Palenque, Chiapas, México From the Mexican Solidarity Network:
Family remittances from Mexican immigrants working in the US topped US$20 billion in 2005, according to the Bank of Mexico, an increase of 21% over 2004. Family remittances represent an important source of income for about one-quarter of Mexicans families. Remittances are Mexico's second most important source of foreign currency, behind only petroleum sales and well ahead of tourist income.
Cobán, Alta Verapaz, Guatemala TAKE UP THE WEAPON OF REASON AND CONVERT IT INTO A FORCE TO TRANSFORM THIS COUNTRY, WHICH IS GOVERNED BY THIEVES AND CRIMINALS. Delegado Zero, (aka Subcomandate Marcos) Enero de 2006, Yucatán
As Mike 360 said, as Leslie Marmon Silko said, as Rigoberta Menchú Tum said, as Miguel Angél Asturias said, as Simon J. Ortiz said, as Blackfire said, as Gloria Anzaldúa said, as Youth of the Peaks screams now,
¡Qué viva la cultura! ¡Qué viva la lucha!
Hello Youth of the Peaks,
my friends, I write you from central Guatemala, Sololá department. I write you on the occasion of your February summit, hoping that you are all well and that snow has blessed the lands since I left. I should be more specific: just enough snow for the trees, not enough for Snowbowl to open. Snow from the sky, and not what we call here "agua negra." Though I feel very far from the mountains that I have called home, I have been reminded of Flagstaff and especially of you all often on this camino. I write you hoping to pass on some of the things that I am seeing in my travels.
Outside San Cristóbal de las Casas in Chiapas the most humble cement neighborhoods have spraypainted signs that read "AGUA ES VIDA, CUIDELA." Here the traditional Maya people consider their flesh to be made of maize. Foreigners like me are of course "wheat people."
The people here have also seen changes grow strong in the last years: "where culture and economy collide," rings true here as well. On the Lago Atitlán, one of Guatemala's most-touristed places, las milpas (fields of maize) still grow on terraces down the shore. Here too the peaks are sacred: the three volcanoes that form the walls of the lake hold the clouds tight around them, and café and maiz are grown in their soil. In the northern jungle along the Rio Ixcán, la tierra is so fertile that it gives harvest twice a year. Elders still wear the ropa tipica (traditional dress) and new hotels are built every year.
The thirty-six year-long civil war officially ended in 1996 when the indigenous, mostly Mayan highlander guerillas signed los Acuerdos de Paz with the government. Over 200,000 people, mostly indigenous civilians were killed or disappeared. Most of the tourism industry has developed in the last eight years, along with government infrastructure. The central government continues to build and improve "services" in the jungle, leading to a large influx of poor ladinos (guatemaltecos of mixed blood, no longer folllowing traditional ways) onto land that had been of the Chuj, Jacalteque, Kanjobal and Ixil. With the war ended, lives are generally safer but traditional ways of life continue to be in danger. Like in Flagstaff, here they also try to disguise the cellphone towers as trees. For the past 500 years the people here have been made to work, first as slaves then later for pennies on the foreign-owned fincas (plantations) of café, algodón (cotton), and azúcar (sugar). Now the practice of leaving the mountain aldeas (villages) for the coastal fincas to work for 4-7 months a year is becoming less popular than leaving to the United States, often for years at a time. When I tell people here I'm from Arizona, they know exactly where I mean.
When I tell people here that a group of jovenes indigenas (indigenous youth) from northern Arizona have organized politically to protect their cultural beliefs, they're not sure what to say. During the war, organization was very dangerous. In the early 1980's the government adopted a "scorched earth" policy against the guerillas, entire aldeas were massacred and buried in mass graves as punishment for allegedly supporting rebel groups. Currently things are safer for civil society, but still not like what we know in the States. People here smile when they hear of you.
Sometimes it seems that all I'm doing by traveling is searching for perspective. Sometimes the farther away I get, the clearer things become. Sometimes it's the opposite. I'm writing you to share these things I'm learning, but also to tell you that from here, removed from your area, what you all are doing seems yet even more incredible. You have like-minded people all over the continent that share your vision. There are many in this world who value culture before money. Like the graffiti in San Cristóbal says, "¡VIVAN LOS RESISTANTES DEL MUNDO!" The first indigenous president of Bolivia, Evo Morales was just inaugurated wearing ropa tipica, and indigenous groups around the country came together to hold a ceremony naming him as their leader, the first time they have held the ceremony in about 500 years. Part of his inauguration speech from just a few weeks ago:
The 500 years of Indian resistance have not been in vain. From 500 years of resistance we pass to another 500 years in power... We have been condemned, humiliated ... and never recognized as human beings... We are here and we say that we have achieved power to end the injustice, the inequality and oppression that we have lived under... The original indigenous movement, as well as our ancestors, dreamt about recovering the territory.
And tell J.R. Murray and Bruce Babbit to listen to guatemalteco writer Miguel Angél Asturias when he says “la tierra es ingrata cuando la habitan hombres ingratos.” They say Snowbowl will go out of business due to the drought. "The earth is ungracious when it is populated by ungrateful men."
I'm honored to be counted among your friends. Remember that no judge will ever decide what is sacred or what isn't, as human beings we each reserve that for ourselves. Congratulations on all that you've accomplished and don't stop planning the next thing. Keep in touch.
El pueblo unido...
logan timoteo phillips Cobán, La Verapaz, Guatemala 06febrero2006
San Pedro la Laguna, Sololá, Guatemala
I wear striped pants Numero cuarentasiete La milpa ama a la orilla Numero diecinueve they all shout and clap fill the afternoon hammock on the cieling los sonidos del pueblo llora llora la bebe el grupo empieza a tocar los chavos a bailar numero cincuenta sies the bus's pistons run like disjointed reggaton "a dios sea la gloria" el grupo sigue sigue las guapas a coquetear numero diecirubio El milagüero, super heroe capaz de todo como comer chilaquiles sin parrar. De aviones no hay la hormigüita se encuentra por el techo del cuarto piso suena el autobus llora el gallo read the horizon like a bar of music scream the mountains para el milagüero no hay pedo.
Thunderclouds made from the bus's tailpipe the laudry is calm as it hangs the elotes are calm as they bounce in the bag hanging from the old man's neck. The horizon is occasionally out of tune. Every line must bend sometime. Sometimes, rap is like talking with mechanical lungs. Ink blot snow drop. The viejitos sit in their boats on the edges of the fishing nets dancing in the glass water. Their hands make prayers with invisible lines. They also bend. You understand, I have to write small to make it all fit. For instance, men here park busses like well-lubricated jigsaw puzzles, one after another. I promise that the birds are not talking shit about you, even though they are talking spanish. Most of them, anyway. The blue bus is named Windy. It waits for the alley. The woman who rents the boats is named Jesus. She told me so.
The fish sigh in the bottom of the boat. Some words are more popular than other words. This is how we communicate. The mechanic sighs as the last bus rolls into the alley. The driver yells "¡sale!" into his rearview mirror. Hands of the mechanic are black, from throwing ink blot snow balls and cursing, banging. All the dogs ever talk about is barking. Black heads walk down the street, blonde heads up, mouths usually open. I feel like there should be more lighthouses in life. The busses have each been cut down the middle of the chest, sparks flying from the welding. "¡Sale!" is a very popular word. It is how we survive. By agreement. Saludos a todos. The king wants to put a sheet over the clouds to hide their nakedness. Haven't you seen the vulgar sky? It's hard to say no. Sometimes our rulers look like constipated stuffed animals, filled with twenty dollar bills. Sometimes the dictionaries are stuffed with pesos. Mosttimes not. But it's worth looking into, like cocaine in the bible. We are each smeared in the ash we burn. I once met a man with a mouth full of carbon. It stumbled out black when he smiled. It's usually a song we already feel like we know. Familiar like él que amanece.
Hola a tod@s, I'm writing from San Cristobal de las Casas, the colonial capital of the Mexican state of Chiapas. Since leaving on the sixth I've been following the route that I left off on two years ago: from the Oaxacan coast down to Chiapas. The beach life was good, but the mosquitos are thick as thieves and it's just too easy to stay in the hammock, even when there's so much out there.
When I got to San Cristobal, I turned in my clothes to the llavanteria (clothes washing). Little did I remember the red cotton pants that I bought on the beach. Si senor, every piece of clothing I brought with me on this adventure now has a varying degree of pinkness to it. There's worse things that could happen. I guess.
I brought with me a minidisc recorder with a killer mic, I've been making field recordings of all sorts of things: churches, caves, pozos (wells), german folk songs, cafes, protests, new songs of mine, etc etc etc. The plan is to make a killer mixtape upon return.
I am travelling alone, which really is the best way to go as far as I'm concerned. It's not as if I really spend too much time alone though, there are a lot of people to talk to. In fact, tomorrow I'm taking a series of collectivos (cheap van transportation crammed with people) across the southern border of Mexico into Guatemala, in the direction of a small town called Todos Santos in the highlands. I'm meeting a new friend of mine, Bartek from Poland, who is a professional fotografo / traveller in Todos Santos. (check out his site, http://bartpogoda.com/ amazing pictures, even some of me tocando guitarra) I think we just may go across the jungle highlands by chicken bus. It was the area hit hardest during Guatemala's long and dirty civil war. Not that anyone will mention that in conversation.
A few days ago I rented a horse from this old vaquero and rode up into a village outside of Cristobal. It was only the fifth time I've ridden a horse IN MY LIFE, and the dude liked to run. Crash course in horseback riding. Turns out it comes pretty naturally to me. That is, somewhat naturally. Right after I started the horse realized that I didn’t know jack and decided to take a break by the side of the road and much grass for five minutes. The old women across the street got a big kick out of the scene, as did the horse. There was nothing to do but laugh. That is, until I discovered whipping the horse in its big ol beehind with the rope. I learned a lot.
I went fast, definitely the fastest I have ever ridden a horse. The town, called San Juan Chamula, has the only 'catholic' church I've ever been to that doesn't have a christ. There the majority of the people speak only mayan dialects, some have spanish as a second language. In the church (which was built in the 1520's as part of la conquista) there are glass-boxed saints wearing mirrors and thousands upon thousands of burning candles. The heat and smoke and sound of christmas carols (from those xmas lights that play annoying tunes, a new addition) is really intense and very conducive to hallucinogenic exchanges with whatever god you prefer. Cameras aren’t allowed, and I even was told by a half-blind mayan man that writing isn’t allowed either… which of course I was doing, sitting next to a saint. He didn’t speak Spanish very well, but he was afraid I had written the names of the saints, which would steal them from the church, as would a camera. It made me think a lot about what it would be like to live where there is so much poverty that the people are forced to invite foreigners into their community as one of the only industries. Would you like to be photographed praying?
So tomorrow starts the real unknown. Through Guatemala, through Belize on the way to Yucatan, the caribe and more Mexico. I don’t know how much time I’ll be spending in cyberlandia, but shoot me a line if you get the chance. I’m safe, mostly sane and healthy. I hope everybody is doing at least a little of something they love. I’ll see you on the other side. Now go outside and look at the sky.
Much love desde el sur.
logan timoteo
San Cristóbal de las Casas, Chiapas, Mex. "EL CONOCIMIENTO ES UNA NECESIDAD TRAE PAZ Y DIGNIDAD"
Hopefully by the time you read this, there should be a new set of dirtyfotos up online. There are several subfolders, be sure to check the bottom of the page. This is thanks to my friend Bartek of Poland, who is a professional traveler / fotografo who has with him a little laptop. Check out his weblog, he is amazing. A friend of his also travels the same way, taking fotos and such. Currently this guy is riding a motorbike from Cairo to Capetown, Africa. These are travelers.
Here's more on San Cristóbal:
I'm staying in a hostel, which I don't like to do, but I've become very comfortable and have made good friends with the manager, Luis, from Oaxaca, who is into Macs and mota and music and many good things. I'm paying 50 pesos a night for my bed & use of the kitchen, not a bad deal. On the finances tip I'm doing pretty well, I figure I'm spending about 200 pesos a day, not including long bus rides.
San Cristóbal is a very tourist-centered place. Sitting in a café on Real de Guatalupe, every other person walking by is a foreigner. For me, this sucks a bit and has led to being a bit insulated in the hostel culture... not that I'm complaining. Playing music and chess with Bartek, Jocham (Belgium), Luisa (Germany), Miguel (Mexico) is not a bad thing at all. The other night it got very cold and rainy, so we went out and bought dry wood and three bottles of tequila (87 pesos each), closed ourselves in the kitchen, made a big fire and got down to business. Looking around the table, it's like afterhours at the United Nations. I do miss Querétaro though, where tourism barely exists and where I spent most of my time with Mexicans. Ah well. I still speak mostly spanish.
I spend my days going to museums, writing, taking pictures, playing chess, conversating. A few days was like a trip into Happy Loganlandía: I found Taller Leñateros, an collectively-run indigena print shop, owned by Mayan women. They make their own paper by hand out of recycled boxes, corn husks, coconut shells, whatever is around. Then they print indigenous poetry, prints, etc. and sell them the world over. So that obviously blew my mind, especially after talking to the women for awhile. ç
I went from there to Café Museo Café, the museum / café about local Chiapas coffee, where I learned el dueño de la montaña es dueño del café. This, combined with I, Rigoberta Menchú, has really opened my eyes to how much conventional café (and cotton) gets to US homes. Through native blood.
Within the week I'll be in Guatemala.