The Mixteca through sleepy eyes

I rise at 6:30 with only three hours of sleep under my belt. God. I consider canceling my trip to Tlaxiaco, if only to get a few more hours of beauty rest. Somehow, in the midst of working the night before, I convinced myself to start baking muffins at 1 AM. Awesome idea, Megan. I've been meaning to gift some baked treat to the Fondo Regional guys--in thanks for offering me their time, and for taking me all the way out to Hidalgo Itundújia a while back. I've got the ingredients in the fridge. Though it's late, the fact that I bought requesón (ricotta cheese) yesterday from the cheese lady pushes me to accomplish the task. I mean, I don't want the cheese to go to waste! (tsk, tsk)

So here I am, feeling like a I haven't slept at all, packing up the final things in my duffel, ready to go. As my friend Alex navigates the early morning traffic towards the van terminal, I silently (hmmm, or maybe I say this aloud it's so important to me) pray for a good seat in the can so I can sleep during the ride. (There's a strategy to van riding, people).

Turns out I'm eighth on th list, very bad. The van is all men, too--not a single lady besides myself in the whole bunch. Also, bad. This raises the chances that I end up seated next to someone who is just fascinated by a white girl. Like two weeks ago when I hop in the van and open a book--just as the dude next to me pronounces, "Ah, no voy a dejarte leer, linda, jaja!" (Ah, I'm not going to let you read, beautiful, ha ha) Great. He talks my ear off for the first hour--after which I decide to fall asleep, as the only means I can think of to get him to stop talking to me. As we approach Oaxaca City I wake up--and the first thing out of his mouth, "Can I get your number?" Me, rubbing sleep out of my eyes..."Uh, no, dude, no." But I digress...

I'm lucky and snag the seat up front this morn. It's the middle seat--but it's better than getting sandwiched in back with no air and a horde of dudes. The van line people are ocming tog et to know my face. Not many white people go up to the Mixteca as often as I have, I suppose. The woman who takes my name and money no longer looks at me utterly confused, asking me to spell my strange-sounding first name. And today the driver, recognizing me, asks, "Hey, you've been away for a while. Haven't seen you here." It's true. It's been two weeks since I went up to Tlaxiaco. His name's Emanuel. He gives me a quick tip on where to find the best tamales in Oaxaca (for which I forgive him for keeping me awake that much longer). I inset early into the conversation that I'm beat--thus, I can easily transition into sleeping at any point. And as we pull from the main highway off west towards the Mixteca, I dip my head back and nod off.


Eva recording saludos from two girls who dropped by from
a distant pueblo to take a gander at the station. They're shy
and take a bit of nudging to drum up the courage to be recorded.

I hop out at the radio station. I get a chance to chat with Cornelio, who I haven't seen in a while. He's manning the studio. There's a documentary series playing. It's a series on indigenous people who have moved to cities called "Indígenas Urbanas." This week's episode is about Ciudad Juárez--which I'm surprised to hear, according to Cornelio, is a nice city. I guess, aside form the massive murders of factory women and the narco traffic--it's a cool city! I've never been--I've only read the horror reports. I'm skeptical--but aware that I shouldn't judge without seeing for myself. I've not been exposed to documentary work liek this one. Cornelio tells me that on the whole he doesn't like these series because they generally make indigenous people out to be victims of their own circumstances--which understandably, he find destructive. How can a people rise out of utter poverty, horrible education, a lack of fundamental resources like water and electricity if they're constantly being told they are weak and need help? It's like they're being fed the opposite of the American message of "pull yourself up by your bootstraps." (Side note: does anyone know where the bootstraps saying comes from? I mean is their actually someone out there who once fell down while walking? Someone on the street turns, offer his hand to the guy--he shakes it off--and instead, reaches for the straps on his boots and hauls himself up all. by. him. self. Everyone on the street is dumbfounded. Hushed whispers travel around the crowd..."He...oh god...he pulled himself up," "Did you see that?" "Just with his own bootstraps..." "Impossible!" "No he DID it!" The whispers break into thunderous applause. Then he turns to the astonished and admiring crowd and boom, "I am AMERICA!" Is this what happened once upon a time? Incidentally, I think pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps as a catchall mantra is bullshit 'cause let's face it, some people can't even afford bootstraps--so the task is made a bit more challenging, eh? But I digress, again...) Anyhow, I aim to give this doc a listen later to judge for myself what message it sends.

Doña Carmen arrives. She wants me to give a listen to her new hour-long program. The theme is immigration. So I sit down, don some headphones, and give it a listen. This episode takes the story of one man's experience crossing the border to work as a barber. She divides up the interview with music (there's an unbelievable amount of crossing-the-border music), and commentary. It has a nice rhythm. Some of my pieces, I think, could find a nice home on her show.

Eva arrives for our meeting. We're collecting tape of youth radio pieces to bring with us to Mixtepec the following day. We also need to prepare a questionnaire to hand out to the kids. So we spend some time hammering out those details. At 2 I'm starting ot feel weird form lack of sleep. It's like I'm floating 1-inch outside the borders of my skin. I think I need a nap if I'm to survive. It doesn't help that I haven't eaten yet today. But first things first--a nap.

I wake up in my little rental room around 5. Oh boy, this new groggy feeling is awesome! I make my way to El Patio for a bite, then trek to make copies of the questionnaire. Later I sit myself in the Municipal Park overlooking a gazebo and the main town church. I take a couple hours--enjoying the cool air, the peopled cobblestone paths--to work on a radio script for a new piece. Every so often I lift my head to observe the happiest dog on earth. He doesn't seem to be a stray; he's got a collar, and appears to be following a group of young guys (his owners?). He's hopping from grassy knoll to grassy knoll. Occasionally he takes a break to hike his front paws up to the lip of one of the garden's fountains and happily slurps from the pool of water. He launches himself back onto the park's paths and bushes, stopping to get nuzzled by various kids and couples squatting at benches nearby. My friend who arrives later notes: He has all the comforts he needs here--water, space to romp, love.

Eva drops by. We spot Rene nearby getting out of his theater class at the Casa de Cultura. The three of us head off to a local café. Eva and I try our hand at chess, while Rene scarfs down a sandwich. By 11 my brain gives out. I'm old now, apparently. So we all shuffle back to Barrio San Diego to our respective homes. The house is black when I get in--everyone ensconced in their rooms, snoring. I switch on the light in my room; it flick flickers on and off. I'm in my own tiny disco. I make a little raise-the-roof motion with my arms in honor, but decide the strobe effect is bound to give me a seizure (oh man, it just took me a sec to remember how to spell "seizure." Damn. My English is going! For those of you enjoying the prose of this blog--enjoy it whilst you can. Apparently I may not be able to form English words at all soon!) Lights out.