Agua Azul and Misol-Ha, I skip Ocosingo and Toniná. I also skip Bonampak, in my hurry to get to Cancún (what are a few skipped ruins? I ask myself. They´ve survived 1,000 years. They´ll survive until my next visit (assuming I survive for my next visit)). I tell myself that my willingless to leave Chiapas early and thus decrease my chances of running into Subcomandante Marcos, my beloved Zapatista rebel leader, is evidence of travelling for too long of a stretch.
I sit in the bus station waiting, reading Cuba In Mind. I think to myself that it´s possibly the most appropriately titled book of all time. In Cancún I will rest. I will prepare. I will buy a skimpy bathing suit with the money I saved by skipping the waterfalls, the sinkhole, the ruins, and the other ruins. I´m excited to arrive in Buenos Aires on October 7th. But I have one small stop--one giant stop-- before I get there. When I get to Cancún, I´ll visit the bookstore and buy another book about Cuba, because it´s still on my mind. It´s all I can think about.
As Marcos says, vale and salud. As I say, much love and many besos.
tucker
p.s. I am sad that my low tolerance for jungle heat and jungle sweat and jungle bugs means that I can not live happily ever after with Subcomandante Marcos. Perhaps he will consider a vacation home some place more agreeable to my sensibilities and keep me as his mistress there.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
My ass hurts!
Saludos Boludos!
My butt is so sore that I can`t sit right (don`t be dirty--it`s not that kind of blog). Today I went mountain biking in the hills around San Cristóbal de las Casas, Chiapas (Mexico), and that bike seat was so hard I swear to god I bruised my butt bones.
In addition to sore cheeks, I have a few scrapes and bruises and a bump on the head that proves I underestimated the technical difficulty of mountain biking. Yup, I was that one. Somebody had to go flying off their bike, and it was me. It happened while my dumb ass was speeding down a rocky, muddy hill and the woman in front of me skidded to a stop. I swerved to avoid her, bounced over a big rock then flew over the handle-bars. By instinct my arms flew out in front of me to break my fall, but by second instinct I pulled them back in to protect my shoulders. As a result, I fell on my face (thankfully I was wearing a helmet) and then tumbled over belly-up. For a split second I was happy that my shoulders were well situated in their sockets (just how I like them incidentally), and ten the bike crashed down on my head (again, thankfully I was wearing a helmet).
After a few choice words I said, "Fuck it! I quit!" I struggled to throw the bike off and sit up, but the guide rushed over and shoved me back down. He ordered the second guide, his German wife (surprisingly there are a good number of German ex-pats living in San Cristóbal) to elevate my feet. I meekly try to wiggle out of their grips, still grumbling for them to leave me be--"I`ll hitchhike back dammit!" The guide tells me to shut up and keep breathing. He keeps me there until my racing pulse returns to semi-normal and then makes me eat some candy to raise my blood sugar.
Once I had calmed down and sucked on the Carmelo a bit, I realized I wasn`t much worse for the wear. There was more mud than blood, my shoulders were still intact, and a few aspirins would cure that dull throbbing in my head. Slightly embarrassed about threatening to desert, I tried to smile (which I`m sure was more of a grimace) and said, "Vamos!"
And so my search for an outdoor adventure sport continues. I thought maybe that falling off the bike was like falling off a horse or wiping out while skiing--you can`t get better until you eat it a few times. But I don`t think I want to eat any more. We can cross mountain biking off the list. It will join scuba diving and surfing, due to my irrational fear of sharks and limited ability to swim. White water rafting and kayaking, while fun, are not my jam, so they are nixed too. I`m holding my breath for rock climbing. I`m not a fan of heights, but I think its high time that I conquer that fear. Not only would climbing make me feel like a bad ass, but I bet it will give me great shoulder definition and won`t hurt my ass!
amor y besos
tucker
My butt is so sore that I can`t sit right (don`t be dirty--it`s not that kind of blog). Today I went mountain biking in the hills around San Cristóbal de las Casas, Chiapas (Mexico), and that bike seat was so hard I swear to god I bruised my butt bones.
In addition to sore cheeks, I have a few scrapes and bruises and a bump on the head that proves I underestimated the technical difficulty of mountain biking. Yup, I was that one. Somebody had to go flying off their bike, and it was me. It happened while my dumb ass was speeding down a rocky, muddy hill and the woman in front of me skidded to a stop. I swerved to avoid her, bounced over a big rock then flew over the handle-bars. By instinct my arms flew out in front of me to break my fall, but by second instinct I pulled them back in to protect my shoulders. As a result, I fell on my face (thankfully I was wearing a helmet) and then tumbled over belly-up. For a split second I was happy that my shoulders were well situated in their sockets (just how I like them incidentally), and ten the bike crashed down on my head (again, thankfully I was wearing a helmet).
After a few choice words I said, "Fuck it! I quit!" I struggled to throw the bike off and sit up, but the guide rushed over and shoved me back down. He ordered the second guide, his German wife (surprisingly there are a good number of German ex-pats living in San Cristóbal) to elevate my feet. I meekly try to wiggle out of their grips, still grumbling for them to leave me be--"I`ll hitchhike back dammit!" The guide tells me to shut up and keep breathing. He keeps me there until my racing pulse returns to semi-normal and then makes me eat some candy to raise my blood sugar.
Once I had calmed down and sucked on the Carmelo a bit, I realized I wasn`t much worse for the wear. There was more mud than blood, my shoulders were still intact, and a few aspirins would cure that dull throbbing in my head. Slightly embarrassed about threatening to desert, I tried to smile (which I`m sure was more of a grimace) and said, "Vamos!"
And so my search for an outdoor adventure sport continues. I thought maybe that falling off the bike was like falling off a horse or wiping out while skiing--you can`t get better until you eat it a few times. But I don`t think I want to eat any more. We can cross mountain biking off the list. It will join scuba diving and surfing, due to my irrational fear of sharks and limited ability to swim. White water rafting and kayaking, while fun, are not my jam, so they are nixed too. I`m holding my breath for rock climbing. I`m not a fan of heights, but I think its high time that I conquer that fear. Not only would climbing make me feel like a bad ass, but I bet it will give me great shoulder definition and won`t hurt my ass!
amor y besos
tucker
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
I turned 23 on a bus
So as many of you know, I had planned on spending my 23rd birthday in San José del Paífico, walking through tranquil pine forrests and chilling in the mountains. I instead found myself staring at my watch at 12 am September 1st and wishing myself a happy birthday on an overnight bus from the town of Pochutla to San Cristóbal de las Casas.
San José is a small town nestled in the high mountains of Oxaca. I found the legendary house named La Casa de Doña Catalina, an aging spiritualist from Spain who now lives in Oaxaca. I had heard stories about this house from friends and travellers who I have met along the way. The Inside feels like a cozy cave with trippy 3-D art painted and nailed to the wall that jumps out at the observer no matter what state of mind. After doing the few "tourist" activities the town boasts, I spent an adventurous afternoon with a couple 20-something year old Mexican drifters. In the end, however, I decided that San José wasn`t the place I wanted to be and that I would rather spend my birthday spoiling myself in San Cristóbal.
San Cristóbal de las Casas is a small colonial city in the heart of Chiapas, the southern-most state in Mexico most well known for its poverty, coffee, and Zapatistas. I had been looking forward to visiting Chiapas ever since deciding to travel in Mexico, both because of this recent revolutionary history, and also because I got to know a bit about a coffee collective in Chiapas while volunteering at a migrant resource center in Douglas, AZ last winter.
The tourist industry has left a sizeable footprint in San Cristóbal. Most notably in the hundreds of cheap hostels and the plethora of hip restaurants with internationally inspired menues. I fully disclose that my hiking boots immedieately walked through those tourists footprints by indulging in pancakes for breakfast, a four-cheese bangle sandwich that I ate with sinful pleasure for lunch, and a brick-oven pizza for dinner (no judging--it was my birthday!). I also ate two ice cream cones (and I feel good about it!).
After dinner, I sat around the hostel with the other travellers drinking and joking. We all went to bed early, none of us having slept well on the bus the night before. It wasn`t the crazy weekend-long celebration that took place last September first. There were no surprise parties at Adina`s or delicious ice-cream cakes made by Mika, and unfortunately I wasn`t surrounded by my friends and family. BUT, I think there are worse ways to spend one`s birthday than exploring southern Mexico, and you won`t hear any complaints from me.
much love, many besos, and thanks to everyone who sent happy birthday wishes!
tucker
San José is a small town nestled in the high mountains of Oxaca. I found the legendary house named La Casa de Doña Catalina, an aging spiritualist from Spain who now lives in Oaxaca. I had heard stories about this house from friends and travellers who I have met along the way. The Inside feels like a cozy cave with trippy 3-D art painted and nailed to the wall that jumps out at the observer no matter what state of mind. After doing the few "tourist" activities the town boasts, I spent an adventurous afternoon with a couple 20-something year old Mexican drifters. In the end, however, I decided that San José wasn`t the place I wanted to be and that I would rather spend my birthday spoiling myself in San Cristóbal.
San Cristóbal de las Casas is a small colonial city in the heart of Chiapas, the southern-most state in Mexico most well known for its poverty, coffee, and Zapatistas. I had been looking forward to visiting Chiapas ever since deciding to travel in Mexico, both because of this recent revolutionary history, and also because I got to know a bit about a coffee collective in Chiapas while volunteering at a migrant resource center in Douglas, AZ last winter.
The tourist industry has left a sizeable footprint in San Cristóbal. Most notably in the hundreds of cheap hostels and the plethora of hip restaurants with internationally inspired menues. I fully disclose that my hiking boots immedieately walked through those tourists footprints by indulging in pancakes for breakfast, a four-cheese bangle sandwich that I ate with sinful pleasure for lunch, and a brick-oven pizza for dinner (no judging--it was my birthday!). I also ate two ice cream cones (and I feel good about it!).
After dinner, I sat around the hostel with the other travellers drinking and joking. We all went to bed early, none of us having slept well on the bus the night before. It wasn`t the crazy weekend-long celebration that took place last September first. There were no surprise parties at Adina`s or delicious ice-cream cakes made by Mika, and unfortunately I wasn`t surrounded by my friends and family. BUT, I think there are worse ways to spend one`s birthday than exploring southern Mexico, and you won`t hear any complaints from me.
much love, many besos, and thanks to everyone who sent happy birthday wishes!
tucker
Friday, August 29, 2008
I´m too late for my bus to think of a witty title
I feel like a bit of an under-achiever owing to the fact that I have been in Mexico for over a month, travelled to about 10 cities/towns, driven through countless more, spent well over 60 hours in buses (and counting), and have only posted twice. I guess I have a little ways to go before I become a well known blogger and cultural critic and begin attending blogger conventions. My apologies--I´ll work on posting more regularly. And I have been told to write shorter entires, using visual aids, bullet points, and lists. I guess I forgot the blogs are supposed to be written at the 5th grade reading level, so I´ll work on that as well. ;)
In an attempt to make up for lost time (and also because I am lazy), I offer you carefully/randomly selected highlights (and a few lowlights as well) of my first month in Mexico.
1. Punched in the Face. Mexico City (AKA Districto Federal (or simply DF) or simply México), August 1st. While sitting in the Zócolo--the large central plaza of DF--reading a book, out of the corner of my eye I saw a figure taking a swing at me. I manged to duck and for a split second felt a twinge of pride at my feline reflexes when I got hit in the side of the head with the backswing! Who punches like a pendulum anyways? Apparently this man, who smelled strongly of DF´s streets, punches like a pendulum. But before I jumped to my feet to respond, I realized this man was a bit unbalanced (need I remind you all of my irrational fear of crazy people. And yes, I know crazy is a social construction so spare me, I call it irrational don´t I?), and to hurl a stream of curses at him or physically confront him would have not only proved ineffective but also inappropriate. I got up and situated myself 20 yards away (praying he didn´t follow me) and watched as his next equally surprised victim got slapped in the face.
2. Straight boy friend crushes. Zacatecas City (capital of Zacatecas state). I arrived late in the evening and only had the day to explore this small city that thrives with proud Mexican culture and nightlife before catching a 10 pm overnight bus back to DF. As I awoke at 7:30 am to ensure a full day of exploring, my hostel roommates were just returning for their night, happily intoxicated and giggling like school boys. Both from Spain, they were travelling in Mexico for a couple months after finishing studying abroad in Puebla. I had a good feeling about them--buena onda--so when they asked me to return around 6 pm to wake them, I happily agreed. We wandered the city together in the evening, had a few beers, and had such a good time that I let them convince me to skip my 10 pm bus and stay out all night with them and make the 5:30 am instead. Look for photos when I finally get around the putting them on flickr.
3. Loss. That very morning I left Zacatecas, I took out my journal so the Spanish boys could give me their emails, but I left it on the kitchen counter of the hostel. I was so sad when I realized what I had done once I was en route to DF that I nearly cried.
4. Acting Up with ACT UP Paris. A few of you have asked me what I thought of the International AIDS Conference (first week of August, Mexico City). I meant to write a whole log about it, but now I´m relegating it to "highlight" status. I arrive at the conference hoping to set up opportunities in Argentina and Brazil While I was able to make a few contacts, I spent most of my time organizing and attending protests with other activists from around the world. Because the wonderful and awesome folks at Health GAP put me up in their hotel, I was well connected to the "activist agenda" (and had the privilege of sharing a bed with the lovely Mary Carol Jennings). Sometimes we would have 5 or 6 protests on the schedule in one day. By far my favorite was an ACT UP Paris (who are all rock stars) demonstration in which we formed a search party to find the missing French government representatives--ooooiiiioooo Sarkoooziii? Another favorite was planning and carrying out a take-over of the US Government booth in a matter of hours. Lots of great sex worker activism as well! Until I get my pics of the conference up on flickr, you can check out Cameron´s page: http://flickr.com/photos/clefevre/collections/72157606561490535/
5. We bought a pig. Well we bought a dead pig. Well, we killed a pig and then bought it. OK OK, we killed the pig, then paid the owners some money, and then I think they ate it. On the way to Play Ventura, a small fishing village on the Pacific cost of Guerrero, Mexico (a few hours south of Acapulco), a dog chased a pig out into the road right in front of the Jeep that we rented. It was sad, and I almost cried (poor Charles--he was driving), but the good thing is I think it was as quick as could be.
OK that does it for now. I have a bus to catch. for those of you who are interested, here is my schedule for the next few months: today I head south for a nice trip to San José del Pacífico, where I will spend my birthday. After the big day, I will make one or two stops before arriving in San Cristobal, Chiapas. I plan on spending about two weeks in Chiapas before, hoping, with perseverance and some luck, making it to CENSORED for two weeks. From CENSORED I will fly directly to Buenos Aires, where I´ll be for at least a few months. I once again want to extend an invitation to anyone who wants to visit. Just let me know and, as long as I have room in my bed or on my floor, you have a place to crash. I´m also a great tour guide and crazy-sexy-cool travel buddy.
I hope everyone is doing beautifully wherever you may be, and I do love it when I get updates from folks.
Much love and many besos
tucker
In an attempt to make up for lost time (and also because I am lazy), I offer you carefully/randomly selected highlights (and a few lowlights as well) of my first month in Mexico.
1. Punched in the Face. Mexico City (AKA Districto Federal (or simply DF) or simply México), August 1st. While sitting in the Zócolo--the large central plaza of DF--reading a book, out of the corner of my eye I saw a figure taking a swing at me. I manged to duck and for a split second felt a twinge of pride at my feline reflexes when I got hit in the side of the head with the backswing! Who punches like a pendulum anyways? Apparently this man, who smelled strongly of DF´s streets, punches like a pendulum. But before I jumped to my feet to respond, I realized this man was a bit unbalanced (need I remind you all of my irrational fear of crazy people. And yes, I know crazy is a social construction so spare me, I call it irrational don´t I?), and to hurl a stream of curses at him or physically confront him would have not only proved ineffective but also inappropriate. I got up and situated myself 20 yards away (praying he didn´t follow me) and watched as his next equally surprised victim got slapped in the face.
2. Straight boy friend crushes. Zacatecas City (capital of Zacatecas state). I arrived late in the evening and only had the day to explore this small city that thrives with proud Mexican culture and nightlife before catching a 10 pm overnight bus back to DF. As I awoke at 7:30 am to ensure a full day of exploring, my hostel roommates were just returning for their night, happily intoxicated and giggling like school boys. Both from Spain, they were travelling in Mexico for a couple months after finishing studying abroad in Puebla. I had a good feeling about them--buena onda--so when they asked me to return around 6 pm to wake them, I happily agreed. We wandered the city together in the evening, had a few beers, and had such a good time that I let them convince me to skip my 10 pm bus and stay out all night with them and make the 5:30 am instead. Look for photos when I finally get around the putting them on flickr.
3. Loss. That very morning I left Zacatecas, I took out my journal so the Spanish boys could give me their emails, but I left it on the kitchen counter of the hostel. I was so sad when I realized what I had done once I was en route to DF that I nearly cried.
4. Acting Up with ACT UP Paris. A few of you have asked me what I thought of the International AIDS Conference (first week of August, Mexico City). I meant to write a whole log about it, but now I´m relegating it to "highlight" status. I arrive at the conference hoping to set up opportunities in Argentina and Brazil While I was able to make a few contacts, I spent most of my time organizing and attending protests with other activists from around the world. Because the wonderful and awesome folks at Health GAP put me up in their hotel, I was well connected to the "activist agenda" (and had the privilege of sharing a bed with the lovely Mary Carol Jennings). Sometimes we would have 5 or 6 protests on the schedule in one day. By far my favorite was an ACT UP Paris (who are all rock stars) demonstration in which we formed a search party to find the missing French government representatives--ooooiiiioooo Sarkoooziii? Another favorite was planning and carrying out a take-over of the US Government booth in a matter of hours. Lots of great sex worker activism as well! Until I get my pics of the conference up on flickr, you can check out Cameron´s page: http://flickr.com/photos/clefevre/collections/72157606561490535/
5. We bought a pig. Well we bought a dead pig. Well, we killed a pig and then bought it. OK OK, we killed the pig, then paid the owners some money, and then I think they ate it. On the way to Play Ventura, a small fishing village on the Pacific cost of Guerrero, Mexico (a few hours south of Acapulco), a dog chased a pig out into the road right in front of the Jeep that we rented. It was sad, and I almost cried (poor Charles--he was driving), but the good thing is I think it was as quick as could be.
OK that does it for now. I have a bus to catch. for those of you who are interested, here is my schedule for the next few months: today I head south for a nice trip to San José del Pacífico, where I will spend my birthday. After the big day, I will make one or two stops before arriving in San Cristobal, Chiapas. I plan on spending about two weeks in Chiapas before, hoping, with perseverance and some luck, making it to CENSORED for two weeks. From CENSORED I will fly directly to Buenos Aires, where I´ll be for at least a few months. I once again want to extend an invitation to anyone who wants to visit. Just let me know and, as long as I have room in my bed or on my floor, you have a place to crash. I´m also a great tour guide and crazy-sexy-cool travel buddy.
I hope everyone is doing beautifully wherever you may be, and I do love it when I get updates from folks.
Much love and many besos
tucker
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