On Oaxaca

The governments' guns advance toward the University on this Day of the Dead. The last time I passed through Oaxaca City was just under a year ago, a January morning just before the dawn began to look into the mirror of the sky. I walked from the bus station towards the center of the city as the dawn brought its fire to the stone streets and everything lit up gold. It was hard to tell then what would take place in the city later that year, but it wasn’t impossible. It’s that secret that all beautiful colonial towns hold here in Mexico, a certain dark desperation in the eyes of those sitting on the streets.

oaxaca anticapitalista

Just a handful of hours from where I am sitting, today Oaxaca burns under the heat of a different flame. Since the Federal Preventative Police put the city under siege last week, very few things are certain. Presidente Fox, who after months of inaction, sent the PFP to “bring peace to Oaxaca.” He has been under increasing pressure since the presidential election was decided in September to not give the Oaxaca situation to incoming president Felipe Calderón as a welcome gift in December. Taking a tip from the old PRI playbook, Fox hesitated for months, then sent in the firearms.

Very few things are certain. An American indymedia reporter has been killed by an armed group (on October 27), most likely a plainclothes paramilitary group, who if wasn’t sanctioned by the state government, was at least allowed to operate freely by them. As I write this, Radio Universidad is still broadcasting (listen live here). It is the last form of mass communication that APPO holds (La Asamblea Popular de los Pueblos de Oaxaca, the coalition group directing the rebellion). The PFP is amassing a few blocks away from the University, undoubtedly planning an attack.

The people here in Cuernavaca are split on the situation in Oaxaca. Memories still linger of the Mexican Guerra Sucia of the 1970’s and 80’s when the ruling PRI party repressed all political dissent through “disappearing,” torture, and limitless incarceration. I talked to a very intelligent taxi driver on October 31st who, based on his experiences in the Guerra Sucia, lamented that the leaders of the APPO were marching their movement directly into the jaws of a massacre at the hands of the PFP. He agreed, however, that the movement was just and that the government was wrong in attacking the city, that the attack would just throw gas on the flames.

During a cultural festival last weekend in the Zócalo (center plaza) of Cuernavaca, quite a few people from this city were circulating with signs in support of the APPO. One was carrying a communist flag. Throughout the centro for the last several weeks, political posters have been wheat pasted in public places in support of the APPO. Example:

Yo APPOyo Tú APPOyas Él APPOya Ella APPOya Nosotros APPOyamos Ustedes APPOyan

(the verb “apoyar” can be translated as “to support”)

Radio Universidad transmits the nicknames of this morning’s kidnapped. The announcers speak of bringing flowers to the resistance barricades. Sempasuchitl, flower of the dead. It is a tense time in Mexico, and the country continues to twist itself tighter and tighter. By the time Calderón is sworn in December, things might just snap. If not before.

Shade & Burning

San Cristóbal de las Casas, Chiapas, Mex. What didn't make it into the last story was exactly where I was staying in Mazunte. First I headed up to this spot called Posada Arquetecto which has a palapa for hanging hammocks overlooking a huge, beautiful beach. It was still on "high season pricing" (Dec. 1 - Jan. 15), 50 pesos a night (5 bucks) which seemed to me at that moment to be ridicules. Plus there were some Chilangos up there pumping los punchis punchis (techno music), so I said forget it and went across the street.

Juan Carlos is an insane but mostly harmless gringo carpenter who has made his home in an RV about 30 yards from the beach sand. There's some convoluted story, but he's "just watching over the place."

Enter Maura. She's from Holland, speaks five languages, is a little over forty with a great tan, blue eyes and dark hair. Lucious eyebrows. A tired look in her face, probably from living away from home for too long. I met her on a collectivo (pickup truck full of people going between towns) on my way back from the regional hub Pochutla (ugly, dusty shittown). She seemed nice but eccentric, we didn't talk much.

Turns out she's staying with said Juan Carlos. Let's just say I don't think she pays rent. She was my "in," though, when I went across the street to ask JC if I could hang my hammock under his mango tree for 30 pesos. They said sure, and tried to upgrade me to this cool old Airstream trailer out behind the RV, but I'm crazy for hammocks. Nevermind the mosquitos.

The next day (yesterday) I woke up to explosions. No big deal, but the birds flew away anyway. JC was off building a wooden deck. Maura is also, like him, insane. She just got blown out of Honduras by Hurricane Gamma and is again in Mazunte where she lived for four years previously. She explained many things to me, including how she only gardens with a knife, and I could not figure out if she was trying to get in my pants or not. Turns out she wasn't. Alls well that ends well.

Last night, all night bus to San Cristóbal, heart of Zapatista country. But now my hour is up at the internet café. I gotta pay my six pesos and go.

The Beach Life

Playa Mazunte, Oaxaca, Mexico AND THEN TO THE BOY THE DAYS BEGAN TO PASS AS WEEKS...

I was on the bus for hours and hours from D.F. to la costa de Oaxaca, where the beach faces south and the sun dances a long dance of tag with the ocean and always ends up winning. On the last bus I met a very lost Australian who didn't speak hardly a lick of spanish... she was headed to Zipolite too and ended up following me, which was a good idea because I have no idea what would have happened to her otherwise. I stumbled onto the beach to find, right in front of me, the scraggly group of my American friends, on holiday in Zipo. Bisquito, Craigasaurus, su Rachel, Miguel y Daniel... they were good medicine for my first night alone out in the world.

So it's been la vida en la playita for the past five (?) days, I'm writing from a slow connection in Mazunte, a little beach up the way. The Scragglies left today towards Puerto Escondido, on their way to various airports and lives. That means the sweet prelude to the adventure is over, and me encuentro solito...

I just wrote this on the beach:

Se fueron mis amigos. I went back to the hostel and watched dolphins . The dolphins made me feel better. Craigcito querido amigo mio me presto su guitarra, that made me feel even better, la guitarra es buena amiga mia.

Los italianos nos permitieron salier sin tratar de chingarnos.

I bought my ticket to San Cristobal for tomorrow night at a quarter to eight. Me costo 309 pesos, a 12-hour all-night feat.

En Mazunte sueñan los hippies. No le conozco a nadie aqui.

I went to stay at the Posada Arquetecto but I didn't have a lock for the locker, so I went across the street and hung my hammock outside a wierd gringo's RV. I told him I'd pay him 30 pesos for the night. He told me he has candles. He also has an improbable girlfriend.

I went for a walk. They say all you need is love. I thought to myself what good is a beautiful place without love? Somehow places can't make up for people.

I should go play some beach volleyball. I should go record some birds.