Breaking Even

It began in darkness. I just kept waking up at 3, 3:41, 4:15, and then 5:30. I travel up to Tlaxiaco with such frequency you'd think I'd be over it. But I still get a bit riled up before I travel. I breakfast against the judgment of my stomach--that, like my brain, is too sleepy to rummage up hunger. I shower. I lock the windows, turn off the gas, take out my trash. This is my ritual. My brother, Alex gives me a ride to the station. It's a quick ride at this hour. I've gotten so accustomed to what people call "Mexican time" here that I arrive five minutes before we're to depart, which is only significant int hat I get the worse seat in the van--way in the back, in the 4-seater, sandwiched in the middle.

Here's what Mexican people are better at than me (I won't speak for all Americans): aggressively pushing their way onto vans, buses, subways; puffing out their elbows and legs so no one encroaches in their space, because people will; finding a creative way to make a little extra cash; ironing; out of nowhere starting a conversation with a stranger, and quickly finding the 6-degrees of separation. Ok. There's more, I'm sure. That's my short list for now.

You wonder, how do I cope with three hours of the worst seat in the van? An iPod, my friend. It surely is a gift from god.

I yell from the back, "I'm getting out at the CDI." But my little voice is muffled by all the heads between me and the driver. I try again, "Voy a bajar en el CDI!!!" Eventually the other passengers send up the message telephone-style. We pull over to dump me out.

After dropping my things at the station I head over to the offices of the Fondo Regional. I'd scheduled an interview with Augustín, one of the three gents who keeps this cooperative lending agency on its feet. We sit down for a basic interview. We'll be heading out tomorrow to one of the communities where a few projects from the Fondo were born. More on the Fondo, and what they do tomorrow.

Back at the station I set myself up in the studio to work a bit from my computer. When 2:30 rolls around Araceli invites me (along with Rene and Eva) to her new house in Magdalena Peñasco for comida. We head into town to grab basics--chicken from the poultry shop, cilantro, avocado and lettuce from the market. Eva ventures back from a small grocery store with canned chilies and chips. Rene finds tortillas at a local molino, and ice cream bars (dessert must be had before lunch; we're too hungry to wait). As small drops of rain threaten, we all bundle into the car and head off.

Chely washing the dishes

Magdalena Peñasco is an hour's drive away. Araceli's new house is located near her pueblo's town center--close to a dry riverbed that snakes through arid red earth, carved in humps from the past flow of water. We arrive, unload our booty. And in the quiet peace of Magdalena, roll chicken and avocado, cilantro and chilies, into warm tortillas. It's tacos, music and laughter for the rest of the afternoon.

Rene departs quickly after a quick walk to this sweet little well. He's got a class to teach at the Casa de Cultura. Eva and I stick around to chat with Chely. She leaves us to watch the beginnings of Batman on her laptop, as she skips over to her uncle's house for something.

And then, all at once, Chely rushes in yelling that horrible storm clouds are closing in, and that we'd better get going or we'll surely get soaked. I tip my head up, squinting my eyes into the dark sky; there it is, large dark masses of clouds moving quickly overhead. I would wager we've got 10 minutes to get along.

We trot quickly over towards the main highway, which snakes through town center, just a few blocks from Chely's house. From there we'll catch a collective taxi into Tlaxiaco. Little droplets threaten as headlights of non-collectivos rush past. Finally a little microbus pulls up. A crowd approaches to hop in--there are really only two real seats in the small can. The rest of us will have to squish into the in-between alleys and crannies that remain. I should say "the rest of them," because look at me, Mexican-style, pushing past the woman with a baby to get the best seat in the van, up front in shotgun position.

My face reflected in the well's brimming water supply.

So I've totaled out the day with the best and worst van seats. I'm breaking even. Huh. I'll take it.