Mexico, parte 2

source: flickr.com

San Cristobal and the Braided Revolucionistas

Reading: « How Subcomandante Marcos Employed Strategic Communication to Promote the Zapatista Revolution »

San Cristobal de Las Casas is a somber town painted in dusty Mexican-style colors– beautiful, but showing its slip. The city is located in Chiapas, a problematic province with a history of revolution and contest. Its legacy has been supporting and advocating for its own people and land, against social and economic injustices unsolved or instituted by the Mexican Government. Western tourists, pulled in capitalist and anti-capitalist directions, never knew what to think. Every movie theater in town showed nightly documentaries on Castro’s Cuba and Zapatista’s Liberacion Nacional. Every wall stenciled with quirky and artistic anti-corporate graffiti. Although they were inspired by Che Guavara and other socialist heroes, Subcomandante Marcos (el lider revolucionario) insists that “[the Zapatistas didn’t go to war to kill or be killed” but rather “went to war in order to be heard.” These are local issues being solved by local leaders. He was a brilliant strategic communicator. Dissent Magazine remarks that the Zapatistas spearheaded “negotiation about what it means to be Indian within a larger Mexican nation… and [created] a communication and public debate deeply rooted in popular cultural idioms.” By creating militias to generate publicity and enlist sympathizers, the goals of the revolucionarios are and have been education, health care, and political voice—equal rights, equal opportunities for a forgotten population.

This autonomous spirit is the palpable spark in San Cristobal, combining crisp mountain air and ancient cultural roots demanding preservation. It questions what it means to understand rules, or laws—namely Western rules and laws.

Not having spent long in Mexico, and being deeply shielded by the paved paths of the Yucatan Peninsula, I was shocked to wake up on my overnight bus to see children carrying large buckets of fresh water to their thatched huts. The cliffs underneath our bus, rocks dropping quietly to the long bottom, did not seem so scary to these children as it did to us. Our surroundings were transformed from tropical sandy coast to mountains of lush rain forest, but cold and stony. We entered a shielded community, nestled in remote hills. This place felt forgotten. There were political protests the day we arrived. In Chiapas and Latin America, these are as common as rain in the jungle. Caballeros held signs demanding “Justicia para Chiapas” and “Derechos Iguales” for Maya. More than 100 men sat peacefully outside of the Catedral de San Cristobal de Las Casas for three days (the entire time we were there), under tarps during the rain, and under sombreros in the sun. The centro mercado, a vast and wild array of local food and craft, demanded full attention as the full skinned heads of las vacas stared blankly at us as we walked by. Toasted crickets with chile waited patiently in their deep baskets. Heather ate a pound of them, I nearly gagged on my first.

Navigating the local buses, San Cristobal has the narrowest streets I have ever experienced—room for about one pedestrian, with sharp turns and 1.5 foot high curbs. It is a city built for walking and navigation, but the standards, are mercilessly different. After loading into a crowded small local van, we traveled about half an hour outside of San Cristobal to Chumas, which harbors la Iglesia de San Juan Bautista, a church which looks like white wedding cake with blue and green icing on its edges. Two small boys operate the entry door and gently say, “gracias senorita para tu visita, y por favor, no sacar fotografias.” Not that you have a chance of ever forgetting what is on the inside of the church but rather, wanting to photograph the inside of the church only to prove to the listeners of your story that you are not lying about la iglesia. Large and dark with no pews and fresh pine needles strewn across the floor, so that you do not see any floor, there are nearly fifteen altars that seem close to igniting the church in full flame, but never does. Each family who visited brought a chicken (which they would later sacrifice during prayer) came with nearly 50 tall, thin beeswax candles which they stood in 3 or 4 rows, waiting for the candles to become one large lake of hot wax. While candles and incense burn, a shaman, standing on one leg and chanting, lifts his folded hands to the air. A woman sways a sick young girl over the candles, singing and prostrating, while her husband and other children look on. Coca Cola is placed as offerings in front of 40 adorned statues of saints, heavily cloaked and cared for, safely guarded behind glass, while visitors slowly pass by. Outside of the church, the market slowly moves through the hours of the day, unconcerned about the happenings of the church, or the shocked faces of visitors.

Mexico, parte 1

El Viaje a Patzcuaro y Janizio, Dia de Los Muertos

Viewing: Posada Prints

While riding from Morelia into the town of Patzcuaro, our bus began trailing, and being trailed by, pick-up trucks filled with marigolds. Dia de Los Muertos begins on the night of 1 de noviembre, on the Dia de Santos, or All Saint’s Day. It is one of the most widely celebrated holidays in Mexico, a national and solemn holiday, a time for prayer and reflection, honoring the dead. The most iconic representations of Dia de Muertos are the finely dressed and characterized skeletons, who hail from its earliest forms in pre-Colombian art to its twentieth century romance with their most famous comic artist, Jose Guadalupe Posada. The images of skeletons with personalities have stuck closely to Mexican tradition, which has “a unique dialogue with death” and has turned its traumas and absurdities to laughter. Its representations of the dancing and drinking skeletons create the macabre sense of humor the country adores. For us, while making our way through Southern Mexico, we could not escape from its haunting reminders of the holiday. We slowly began to see the colored paper tissue flags, with skeleton and designs cut out, hanging from tiendas, as our buses inched slowly west. Our destination was the island of Janitzio, which boasts one of the most famous Dia de Muertos celebrations in the world. The island is located in the center of Lake Patzcuaro, about a 30 minute boat ride from the city, which is situated on the lake’s bank. The statue of Jose Morelos, a powerful emblem of the city, rises 131 feet into the air and stands overlooking the island and the surrounding water. The walkways that meander to the top of Janitzio are carved into the island’s stony base. There is one road, a labyrinth, in which you will always lose your way and also find your way. We stepped onto a crowded boat, huddled together against the cold, and sped towards the island, passing boats of visitors along our way. As the boat docked, we were greeted by dozens of homegrown food stands, cheerfully cooking under colorful tents with lights and dia de muertos flags. Circular ovens with trays displayed fried mini-fish, tortillas, empenadas, and taquitos. Traditionally dressed Mayan women called out their menus, pressed gorditas firmly to their stoves and dangled their babies from sashes bound across their backs. Hundreds of travelers come for the famous “muertos” celebration to watch the spectable of veneration the dead, a tradition not followed in American tradition or culture. By constructing shrines out of marigolds and the favorite foods and items of the deceased, each shrine is honored and sacred space. Janitzio is poor– gray and rocky, the only color introduced by its inhabitants were marigolds and the clothing of Mexican (mainly Mayan) women, but despite this, the spirit was whimsical and eerie, leaving the spectator feeling all of the island’s visual complexities simultaneously. To add to my confusion, I traveled to the island with a group of 6 of the infamous Japanese « photo » tourists, who coincidentally were wearing identically styled puffy coat, all in different “pop” colors. The ever-curious photographers, came equipped with thousands of dollars worth of camera equipment, GPS which linked all six to each other, in case the bright puffy coat was not enough to locate a lost member, hot body patch stickers (think, Thermacare without the pain) in case they got cold and chic, ergonomically friendly sidepacks which protected against theft (zipper facing belly and hip). Together, we began our journey to the top of the mountain and first stumbled (you always luckily found everything) the large outdoor ampitheater, holiday entertainment in full swing. The theater, which felt like a coastal version of the Colosseum, overlooked the sea while dancers on stage were masked as « drunken old men » dancing furiously beating canes, feet and bottles on the ground. As the danced closed, attention was directed to twelve traditional fishing boats, which expanded like dragonflies, began moving in circles, their fisherman masterfully steering in coordinated rhythms. We continued on, entering through the cemetario’s massive iron gates. The epicenter of the celebration and with thousands packed into this small lot overlooking the lake, the cemetario was lit only by candlelight. We made our way solemnly through, stepping over gravestones (and occasionally sleeping persons) as we held onto each other’s arms, surveying the intricate shrines, donning photos of dead persons, pan de muertos, coca cola and photos of la virgen de Guadalupe. We creeped (along with thousands of others) into the small chapel, a simple white building with white walls and a statue of a sarcophagus of Jesus under glass, where many Mexicans would sit all night for the night vigil. As we crawled to the top of the island, back to back with visitors and climbing hundreds of steep steps to the top, we reached the Jose Morelos park, where the statue stands, left fist raised to the sky, while the right hand, and the rest of the island, sit peacefully.

Firenze e Pisa

I will spit until I learn how to speak/

up thru the doorway as the sideboards creak

\Neutral Milk Hotel

I stepped off the plane and immediately saw scores of villas. California dreamin’… again? Had I recently been divorced and embarking on a massive home renovation project re: Diane Keaton in Under the Tuscan Sun? No, I was at the shin of the Italian boot—Tuscany, on a school field trip. From the rolling hills to the brightly colored window shutters, Italy really is (no lie) a photographers dream. With trees that point straight up to the sky, yellow and orange colored rocks and the sparkling Arno river, its hard to imagine any photo turning out badly.

The historic centre of Florence has historically been divided into four quarters, named after the most important churches in the area. The quarters of Santa Maria Novella San Giovanni and Santa Croce are on the right-hand bank of the Arno River, “di qua d’Arno” and the fourth, Santo Spirito, is “di là d’Arno” (to the left of the Arno). My compass, the Arno River, ensures direction in Florence, much like the Empire State Building of New York or the Arch of Saint Louis.

I arrived in Florence (Firenze, in Italian), ready to walk down the narrow streets, dodge Vespas (motorini) and leather jackets. The original home of Italian fashion, few fashion houses still hold their headquarters in Florence—many have hailed Milan as their recent fashion capital. Despite this, Florence’s large windowed boutiques flash Armani, Gucci, Prada, Cavalli, and Chanel. Florence can, at times, among its maze-like streets, be hidden. It is surprising at how easily one could hit—and miss its most treasured boutiques. For instance, Florence’s most famous perfumerie, Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella, has a modest sign near the door and no window, which displays its wares. Incorporated in 1221 by a savvy Dominican businessman, Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella is one of the oldest pharmacies in the world. Their essences and potpurri, as well as its notorious perfumes, still follow 500 year old formulas, originally created for Italian royalty, Caterina di’ Medici.

Also dubbed “Eataly” by affectionate tourists, Florence boasts cocina Toscana in the tradition of “cucina povera,” or peasant cooking. Pure flavor, no sauces, no bullshit. I rambled around Florence and dropped into any café or pizza joint so I could have illy espresso and rustic, oven baked pizza. My favorite place was Trattoria Za za. Za za is Italian for buzz, the sound quoteth by bees the world over. The dish of choice? Pappardelle (literal translation, “gobble up”) with wild boar (Diane Keaton’s ex-husband).

After dinner, I hung out at Ponte Vecchio (old bridge), which, thank God, was not destroyed by retreating Germans in 1944 (every other bridge in Florence was). In the city where Dante, Raphael, and Da Vinci, and Galileo considered their genius, I considered my lack of genius. These thinkers, who spearheaded the Renaissance, developed modern thought. Without them, the world would be a completely different place and perhaps the democratic and secular state I lived in, would not be as it is today. I only got this history lesson upon my arrival to Florence— apparently the history of the Renaissance and classical art are what the city is best known for, not Tea with Mussolini.

The next morning brought a viewing of the Uffizi and the statues and great works by Botticelli and Michelangelo—cherubs and Venus on the Rocks. in addition to Filippo Brunelleschi, whose genius in the 14 teens led him to completely revolutionize art by pulling the two dimensional grid back which led to the creation of perspective. Brunelleschi’s dome, the Basilica di Santa Croce. I walked through room after room, admiring the pieces when I stopped. At the Gelateria, Il Gelato Vivoli located on the Via Isola delle Stinche, the line was out the door.

I stopped by the Accademia to visit my favorite male statue—the stunning David who was 17 foot of man— anatomical and uncircumcised. Typical. David was so lazy that he couldn’t even put on underwear for his millions of viewers. The scholar who gave me a tour actually did his doctoral thesis on the spending personality of Michaelangelo. Hey, you can learn a lot about a guy by looking at his receipts. Apparently the most sound and economic purchase of Michaelangelo’s life was, what do you know, his bed.

Mercato Centrale – food market I then headed to the San Lorenzo market, which, if you are a fan of leather goods at an affordable rate, is one of the best markets in the city. From leather jackets, gloves, purses, and wallets, the supply of goods at the market stretches for a quarter of a mile, lined with merchants stands, ready to bargain with shoppers.

I spent the rest of the evening with friends—a tradition the Florentines, who, beautiful and xx, must meet mom for dinner. Dinner with loved ones, particularly with family on Sunday afternoon, make up the cultural backbone of Italy. This was a culture change I was ready and willing to embrace—along with my fettuccine Alfredo. Wine (Chianti, Florence’s famous export) was cheaper than any beverage, in some cases even water. It was a different but welcome exchange, due to Italy’s countless vineyards and true grasp of how wine was to be mastered.

Pisa, home of the famous leaning tower, originally a famous merchant town, thrived for the greater part of the 1200s and 1300s, Pisa became less prominent when Genoa took over as the main competitor of merchant cities but Pisa has, that tower. When Pisa is not too windy, it opens up its spiraling tower so that you may, like I did, climb the winding staircase nearly 300 steps to the top. Overlooking the Piazza dei Miracoli, also called Campo dei Miracoli (in English, the “field of miracles”) takes its name from poet Gabriele d’Annunzio’L’Ardea roteò nel cielo di Cristo, sul prato dei Miracoli’ “The Ardea rotated over the sky of Christ, over the meadow of Miracles. »

The city was a tourist’s haven, but still had preserved the charm of a small and quaint Italian town.

It had been a fantastic trip—with the weather steady at 60 degrees with sun, it was a welcome break from the misty and cold London. It was clear at the end, however, that I had not done Italy justice, and the minute I got to my London flat, I began planning my next journey. If you need a guide of Italy, please do not visit Firenze Turismo for more information.

Courtauld Gallery at the end of the universe

There’s a yellow rose in Scotland

Watching: Rob Roy Trailer

In February of 2007 I booked an extensive tour of Scottish Highlands, land of kilts, scotch, haggis, Hagrid, Braveheart, and its progeny, America. Although not my first choice destination, I wanted to visit as many places as I could afford, so, what the hell. I booked it. It’s travel. It’s close to London. Right, like Iceland is close to London. Negative thoughts aside, I was not prepared for what came next: rich tradition and myth, wilderness and 10,000 “lochs,” or lakes, dotting Scotland’s mountainous terrain. Loch Ness is the biggest, most famous and arguably the most mysterious of all the lochs in Scotland, for one big obvious reason. Full of wildlife and creatures, known and unknown, many Scots, in this case, my tour guide, had, over his long tenure with our touring company, become obsessed with conjuring Nessie from her murky lair. This “rousing ritual” included a special coordinated and synchronized dance, and featured our tour mascot, a stuffed dragon appropriately named “Nessie’s baby,” which we used as “bait.” After Nessie’s baby mimicked our dance, provided the group’s ringleader (brave soul or innocent victim) moved the dragon’s arms and legs to the dance steps, would, at the very end, raise Nessie’s baby into the air and scream “I’m going to eat your baby!” After the ringleader finished bellowing, our group paused and the lake’s glassy top met with thirty sets of eyes eagerly panning the water. Instantly a figure (what I later learned to be duck), shaped like Nessie’s head, swam merrily and eagerly across the loch, dove for a fish, and disappeared. That could have been Nessie, right?

It is perhaps the pride that keeps us all believing in the Loch Ness monster, which so exemplifies the pride of Scottish people. Their history and destiny is deeply interwoven into the social fabric of the United States, and the millions of Americans with Scottish roots. Please see: Appalachia and any Catholic church with a 45 minute mass. There exist dozens of films depicting the battle for “Scottish independence”—a bloody, sad and rarely victorious tale, recounted for centuries. The ends are always predictable and familiar—everyone knows there is no such thing as a happy ending in Scotland. If there is, it must not be Scottish or the man must’ve told a wee lie. Warring clans, loss of heroes and their extremities (Scottish brawls were a chop fest), and the eventual defeat of the Jacobites in the mid-1700s, repeat that Scottish history is certainly brave, but never clean. This is significant because, if not for the loss of the tribal way of life caused by centuries of continual defeat, there would be a large part of American life missing. The great wave of Scottish emigration in the 1800s occurred because of forced displacements dubed the “Highland Clearances.”

My Scottish travel destinations, from day one to seven, is a long and confusing catalog of Gaelic town names, each destination coupled with a dark myth from Scottish folklore— some legitimate and some, I am convinced, created out of boredom by my tour guide. Faeries, Skelkies, cabbages and kings. My favorite, explains the creation of great Ben na Caillich (all mountains in Scotland begin with “Ben”) or “Old Man of Storr,” which tells of a man transformed into a protruding cliff rock by vindictive dark elves (he ceased to tell them bedtime stories, no seriously), while his wife, weeping at the loss of her old man, is immortally transformed into a streaming river. Other notable stories include lovely Skelkies (Scottish mer-folk) hiding in black rubbery suits to escape unjust betrothals and of a magical creek that, if bathed in, will make you beautiful. It’s a legend, trust me, I decided to bathe in the lake in the middle of February and all I witnessed was a nasty cold two days later. The rest of the trip progressed as such: dressed in swaddling clothes with a fifth of scotch in one hand and Nessie’s baby in the other, our tour bus drove through Stirling, home of William Wallace and Robert the Bruce (yes, the one related to John McCain), which featured a statue of Will that held an uncanny resemblance to Mel Gibson. FREEDOM!! Our bus meandered through Glencoe– its creeks, waterfalls and coffee stops and drove in the shadow of snow- covered Ben Nevis (Britain’s highest mountain peak). At our stop in Fort Augustus we learned from a Glaswegian ex-pat, who chose to live like a McLeod, how much clan life sucks. After he dressed Heather (Air Force, please see: Barcelona) in a kilt, a garment 24 feet long, we left, passing Viking fortresses, spray-painted sheep (and photogenic Eilean Donan Castle, which was, featured in that one James Bond film. You know, that one.

In conclusion, Scottish legends and tragedies reach to the end of the nineteenth century (that’s when I stopped listening) during construction of The Forth Rail Bridge, a stunning man-made addition to the landscape of Scotland. It is, in fact, so tragic that a logbook of accidents and sicknesses from the bridge’s construction had 26,000 separate entries. We heard of the macabre stories of men who died while working on one of the finest bridges in the entire world, only to fall among beams, far out of reach. “Mikey? Mikey boy, are you alive? We’ll lower y’down a sandwich!”

Deep breath. Ahh, whiskey.

writings

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