America, in a sandwich

People tend to ask me here, "Don't you miss your family? Your country?" I usually answer: "Sure, but I'm used to living far away from my family. So it's not so strange." And as for my country--you know when I take a moment to think about it--I guess I don't miss the United States...at least not yet. It's funny how adaptable humans are. I feel so busy trying to figure out these new surroundings (which I guess aren't so new at this point; I'm halfway through my grant, at this point!), that I hardly feel I have time to miss what I left behind. Sure, sometimes I wish I could teleport friends and family here to enjoy a nice lemonade on my porch. Or I wish I could find a place with towels that don't shed half a pound every time you put them in the wash. But otherwise, I feel fine.

And then, something happened this week...

An undeniable and urgent craving for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches overcame me. Huh? It was first ebbing in the back of my mind, the idea of a sandwich. Then it inched its way to the front part of my brain as I contemplated lunch. And finally it forced me with the memory of creamy pb and tart jelly atop multi-grain bread, to go to the market for supplies.

I'm happy with the outcome. It was delicious! But I'm starting to think this recent craving is just really the manifestation of latent feelings of nostalgia for home. It's weird because I never even liked peanut butter and jelly sandwiches as a kid. Some mom would inevitably serve them at a party thinking, "These are surefire. EVERY kid loves a good pb & j!" No, Mrs. Rosenfeld, not every kid. Please make me a turkey sandwich.

So am I missing home? I think so. Or perhaps I'm missing something distinctly American--you know like over air conditioned malls, good pizza and really bad reality television. I remember when I moved to NYC after college having days where I missed the suburbs. Who misses the suburbs? So my cousin and I would wrangle someone with a car to drive us out into Long Island for a movie at a Cineplex, a stroll around Baby Gap and a bite to eat at Pizzeria Uno (this is a Chicago-style pizza chain and I'm from Chicago; it's really sad that I even set foot in there, I know). This feels sort of the same. Perhaps I need an America day. Let me just get my teleporter fixed and I'm off!

On a total side note, when I was googling for a picture of peanut butter and jelly, I found all these other hilarous images. Like, if you're REALLY a fan of pb&j, you can have this lovely ornament for your Christmas tree:

You can even get yourself a peanut butter and jelly martini...



...you know if you want to vomit real badly sometime.

Una Maravilla

One of my ear plugs has fallen out. It's 3 AM and that damn gallo is having a fit right outside my window. I scramble for the light, pulling up sheets and blankets, trying to hunt down the missing bugger. My naked feet hit cold, wood floors--I hop and skip from right to left, exchanging discomfort from one little piggy to the other. I can't find it. And unfortunately, one plugged up ear does not a quiet morning make. At 5:30 I abandon my efforts to rest and get into the shower.

Today I depart with Beto from the Fondo Regional to head out to community where one of their projects takes place. We're meeting out near the station at 7. So after showering and loading the sound gear into my bag, I wind through town center, where even the taquilleras are not out yet, and hang a left toward the CDI.

One of Nacidos' founders, Beto and Tomás

I think I've mentioned the Fondo before in a past post. They're a government-funded collective that gives loans to small community organizations out in the pueblos. There are three technical advisers that run the Fondo, Augustín who I interviewed yesterday, Roberto, and Beto (and agronomist who is accompanying me to the project site today). The three travel out to villages to pitch the Fondo, assess the viability of proposed projects, and to assist along the way in anything a project might require to make it a success. The rest of the Fondo is managed by an assembly of representatives from each community organization that has a project with the Fondo. Those representatives decide which projects will receive Fondo loans, as well as the time period within which they will have to pay it back.

We climb into Beto's 4-door pickup and start the long trek out to Hidalgo Itundujia, a trek that turns out to be much further than I had anticipated. Hidalgo is the Fondo's favorite son. Its relationship with the Fondo began years back when they first formed their community's organization. A sawmill in their town was exploiting local resources and manpower, with little support of the pueblo itself. So about 100 employees thought, "Why don't we do this ourselves? Why don't we start a sawmill?"

The larger mill

So they formed their group and trekked to Tlaxiaco (about 4 1/2 hours) to talk to the Fondo. Since they'd never taken on a project before (and ability to function and eventually pay back the loan is crucial) the Fondo suggested they start with a smaller project. So they opened a small grocery store. It didn't work. Whether it's because the group had to learn how to divide up work and organize itself, or the timing, who knows--but the thing folded after a period. The group whittled down to a smaller number, about 50. They apply for another loan to purchase a portable mill and truck. And after a few years of struggling, sweating day in and day out, earning NO salary at all (everything they earned went back into the business), the group whittled down even smaller, to 18.

The Fondo took a group of the original members out to visit a community in San Juan Nuevo, Michoacan where, with the help of their local fondo, they were able to start a successful mill--and later diversified the organizations money into other projects. That visit was crucial. It motivated the Hidalgo folks into thinking, "If they can do, why can't we?" So they set themselves to work even harder with the hope that it would pay off at some point.

Today, the organization, called Nacidos Para Crecer (Born to Grow) runs two saw mills--the portable one they began with, and now a much larger operation for higher quality wood. They have a furniture-making department of the mill. They have a small office, that offers housing to employees that travel from outside the village to work there. And they employ over 70 people. But what's doubly amazing to me is that now Nacidos is handing out loans to their own community members. A widowed father with his two small children doesn't have money to build a house for his family--Nacidos gives him a loan, he comes to work for them, and

Tomás

pays it off over the years as he can. A small women's group asks for a loan from Nacidos to make their own enterprise; with the money they buy pigs and cattle and chickens, tend to the animals and slaughter them for sale within the community.

Probably the most amazing story of success is that Nacidos decided four years ago to invest in a band for the kids in town. They bought the instruments for a 17-person band. They hired a teacher to come and live in the community and give lessons every day after school. They even bought a bus to take the kids to play in different communities in the region. This past year the band earned over $1500 from gigs.

A Nacido Investment

I learned all of this from Tomás, the president of Nacidos. He was a part of that original 100 that whittled down to 17. He's been president of the group for the last 10 years. And as Beto puts it, he's the brain and soul of the operation. Tomás is in his 50s. And while I first met him surrounded by account books in the organization's office--he's still got the rough hands and worn clothes of someone who spends the day toiling. Tomás makes all of the deal for the group, to whom to sell the wood, where to distribute the furniture, equipment purchases, land acquirement. He travels most of the month. So when he tells me that he originally started with the group because he returned from migrating north, and wanted to be with his family, in his community--I sort of giggle and say--"but how often to you travel for the group?" He smiles and nods.

I can't imagine working for over 5 years without a salary, without even the promise of a future salary. Can you? And yet, with this blind hope, with the example of another successful project elsewhere, and the presentiment that "if not this, there is nothing--we must make this work," these guys worked themselves to the bone for years. It's amazing.

Hidalgo is nestled into a kind of tiny valley among ridges and ridges of mountains. Beto and I crossed farms and rivers; moist red earth turned to gray arid surroundings, and back to red again as we swerved and zig zagged further into the landscape. I kept zipping and unzipping my hoody as the temperature changed from can-see-my-breath cold to the hot sun and dry air of Hidalgo.

Band Practice
Tomás recounts to me Nacidos' story. Then we go for a tour of the two mills. The larger one sits right on the edge of a mountain. The smell of pine permeates everything. I take a deep whiff and remember high school days of building theater sets after school. Tomás points to the first truck they purchased with the Fondo's money; it is now a tiny almost-toy, dwarfed by the newest flatbed sitting right beside it. I see at least 5 of these enormous trucks arrive and depart during my stay. They head to Tlaxiaco, where they unload for the larger hauls, bringing wood to distribution houses in Puebla and Mexico City. Tomás invites Beto and I to his house for a bite and a refresco.

We hang around a bit longer to get a listen in of the community's band. About 17 kids straggle into a half-built house on the other side of town. Their teacher, a Mixe dude, complete with studded black leather belt and sonic-the-hedgehog hair (very popular here in Mexico now), leads them to take up trombone, alto sax, clarinet and tuba and pump out a few rousing tunes for us.

We leave with a few handshakes and thank yous all around. I'm starring out the window, silent as my body jostles around inside the truck's cab. Beto asks me if I'm tired. I guess I am. My brain wants to switch off the Spanish for a spell, I think. But really, I also can't stop thinking about how ideal this project is. It's a poster child of projects, no? It's the very ideal of helping someone help himself. Augustín warned me earlier that not all of the projects are a "maravilla," (a marvel). Some don't work out. Beto has said one of the biggest challenges is to get Mixtecos (he includes himself in this) to work as a team. He says they're very individualistic; the Fondo often butts heads with a community's cultural identity. So it's not just "how do we teach these guys how to cut wood, transport it, etc." It's also, "How do we teach them to set aside a certain way of operating themselves as Mixtecos, and form an organization, with a leadership body, and laws, and a desire to work hard without break or profit initially?"

Night falls as we wind our way back through now familiar ravines and hill crests. We stop off in Augustín Tlacotepec to watch Beto's daughter's basketball team pick up a trophy. We happen to bump into Augustín, Tlacotepec is his home village. He asks us if we can offer a ride to a friend's wife who is ill and needs to get to the hospital in Tlaxiaco. So we shuffle the contents of the truck's cab, and pile in. I crack the window and let the mountain breeze wash over my nose and mouth. I hop out at town center and walk the rest of the way to my little room. It's only 8:30 or 9--but I'm already ready for bed.

Spanish switch to off. Pajamas on. Lights out.

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.

Reunited...and it feels so good...

A kite display at a Mexico City Museum,
site of one day of the reunion

I've been behind on my blog. Let's be honest. You're disappointed. I know. I have an excuse, of course. I've been busy. :)

When I got home from my last trip to Tlaxiaco I has three quick days to prepare for a trip to Mexico City. The Fulbright Commission held a mid-term reunion in the capital where each fellow had to present the "state of his/her project" to the Commission and our fellow fellows. So, of course, I convinced myself I should mix a sound piece just for the occasion. I entrenched myself in my studio in Oaxaca--and thus, the reason I did not update these pages.

Fellow Fellows

I am happy to report that the reunion was a grand success in many ways. For one, it was great to see many of the Fulbrighters I'd met at the Orientation, as well as reunite with some who had passed through Oaxaca for a visit over the last several months. Second, it was great to get a gander at what others are doing; not to mention, it was nice to hear some of the challenges and hiccups that others have faced. It kind of puts everything into perspective, in terms of my project's hurdles. And lastly, it was really nice to have a room full of people listen to some of my work, ask questions about it, and give me some really kind feedback. When you're huddled in your little studio all by your lonesome--it's hard to get that desperately-needed feedback, at times. I also got some good ideas about possibilities for other funding sources, should I decide to stay on past my grant dates.

So now, for your viewing pleasure, a few snapshots from the reunion...

Josh, a poet in Oaxaca
In the background Kraig, the Agri-Doctor!
doing a project on wild chili peppers in Aguas Calientes
with his wife, Heather, a public health Master

A drummer in the fireman's band that played at the museum

Listening to a panel presentation.
Me with Christopher, a cultural anthropologist in DF and
Jessica, a painter in Guanajuato

Kraig's chili pepper-sniffin' nose

More of the bombero (fireman) band

The ceiling at the Tapo bus station in Mexico City

Josh and I have an hour to kill before our bus departs back to Oaxaca.
How 'bout we pop a squat on a really dirty bus station floor and drink Modelo beer? How 'bout that?

**Also, here is a link to the presentation I made in México City. The piece is in a few different languages. But the site where the audio is posted also includes an English translation script so you can follow along as you listen.

A bit of work, a bit of beauty

Day 4 & 5

I rise early and head for the Plaza for a quick bite. A tamal and atole sound just right on this crisp morning. However, by the time I hike it out to the station the crisp air has been burned away by the quickly-rising sun. Summer temps are on their way to Oaxaca. Many say that the rainy season has been dwindling over the past several years. A shift globally that takes root out here in the Mixteca where I see farmers planting their seed only days after cleaning the field (very unusual). They can't afford to miss even one day of rain that may come early.

I had plans today to travel out to San Andres Chicahuaxtla again to interview the director of the bilingual primary school. However, one of the teachers who works at the station informs me that he is out of town for a conference. So, I scrap the trip, not wanting to travel out there for nothing, and find a few other things to do around the station.

Virgen Carmen at the helm

Araceli and I work a bit on the sound we gathered at her home the other day. I burn her a copy of the interview so she can translate it into Spanish (we conducted the immigration recording of her sister in Mixteco). I also work a bit on the next English exercise for the group. I've been talked into giving a few quick English lessons to several of the station staff. But after leaving the first lesson's worth of homework with everyone a month ago, I see that only a small couple are actually doing the work.

I head over to the Fondo Regional, a small organization, partially funded at the federal level, that gives mirco-loans to small participating communities. The three guys that run this organization are extremely bright and industrious. And even though they are buried in stacks of papers, what amounts to the mountain of projects they manage, they give me a good hour of their time to talk about what they do. Say you're a small community that is facing hard times. You've got an idea for a sawmill. You rally the support in your community, you start an organization, then you write a proposal. You bring it to the Fondo Regional, asking for the start-up money for the mill equipment. An assembly of representatives from all the other small community groups gets together and reviews the proposal. If they think it has merit, they award you a loan. They may also award the community more than just the money for equipment, they may help train the organization how to make a saw mill work. The three guys who run the Fondo do research, go out and find a saw mill run by a community that is functioning successfully, and they bring the newbies out for what amounts to classes. The community group eventually pays the loan back at an interest rate that is the lowest around--and that interest payment, plus the original investment, go back into the Fondo purse for investment later. It's really quite brilliant!

I'm thinking of doing a story on the Fondo. I've asked the fellas if they'll let me shadow them out to a community to interview and record. They're more than willing--handing over their cell numbers and emails addresses.

Wonder what Pozole looks like? Wonder no longer.

The following day I arrive in the morning only to bump into the Payaso Ponpín--he's an ecological clown, or at least that's how I'm translating his title in English for now. I met him months ago at the Radio's Anniversary party. He started a program, which he shopped out to the public hospital in Tlaxiaco, to help interested communities start recycling programs. I'd thought a while back that doing a story about his work in small villages might be interesting. So when I bump into him this morning, I ask to accompany him as he walks from the station back to the public hospital in town. My first question: Why a clown? It's a long answer. At the heart of it is this: a clown can traverse certain boundaries that everyone else cannot. Ponpín exploits that fact to help change a community's perception about how to treat waste in their environment. He introduces me to the doctor at the public hospital in charge of spearheading the project with him, as well as another doctor working on a youth and sexuality program. Once they all hear I have a microphone, they are interested in commandeering my equipment and time for various projects. I get some names and numbers for my next visit. We'll see what comes of it all...

Later, I help Virgen Carmen record a migration story of a musician she brings into the station. This dude with scratchy vocal chords has been across the border several times. He writes songs Stateside and then sends the music and lyrics to his sons, who have a Norteña band in Tlaxiaco. Some of the songs have grown quite popular, like La Coyotita. Another was selected for a movie called Trade shot in the U.S. We record a bit of his story, and then ask him to sing a bit of La Coyotita a capella.


I should mention that today is the official holiday to celebrate mother tongues. That's right, tonguesssss, plural. Oaxaca ranks at the top of the list with over 16 indigenous languages spoken other than Spanish. And that number doesn't even include the distinct variances between languages of the same root, like Mixteco (of which there are 3 variants). Thus, it's a big day for the region, and the station, for that matter. The director is called away to a community where the Municipal President is celebrating the event. The tech expert at the station is called away to the local college to record their Mother Tongue festivities. As for me, I stick close to the station. XETLA is streaming live over the internet, sharing its programming with various other stations in the country. An event in Durango, which includes the presence of the President, will involve the station. So as you can imagine, things are quite aflutter. Tension is running high that all should technically run well. I find myself a spot out of the way to set my things down, hook my minidisc up to the console so I can record whatever seems interesting on air today, and try to be helpful where I can.

At the close of the day I wander over to the traditional medicine clinic that is next door to the station. With funding help from a donor in Florida, located through the station's contacts, this clinic opened up this past September. It not only serves a purpose to the community, offering free traditional medicine treatments to anyone in the area, it also serves as a means to preserve this ancient tradition of the region. I sit down with 6 of the clinic's doctors, all women. It's rare to find them all in attendance; normally they serve shifts throughout the week, traveling in from their distant pueblos to put in a day or two of clinic hours. Due to a meeting of the organization, I am lucky to have them all in one place today. We sit down for about an hour to chat about how each woman finds herself here--serving her community, as well as the wider region at this clinic. Why do they do it--work for free? What does traditional medicine offer a community? Have they encountered discrimination of the practice? I'm hoping I can cut together a small piece about the work of the clinic--and find a photographer to snap photos of the operation (anyone know anyone?). Then I can cut together a nice slideshow with sound they can use to shop around for funding. That's the idea.

The day winds down, and I head into town to meet up with a friend. The local college is holding a beauty contest tonight. I'm curious if it at all resembles beauty contests in the States. I wish, oh how I wish, I had been carrying my camera so I could show the wonder that is the Ms. Tecnológica Pageant. But alas, I had no camera. So my words will have to suffice. Imagine this, a small town square, decked out with a triangular runway, festooned in pink batting and the confusing presence of a fruit basket in the center. Students cram around the runway, small groups huddled together around posters and banners with the names of their favorite girl scrawled out in glitter. The sun sets. More passerby gather around, teetering on nearby stone walls for a better view. Local vendors take advantage of the crowd and stay open all night selling churros filled with cajeta, or punch with warmed fruit swimming in steaming cups.

We find a spot just behind the main stage, precariously balancing on a stone wall. My friend instructs me to puff out my elbows so that no one will squeeze into the small space between me and my neighbor to the left. Oops, too late. Someone fills the spot--and I almost tumble off from being jostled around so much. Britney Spears' voice cracks the muddled noise of the town square. She's singing "Gimme More..." just as the crowd erupts into screams. My buddy says there will be no swim suit competition, "This is a small, traditional town, Megan." But when the ladies strut out, they're all wearing shorty shorts, halter tops and high heels, gyrating to the music. What's the difference? This is just like a swimsuit competition--except that their clothing is more likely to catch fire, than be water resistant.

To make the evening more interesting we each pick our favorite girl. And I'll just tell you up front, I have exceptional taste--'cause my girl wins the big show. My friend picks his fav--and just to show his support every time she crosses us he yells like a drunken sailor, "Yea, Mamacita. Owww, me gustas, me gustas!" Real classy!

After the Shorty Shorts strut, there is a singer, and some traditional dancing from a local group. Then the competition takes a turn that certainly distinguishes it from any pageant I've seen in the States. Each girl comes out basically dressed like this:




So while our beautiful American ladies must come up with talents like this:



These young women dress up in regional costumes, and present their costume to the crowd saying, "My name is Azucena. My costume is from the Istmus of Oaxaca. The beads on this hem mean..." And so forth. And just to give my pageant buddy some credit, when he favorite girl speaks a little Mixteco in her speech he yells out with equal enthusiasm as for the shorty shorts dance, "Owww, me gustas tu lengua materna, nenita!" (Basically, I love your mother tongue, baby. I'm sure he means that nicely.)

There's some more singing and dancing. A mariachi band, very poorly mic'd, is brought out. And then it's time for the Evening Gown competition. I can't believe how much work has gone into this. I mean we're already on to outfit number three here--and each one is accompanied by a different hairstyle and jewelry. They must have a small army helping them change.

At last, around 11, the winners are finally announced. There are 2nd and 3rd runners up; there's an award for Señorita Simpatía (literally, Ms. Affection--which I think must be something like Ms. Congeniality), Most Photogenic, and finally the winner--which as I mentioned, is the girl I selected at the start. I have an eye for these things! Fireworks are set off into the audience--no law suits here. The whole thing's over.

The crowd breaks up slowly. I finish up my punch and think how grateful I am to NOT be a beauty queen. What pressure. People here are not bashful. I mentioned that my friend would hoot out in pleasure at the ladies. But there were also those who would yell out kind advice like, "Hey, you should exercise more, " or, "That's not a good color on you!" You have to be made of tough stuff here to be a beauty queen, I suppose.

The American Work Ethic

Day 3

It's a slow morning. After a leisurely breakfast of tasajo and frijoles, I make my way out to the station, meeting up with an interview subject along the way. I met this guy a few weeks ago in a collective taxi returning from a recording trip to San Juan Mixtepec. A last-minute text yesterday finds us sitting in the studio at the station recording his experience across the border. After talking through a few points of the contest, we begin recording.

His story is totally distinct than the ones I've already recorded the day before. It's less about the twists and turns of crossing the desert, and more about a shift in looking at what it means to devote years of non-stop work towards a goal way down the road. I can't help but wonder after recording all of these migration stories if I could do that. Am I made of enough to weather the pitfalls of the journey, the obvious challenges of living in a country where you don't speak the language, but where you are also in danger of being deported every day? I doubt it.

Rene working hard.

I spend the rest of the day at the station working on a script for a small documentary (cápsula) I'm making about San Juan Mixtepec. Daniel and Cornelio are holed up in the studio working diligently on a station diagnostic that they have to turn into the CDI (the federal body that governs their station). So when I finally leave at 9:30 PM they still hunched over lap tops and mountains of paper.

Stories from the Desert

Day 2

The chilly morning knocks me awake. Oaxaca's been so sublimely warm in the last month, that a brisk morning almost seems foreign (I apologize to those of you living in snow-laden cities. But honestly, you've obviously selected the wrong place to live! I'm working on my tan and you're working on clearing your driveway--oof!) I head to the Plaza and pick up the following for breakfast: 1) a maiz-based atole, steaming hot in its Styrofoam jacket, 2) a chicken tamale in green mole sauce, swaddled in the signature corn husk, 3) a cup of yogurt with fruit gelatin floaters, 4) an apple from, of course, the U.S. of A. All for a grand total of $1.80.

After a bit of paperwork I get in a quick interview with a taxi driver/choreographer (everyone has a slash here in México. But unlike NYC where you generally find waitress-slash-actress, or bartender-slash-rock star--here in México it's taxi driver-slash-shoe salesman-slash-math teacher. You need four jobs just to float.) I'm collecting immigration stories for a contest going on through two universities and a museum in Oaxaca City. The top prize is $3,000 USD. I can only think that money would sprad immensely far here for someone of the region.

Irineo (the choreographer/taxista) tells me his failed story of immigration. At the age of 48 he saves up enough money to travel for 3 days across the desert in order to cross illegally into the U.S. They start by spreading garlic on their shoes and ankles--a repellent for the desert's vipers that lurk, undetected at night. Moving at an almost-run, the thin line of 20 follows the Coyote, snaking back and forth, using hills and mountains as landmarks to guide the way. They rest after 24 hours of uninterrupted walking. And when they eventually hit the border 2 days later there's a veritable weigh station of "mojados." They divide into groups based on their ultimate destination (Washington, Minnesota, the Carolinas, Florida). Tennis shoes and boots have given way to the monotonous trudge and must be abandoned for new digs.

Irineo stops. He tells me his mind will no longer send the signal to his feet to move. So in the end, after ll he's left behind in the journey he naps under a tree and eventually hikes a nearby gas station where he hitches a ride back to the border.

Later in the afternoon I head out of town with my co-producer, Araceli, to her village of Magdalena Peñasco. We have plans to record migration stories from both her dad and sister, who have each crossed the border. We're only able to record her sister before the sun sets, and marks my need to trek back towards Tlaxiaco. At the age of 18, María decided on a whim one evening that she's had enough of hearing about the opportunity of the United States, and wanted to go and see it for herself. Her story, completely distinct from Irineo's involves a sprained ankle in the first 5 hours of the trek, which she must ignore and bear for the additional 3 days of walking. The group is apprehended by Immigration on their first attempt. But once they are detained, and then passed back over the border, the group decides to make another attempt that night. They are successful. Tons of weary walkers pile, like tamales, into a single van, she tells me. Twice it breaks down over the course of the journey. But she eventually makes it to Florida--where this young, tiny 18 year-old works in a hotel, in construction, and finally in an apparel store. I want to know how she navigates the city, how she knows what coins to deposit for the bus, how to get to work...she explains in tears how she muddled through it all alone, so young. And after over a year, she returns. She misses her family, her town, the food. But it's not like she remembered. Her little brothers have grown up. They don't need her like before. And the poverty here persists. The lack of work--the hopelessness--they are still present. So she's putting her mind to cross again. This time, she says, she's ready for the challenge.

I return to Tlaxiaco a bit wiped out. But I've made another appointment to record the migration story of someone I met in a collectivo taxi a few weeks back. So I rally some energy in the form of an ice cream cone and head to the Parque to meet my next interview subject.

This is exactly the kind of guy (poster child for) those who would close our borders indefinitely, build a giant wall out of airplane hulls and find a way to live without cheap, immigrant labor (as if we could!); he's got a rough past, spent some time in an orphanage, spent some time feeling perhaps a bit lost. He gets into drugs, gets into jail, gets beaten into a gang where the hottest chicks stick to the most fierce guys, of course--a place where they would "spend two days getting high, chillin' out." And yet...

I can't help but think America would love this dude's 180-degree renovation, his cinematic shift away from that life when one day he discovers that milk and bread are way more expensive in México than they used to be. Inflation, the simple mathematics of the market slap him into, "I need to stop fucking away my life, throwing away my hard-earned money into shit. I need to set myself to work to the bone, save for my future. 'Cause there is no hope here in México. " I gotta think that the same Americans that would deport this guy in a cannon across the border without a thought, would have to admire his pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps sticktuitiveness, his ingenuity, his 6 AM-to-11 PM work ethic, his new clean edge, his plan for the future--which holds to one line: I will not allow my kids to inherit misery. It stops at his generation. I mean, shit, this guy doesn't even have any kids yet.

Our country is filled with guys like this one who have started their own construction business, landscaping business, house cleaning business--what have you. They have taught themselves through sheer force of will to learn English. They have saved and sweated and saved and planned for a time when every day isn't about work--when it's about giving their families a better shot at it. I gotta think that's something that us "gringos" can understand. Wasn't our country founded on that? Wasn't it?