La Carrera a la Basilica

 About 3 months ago, Fanny, the youngest of four siblings and probably the most passionate Catholic I have ever met, challenged me to run with her in the Carrera de La Virgin de Guadalupe - a 162 km trec to Mexico City from Izucar de Matamoros. This holiday celebrating the Virgen Mary begins the Mexican Christmas season.

It's a lot like a relay race; the truck drops off team members every 100 meters, and once the torch reaches you, you take it and run as fast as you can to the next person waiting; then a second truck picks you up and you start all over. It takes about 8 hours to reach the Basilica in this manner and you only run about 12 times throughout the night; we do not run the entire distance because once you reach a certain point outside of Mexico City, it is too dangerous for pedestrians. At the Basilica, we will light our torch, and it will guide our way on the run home.

Fanny explains, "it isn't easy - it's un sacrificio." I, of course, respond, "¡Yo puedo!" and promise to make the journey with her.

The week of the "Carrera" arrives and our team is set - Coco and her husband Chucho, Fanny and her father, brother, friend Pati, and me, the gringa loca.

The truck that will carry half of the runners.
Well at least until the other truck breaks down...

Ready to run! Notice everyone wearing sweatshirts and me in a tank;
Fanny and Pati bet I won't run in my tank at 2 in the morning
when temperatures will be around 30 degrees. I won the bet.

The race begins at la Iglesia Santiago, one of Izucar's many gorgeous churches. From here, we run 3 km (2 mi) to the highway leading to Mexico City. When we load all 80 of us into the back of the trailer, Fanny says, “It’s not too late, we can call mom and she’ll come get you.” No way, I’m going.

They tell me this is the only time all of us will be crammed in the truck; as soon as we start the relay, people will be dropped off every 100 meters and there will be much more room. An earthquake of 6.7 actually struck the coast near Acapulco, shaking the states of Puebla and México – although everyone in Izucar trembled for 3 minutes, we didn’t feel a thing!

It’s my turn to bajar la camioneta and I suddenly realize I’m slightly terrified. The truck literally stops only for a second before you jump off, and the steps are tiny. I climb down backwards while the truck is moving about 30 miles a hour and hold tight until it slows. I jump, and I am alone; luckily, the moon is full so it isn’t pitch black, but after I encounter a dead snake, I’m not feeling reassured. About 2 minutes pass and I see Pati’s lamparita (tiny flashlight) in the distance running towards me. She passes the unlit torch and I take off until I reach Coco. I climb on the second truck and we continue on.

We do this about 8 times and the time surprisingly goes by quickly. I find myself looking forward to being dropped off into the darkness and enjoy the cold fresh air on my face.

About 70 km away from Mexico City, the truck stops completely. We pass around tortas and coffee and chat happily. After about 30 minutes, we find out one of our trucks has an engine problem and will not be able to make it to Mexico. It’s 5:00am and the run is over. All 80 of us will have to ride in one truck for 2 hours.

We cram together trying to figure out the best way – we sit legs apart stacking people closely between them – no one seems to mind the lack of personal space– they cuddle up close and comfortably, knowing it’s the only way we are all going to fit. I'm feeling a bit claustrophic so I stand the rest of the way with my hands above my head holding a rope tightly so I don’t step on the child sleeping next to my feet. There are lots of indocumentos jokes, only it is me they are questioning – "Do you have your papers? What? You don’t have papers? We're going to deport you, gringa!” they laugh in good humor.

We finally park at 7:45 am. We grab our blankets and spread them out on the sidewalk – and sleep soundly for 45 minutes.

You might be asking, why would anyone want to put themselves through this crazy pilgrimage.

Here’s the story:

Nearly 500 years ago, shortly after the Spanish conquest, a poor indigenous man had a vision. A dark-skinned Virgin Mary spoke to him and told him to tell the Bishop to build a church on the Hill. Of course, when he told the Bishop and other clergy, no one believed him; they needed proof. So the Virgin told him to climb the to the top of Tepeyac Hill. When Juan Diego arrived, he found it covered in Castillian roses, native to the Bishop's country. In December, roses do not grow because it is actually very cold in Mexico City. This in itself was a small miracle.

The church built on Tepeyac Hill; La Virgen was hung here until the 1970s.

The Ancient and more modern Basilicas de Guadalupe.

Juan Diego collected the flowers in his cloak and took them down to the bishop. When he opened the cloth, the flowers fell to the floor and on the cloak appeared a perfect image of the Virgin Mary. This cloak now hangs in the Basicila at the base of the hill.

I am told there have been many scientific tests on this special yate (cloak) – it is nearly 500 years old, yet age has not touched it. Scientists have used acid and bleach on the cloths fibers but nothing affects it. They can not determine how it was painted, and when they tried to replicate it, their cloth lasts no longer than 10-15 years. 

This miracle brings over 10 million faithful Mexican Catholics to the Basilica the week before Dec. 12th each year. Some by trailers like us, some by bicycle, some purely on foot. Many will begin the journey months before, walking hundreds of kilometros and finish the journey on their knees as they enter the Basilica courtyard.

We walk about 10 blocks towards the Basilica. As we get closer, the waves of people become thicker; I   grab on to Coco's jacket as to not get carried away in the strong current. The entrance carries a large banner welcoming los peregrinos (pilgrims). 

The Basilica will welcome over 1million Mexicans (and a few gringos)
the day before El Día de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe.

We enter the Basilica with amazing ease and speed. I'm shocked at how organized and efficient the tour is and begin to wonder if I'm still in Mexico. A lady, dressed in her best Sunday clothes, shouts loudly "This is the Virgen" "Be respectful!" "Take of your hats!" 

Then, we are ushered onto one of four conveyor belts. Chuchu tells me to get my camera ready, and we pass by Her in less than twenty seconds. 

La Virgen de Guadalupe 

The whole visit lasted no more than 30 minutes, with about 25 of those in the gift shop. Afterwards, we  tour the market places and fuel up on lots of coffee. We find a public bathroom that charges 3 pesos for its use. There is no soap, and as I leave, I notice a people counter at the entrance. Over 900,000 people have used this bath this weekend - I suddenly panic, needing to get to a farmacia fast to buy some Purell.

With my new handsanitizer, I'm ready to eat - there are church groups on every corner, preparing pollo, tortillas, mole, atole, and nopales for any faithful peregino. Absolutely free.

At 6:00 pm, those who want to sleep or simply sit for a while, pile into a new truck, and the rest of us, into the trailer to get ready to run again.

Mercado filled with statues, jewelry,
and other beautiful gifts to offer La Virgen

We run with our now brightly lit torch. I have a sudden burst of energy as I grab the torch from Pati.  I'm not sure if it was the faith that moved me, or the thought of a bus smacking me, but I run faster than ever at 1:00 am -- 40 hours without sleep. At about 3:00 am, the jefes say we are behind schedule and we need to get back for our welcome party. Our run has ended. We sit and giggle incoherently - no one wanting to be the first to sleep. Fanny tells me I've impressed her. Never had she imagined a gringa wanting to participate in such a crazy, yet important tradition. Aguantaste, Gringa, her brother says to me with a huge smile. You did it.

We arrive on the outskirts of Izucar and visit our first altar for La Virgen. Jorge, Fanny's father, lights its candles with our torch, and Coco leads us in the rosary. We sing "Guadalupe" and then make our way to the next altar. 

At 6:00 am, we are welcomed by members of the church. They greet us with atole and hot chocolate, and lots of tamales. We light their candles displayed amongst statues of Mary, Christmas lights and Poinsettas (La Flor de Navidad). We say another Hail Mary, sing another song, and finally, walk home while the sun rises to greet us. I have never been so tired, yet so happy.

For the less faithful and slightly more cynical, the story of Juan Diego is like many Catholic traditions here. Most likely, it was created to convert the indigeous culture to Catholicism--a Jesuit-style mezcla of cultures used instead of the more vicious tactics of the Spanish Inquisition. The Mexican Virgen is said to be darker-skinned like the indigneous Juan Diego. She is more commonly called La Virgen de Guadalupe, which sounds a lot like the Nahautl name "Coatlaxopeuh" (pronounced quatlashupe) meaning "the one who crushes the serpent" (referring to the serpent, Quetzacoatl, another legendary figure of Aztec mythology).

When my faithful friends interjected and interrupted each other to tell me their own version of the story, I did not share my knowledge and perspective of the legend. I simply listened in awe. A miracle does exist in México, and you can literally feel its power in the streets of Mexico City and in a trailer carrying 80 faithful peregrinos. The spirit of millions of Mexicans flowing together towards the Basilica like rivers joining in an ocean. It truly was a most miraculous adventure.

Aloe vera and the Brits.

Being the only gringa in a small city means you are automatically an expert on anything English, even if it means translating the process of how aloe vera is harvested and made into a gel to put into lotions, makeup and certain health foods. Yes, that was definitely why I was selected to represent my country on a Fulbright: my expertise in aloe vera.

Thursday, I was called into the director's office and asked a favor. Could I do some interpreting on Friday for a Discovery Channel documentary on sábila. I have no idea what sábila is, but I try not to turn down opportunities that involve meeting Discovery Channel film crews. Actually, I really never turn down any opportunity here, and it hasn't failed me yet.

I learn sábila is the plant containing that magical gel called aloe vera. The director's secretary assures me it is no big deal and dials the engineer who is in charge of this project. She talks for a bit and then hands me the phone; the engineer says we need to meet so he can explain the process. I realize at this moment, it was really stupid of me to say yes.

I can communicate pretty well in Spanish, and understand probably 75% of the time. Sometimes, they use synonyms I've never heard of, or just mumble too much. I find I understand women more than men, and if they are super atractivo, forget it, no hablo español. I have problems with double-meanings; it's an art form here and really, it's just dirty-minded speak (it even has a name, albur) - Never, ever, ever tell someone you want them to iron for you, especially in front of their grandmother...I still, to this day, have not lived this one down.

To ease my mind, I agree to meet the engineer to get some background information on this product at 9:00 pm. When the engineer finally shows up at 11:00 pm to explain his process, I learn aloe vera has 19 of the 23 amino acids the human body needs; it has powers to regenerate cells and to kill bacteria which makes it great for healing wounds quickly. After asking the man to repeat himself and looking to Coco to help explain, I also learn my farm and factory vocabulary is greatly lacking. This was a huge mistake.

The crash course ends at 1:00 am. Finally, after 4 hours of tossing and turning, I get up at 5:00 am and start correcting the papers I had planned to work on in my free time that afternoon. At 8:00, I'm off to my new job as aloe vera expert and interpreter.

We meet at a restaurant and order a much needed cafe. Discovery should be there at any moment. In a previous post, I wrote about the magic of convivir. Mexicans value people over time, especially when it means chatting over a delicious meal. So, when the two-person film crew sends in the driver to tell us there's no time for breakfast, I think, these people are obviously not Mexican. One sip, we leave our drinks and haul our empty stomachs into their van.

They are British. They don't actually work directly for Discovery Channel; they are a free-lance journalist and videographer who travel the world doing interesting projects such as this for channels like Discovery. They have been in Mexico for three weeks filming the processes of tequila, sugar cane and now, aloe vera.

Emma and I chat about life in Mexico on the way to the campo where the aloe vera will be harvested. She says in a great accent, "Have you seen a man in a big sombrero on a donkey; wouldn't it be lovely to see a man on a donkey!" and 20 minutes later we are turning around the film van, chasing down a man on a donkey to get some footage for the documentary. Although I am very entertained, I am also slightly mortified.

When we get to the field, the workers are waiting for us. It is here that I realize I am not there to explain the process of aloe vera, but rather to shout orders to the men so Pete can get a perfect shot.

Emma: I need them to be working, tell them to work!

Me - super friendly: Please, could you guys pretend to be working? Thank you so much!

She asks the head of the crew to talk about the process of cutting but to keep it short. Obviously, she has not had many conversations with Mexicans. They have master the art of indirect communication, dancing around in paragraphs before they actually get to the point of a story. I have come to love this about my friends and neighbors. Short is not possible in this language. We film this interview 5 times, each time I smile bigger asking for just a little more cortito...

Emma: We have to do it again. Who is talking on the phone? NO PHONES!

Me - even more sweetly - Please, could you all turn your phones off; Thank you so much.

I learn Puebla state is an ideal place for aloe due to its mild temperatures (the climate here makes it's an ideal place for any living thing, including me). The plant is ready to harvest after 12-14 months; the workers then come in and cut 10-15 mature leaves full of gel, leaving 6-7 behind to regenerate and be ready for another harvest in 3-4 months.

Workers in the field - it's actually very warm out but no one here
works without protecting his skin from the powerful sun

A beautiful drive to the fields - there's Volcan Popo in the distance.

It was entertaining to watch the videographer
get into position for the perfect shot.

They cut, and then pretend to cut the leaves again, and again, for the camera. They load the truck and shut the doors (4 times just to get it right). Then they film the trucks leaving the fields, heading to the plant (but they have to turn the trucks around first, because "that would just look silly" if they left the fields in reverse).

After five hours of this, I am hot, hungry, and thirsty; I'm also thankful these demanding people  are not from the US.

We stop at another field to film the irrigation system needed in the dry season when it hardly ever rains.

We arrive to the factory and put on our cubiertos - (hair nets, nose and mouth covers). The workers here take extreme measures to ensure they enter their jobs uncontaminated.  The engineer prides himself with his extremely clean and hygenic factory. I cover my hair, mouth and nose, thinking this may make yelling orders in Spanish a bit more difficult. Emma's cubierto is just around her mouth, the videographer doesn't even bother, and it sits below his chin.

The truck backs in to the factory (three times to get some good shots) and two workers start unloading the leaves onto a conveyor belt. The belt dumps the leaves into a jacuzzi like pool that disinfects them. They are then pushed by the current up onto another conveyer belt that plops them into another pool to be rinsed. They travel into another super sanitized room where five women cut the ends of the leaves and others shove them into a machine that squeezes out the goo. Three other women sift through the gel for debris, and discarding random parts of the leaves.

Leaves are loaded on to the first conveyor belt which
dumps them into a pool to be disinfected.

After the jacuzzi bath, they travel on
another belt to be rinsed 

Then the leaves go into a tunnel where they end up
in a super sanitized room to be cut and de-gelled

These machines squeeze out the gel.

These workers sift through the gel
to take out any unwanted debris.

Afterwards, the goo travels 6 meters through a crazy cold freezer that lowers the temp from 20 to 5 degrees centigrade in seconds.  It is almost frozen so it can travel up to 18 hours without damaging the gel or changing its color. Then, it is squeezed through a spout where two men wait to take samples and then direct the rest into a large barrel, ready for delivery. The samples are where the Universidad Tecnologica de Izucar de Matamoros comes in. We test for bacteria and fungi that could wipe out the entire crop.

That is where the Mexican aloe vera story ends. Apparently, after it leaves Matamoros, it is carried to a factory that makes it into a powder so it is easier to haul. Then it is shipped to South Korea, Europe or Japan where it is processed into cosmetic use.

And now, you too know all there is to know about aloe vera.

Convivir

Convivir is not a word you can translate easily into English. The dictionary says "co-habitate," but for me, the translation is too cold and scientific to truly explain the meaning. The first time I heard this word was right after correcting un montón de compositions my first week at the university. Strange sentences kept popping up in every writing sample: "My family and I coexist every weekend." or "My family and I like to coexist." ¿Qué? You coexist? Don't we all coexist? So I asked a student how she would say it in Spanish. "You know, convivir!"

When you break it down you get two basic Spanish words "con" meaning "with" and "vivir" meaning "to live." So I can see where the google translator had led them astray. The best definition I can think of is "get together," but it feels like so much more.
In Mexico, nobody lives alone. They are conviviring all the time. In fact, my students and friends are shocked to learn I have not lived with my parents for 13 years (minus a few months of recuperating from a broken face).

My friends around the corner have a large seven bedroom casa in downtown Izucar. Not including Coco and her husband who live about 5 miles away, this household consists of a ten family members, six birds, a turtle, and three fish (one died the other day). There's Abuelita Juanita that rules the household, her son, daughter and son-in-law, four grandchildren ages 21, 28, 29, 31, a girlfriend, and great grandson. Of course it saves a ton of money to live together, but I really don't think this is the reason at all. They just truly can't imagine living alone. They have even given me a bedroom to sleep in when we stay up too late singing karaoke.

As Thanksgiving was approaching, I was feeling a little down. Mexicans don't celebrate this holiday, because they were invaded by the Spanish, rather than the Pilgrims, and schools here do not sugar-coat the eradication of their country's native people as our history books tend to do. (For a more accurate bedtime story, see A People's History by Howard Zinn.)

Most years, I don't dwell on the sad true history of Thanksgiving; normally, I go to my aunt and uncle's house for lunch, and then to Grandpa's for dinner, say what I am thankful for, and eat a lot of turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing and corn. And of course, we convivimos. This year, I had to work from 1 pm to 8 pm, eating tacos for lunch and planning on a street vender cheeseburger for dinner (don't get me wrong, this guy's spicy burgers are to die for).

But before I went to class, Coco informed me that her mother and sister wanted to have a Thanksgiving dinner for me; they knew this would be a difficult holiday without my family. So, while I taught how the Pilgrims and Indians celebrated their first Thanksgiving happily together, giving thanks for all they had harvested (Yep, I'm a hypocrite), the women of the house prepared an amazing feast with a Mexican twist. Instead of warm bread, we ate warm tortillas; jello salad was replaced with pico de gallo, the gravy - spicy salsa verde and an even more picante salsa roja, mashed potatoes was a garlicly pasta, and the main dish - 3 beautiful hens stuffed with olives, peppers, and other bright green and red veggies. They truly did try and find a turkey, but apparently they all jumped the border into the US this month.

Salsa, salsa, and more salsa.

When I looked at the colorful feast and the people surrounding it, a rolling wave of emotion crept up from my heart, into my throat and behind my eyes, threatening to ruin my Mexican blue eye makeup. The amount of time and energy put into this dinner, and it was all for a crazy gringa who happened to share a love for karaoke.

I couldn't speak, so I sat quietly and focused on my delicious meal. My friends smiled at me, but saved their questions until I was ready to talk. They understood.

Later we set up the microphone and computer, and sang our favorite songs displayed on YouTube. It wasn't a traditional Thanksgiving but it reminded me of what is most important about Thanksgiving: convivir.

Even Abuelita loves to sing.

Lily won a contest with this hit.

The best singer of the night - El Medico.

Fulbright

Washington DC. August 2011.
Only 4 of the 6 US teachers will continue on to the next semester.

First, I want to refer you to my disclaimer in the right hand margin.

Here. I will restate it just in case.

This website is not an official U.S. Department of State website. The views and information presented are the grantee's own and do not represent the Fulbright Program or the U.S. Department of State.

If you've happened upon my blog, it may seem like a Fulbright Teacher Exchange is an incredible experience. For me, it has been for the most part. But before you decided to apply for a Fulbright - here are a few things you should consider before signing your 9-month contract.

In the 2011-2012 year, six US teachers and seven Mexican teachers were selected to participate in this program. We were told it would be hard; we would deal with issues that may seem ridiculous and crazy.

And they were right.

We met in November for our "Midterm" conference and hashed out some of the problems we were having.

Here are the top five complaints I heard (and some, I have experienced myself). I have ranked them by severity rather than prevalence.  Of course, this is from my perspective, not from my fellow Fulbrighters.

5. Everything is just harder. Whether it is finding an apartment, trying to connect to the internet, leaky roofs, learning the garbage route, or how to turn on your pilot light so you can finally take a warm shower, you will experience frustration every single day. Jeez, just trying to communicate will give you a headache. But do it. Learn to depend on others, ask for help, get recommendations and phone numbers for the gas guy and a good plumber. Then find the gym or a recreation center to work out the rest of your frustrations.

4. Location, location, location.  Not every city in Mexico is a cultural mecca with traditional food, grand cathedrals and architecture, and indigenous mysteries and superstitions.  In fact, you may find yourself in a suberb of Arizona, like one friend of mine. Make the best of your time by meeting great people instead, and save, save, save so you can take a plane ride to those magical places while you are here.

3. Work. We were told working in a university would be easy compared to a US high school. I thought for sure I'd be on a yearlong vacation with not having to deal with 4 levels of Spanish and almost thirty students in each class. Not true. I have 5 groups of 25 students each. I only teach one level. BUT the program is intense with a rigid curriculum of writing. I have little room to incorporate Gardner's Multiple Inteligience theory in my instruction, no games, no fun. I am so that boring professor I hated in college. And it is nothing for me to spend 3 extra hours a day correcting compositions on top of 5 hours straight of teaching, 1-2 hours of tutoring, and 1-2 hours of prep. Every. Single. Day.

And if you work in a public school, you may have large classes of 40+ (especially in public secundarias (middle schools) or prepas (high schools). Mexican public schools are a lot like inner-city public schools in the US. Parents that care about education send their children to private schools, so you are left with 40 low socio-economic students who have not learned the value of education, and who deal with drugs, crime, and abuse daily. Not exactly a place where an English teacher from the US will feel successful at the end of the day. Research your school before you agree to an exchange - and even visit if possible.

2. Loneliness. Your counterpart is required to put together a support team for you including a mentor who should be working directly with you. In the US, this mentor is paid a stipend and receives a trip to the International Fulbright Teachers Conference in October.  Mexican mentors receive nothing. While the majority of the teachers I have met are friendly, these teachers are overworked and underpaid. They may not have time to help you, or may feel bitter they are asked to do more for no compensation. Don't expect them to reach out to you; YOU have to make the connections, maybe offer something in return - and being a newbie in a foreign land, this is tough.

1. Violence.  (Mom, Dad, stop reading).

The State Dept. issues warnings for the most dangerous places you should not visit in Mexico, but that doesn't mean all of the rest of the cities are safe. Poverty and unemployment are abundant which means crime is expected in most areas. Usually, it is nonviolent muggings and robberies. Perfect strangers will tell me to hold on to my bag tighter so I'm not robbed. No one lets me walk after 9 at night, even if it's just around the corner and the street is bustling. Luckily, I haven't had any issues but almost everyone here has had a cellphone, purse or computer stolen from them at one point.

Other areas are not so fortunate. Drug violence, of course, is a potential danger, but there are other issues as well.  Political action here isn't quite like the Occupy movement in the states. Teachers unions here are known to get out of hand, violence and chaos could be likely - especially in Oaxaca. In 2006, over 20 people were killed including one American journalist during a teacher union protest in this gorgeous city.

There is also a new radical group called Individuals Tending To Savagery who have modeled themselves after the Unabomber Ted Kaczyncsky mailing a bomb to the Polytechic University of Hidalgo. Luckily, my friend and co-Fulbrighter, was not on campus this day.

Kidnappings are a popular way to earn money; pets, husbands, wives, babies...whoever they can nab quickly. Most often, once the ransom has been paid, your loved one will be returned; however, one fulbrighter has neighbors who weren't so lucky. If the family member is returned safely, the criminals have your phone number and will call you periodically, threatening to repeat the crime (or worse) if you do not pay them again. You are in their debt for life. Police are scarce and underpaid due to the absence of public funds. Corruption is everywhere and there is not much hope for help. The US teacher who lives in a place like this will be returning to the US next month for good.

Take advice from the locals seriously, and research your city before you go; do not expect Fulbright to do it for you.

Now that I have scared you from applying for this program, please re-read my other blogs. Mexico is a HUGE country and the majority of it is an amazingly, magical place. Be smart, friendly, and open-minded. After all, it is an adventure, right?

MEXICO CITY - Midterm Conference.

Quinceñera

A few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to attend a fiesta for a young girl's 15th birthday. This is a special day honoring the passage from childhood to womanhood. I had heard these parties were extravagant, and probably more expensive than a traditional wedding. Even with this background knowledge, I was still amazed.

It begins with a "thanks giving" mass.

The girl walks in behind the priest and is followed by her parents, godparents, and seven boys chosen as her "chambelanes". The mass lasts about 45 minutes ending in the girl giving her bouquet as an offering to the Virgin Mary as Ave Maria echos through the church.

After the mass, everyone gathers in a amazingly decorated reception hall. The banquet will serve about 200 guests. 

We were served a delicious creamy almond soup, manicotti and cake (those presents are actually cakes!)

After the main dish, the honored girl and her chambelanes are introduced. Her mother is a coworker of mine; she too looks beautiful and gives a speech that leaves most of us in tears.  Then, they start the party with the first dance.

After this introductory baile, they perform a waltz. (coming soon - youtube is not cooperating)

Afterwards, the quinceñera also addresses the crowd, thanks her mother and her godparents for raising her so well. She invites the crowd to dance. The family has hired the craziest performance group I have ever seen. At first, they sing some popular songs in both English and Spanish, but as the night goes on, they liven up the crowd with all kinds of tricks and treats. They have costumes, party favors, and much, much more.

There is the giant paper mache man....

The mask congo-ing all over the dance floor.

And a boot-scootin' cowboy on skiltz.

Definitely the best party I have ever attended.

La basura

I don't like to complain on my blog because I know my issues are petty compared to the people who actually live here and deal with much bigger problems (poor wages, corruption, crime, etc). But I do want to share some of the idiosyncrasies of this great country that some days make me laugh and other days want to scream obscenities from my window.

Many services here are not found in stores but rather in trucks rolling down the street, announcing their presence with loud piercing speakers. For example, the gas guy has a catchy tune that I like to sing along to every morning. The song reminds me of the Muppet Show theme song, and is followed by a long drawn out "Gaaaaaaaaahhhhhhsssss" that swoops up melodically at the end. When you no longer have hot water, you simply wait for the tune, flag down the driver, and the guy hauls the tank of gas up to your apartment on the third floor.

Some nice fellow on YouTube managed to capture it; listen to this everyday for 3 months in a row and you'll be singing along too...

The bread truck is my absolute favorite, though, and makes me giggle every time I hear his catchy tune.

So, why then, can't the trash guy have a cool jingle to announce his arrival? 

In Izucar, there are no dumpsters to put your trash in and no bins outside the buildings. If you really want to tick off your neighbors, you can leave the bags out for the stray dogs to rip apart, but nobody wants to be "that guy" in the apartment. So you have to listen for a rusted tinny bell that a guy clangs down the street about 3 minutes before the truck actually passes. Then, you and your neighbors scurry to collect all your bags, run down three flights of stairs and then stand in line to hand your collection to the garbage man who throws it in the truck. 

The first time I heard the bell, I was also waiting for the señorita that does my laundry. I dropped my bag of clothes in the hall, scrambled up the 32 stairs, grabbed my two large bags of trash, ran back down the stairs, just in time to see my neighbor look at my laundry bag of two-weeks-worth of clothes as if he were going to throw it in the trash!! 

I don't have a lot of trash; I don't cook and so, therefore, it is mostly just a few take-out boxes. Oh, and have I mentioned I can't flush toilet paper?? (Sorry if that was too much info, but I feel you need to know the small details before you decide you should move here too). 

It would just be nice to not have to have one ear out the window each morning (and afternoon) when I become paranoid that my mini cockroaches will tell their bigger friends that I have plenty of goodies to offer them.  No one in my neighborhood seems to know when and what day the garbage truck will pass; the first time, it was a Thursday at 11:00 am, and the last time was a Wednesday at 1:30 pm.  I could barely hear the bell over the noise of la calle (street). Luckily, my building super yelled "BASURA, BASURA!!" and I was finally able to take out my 3 weeks of trash I had accumulated.

So there it is. I write about how much I love living in this beautiful country, but truthfully, sometimes Mexico stinks.

Día de los Muertos

It was impossible to catch a combi this past week. Starting October 26^th, my usual route was blocked by a marketplace specifically set up for the Day of the Dead. This market stretched almost 5 blocks, crowding the streets with sugar skulls, catrinas and calaveras, miniature ofrendas, and brilliantly gold and purple cempasuchil (very large marigolds). You also have your hojaldras (delicious bread served only this time of year), fruits, candles of all colors and sizes, and I even found some chapulines to share with my students. Surprisingly, many of them were grossed out by the fact I enjoyed eating the crunchy, little critters.

Catrina in the plaza of Izucar

My very own Catrina bought at the market.

Little mini ofrenda bought in the market.

Sugar skulls

Scary skull in the plaza

This special market takes place to prepare for a most amazing holiday, Día de los Muertos. Because I am a Spanish teacher, I had a little background on this famous celebration. It is a ritual that dates back before the Spanish Conquest. Therefore, you see many pagan traditions passed on from the indigenous Aztec culture sweetly blended into the Catholic customs complete with crosses, La Virgen and Jesus Cristo.

Families can buy their food, flowers, and adornos to decorate their ofrendas – usually a 3-tiered display symbolizing the life of a recently deceased love one and the faith of the family. My students tell me if I am going to spend Día de los Muertos in the state of Puebla, I have to visit the town of Huaquechula, which is about 30 minutes from Izucar. A quiet girl speaks up; Huaquechula has become very touristy and if I really want a traditional experience, I should visit her town, Cacaloxuchitl which is only 5 minutes from Huaquechula. I tell Coco this, and Nov. 1^st, la familia and I pack up and take off for a Día de los Muertos adventure.

We arrive in Cacaloxuchitl at 5:00 with empty stomachs. I was told to not eat anything beforehand because we would eat about a week’s worth when we arrived. I am hungry.  As we enter the town we are greeted by a “trick or treater”, a boy about 11 years old, in an ugly monster mask with a bucket. Jorge, our driver, gives him a few pesos. We continue on and realize we have no idea where we are suppose to go. Jorge yells out the window at a few boys standing on the corner. “Dónde están las ofrendas?” he asks – Where can we find the ofrendas? The boys respond with “Hay un chingó allá” pointing down the street. We laugh at the phrase – it’s kind of like saying “There’s a sh*tload down the street!” to perfect strangers.  Jorge tells me this is typical banter of small villages such as this.

However, the vulgar-mouthed boys guided us perfectly – we begin seeing trails of marigold petals, beginning in a cross in the street and then leading visitors (and the deceased loved ones) into various houses. We follow the first orange path into a rustic yard – tables and chairs have been set up, dogs and turkeys walk freely around, taking part in the festivities as well. I almost trip as I try to avoid stepping on a baby chic. The dueña de la casa invites us to follow her. Her hair is pulled back in a long graying braid; she is probably in her seventies.

She takes us into a very simple room with cement walls and floor; on one side of the room chairs are lined up for visitors and on the other, a magnificent altar stands in memory of both her daughter and her grandson. I learn that these types of altars are created for those who have died in the past year. Her grandson passed away in March of this year, and her daughter two months later. Los poblanos believe the spirits of their loved ones are in limbo in this year, still between earth and heaven; the altars are designed to guide them back to their home one last time, which explains the trail of marigolds.

Combining indigenous and Catholic traditions, altars are made of three levels. Each level is decorated with flowers and delicately cut papel picado. The first level represents “earth,” and traditional food and drink that the deceased enjoyed are placed to tempt the loved ones to return and enjoy. Tamales, hojaldras, pipían, mole, and various fruits cover this first level, in addition to cigarettes (if the person smoked), and tequila, mezcal, and/or Mexican cerveza.

papel picado

The second level of the altar represents the magical place between earth and heaven and is decorated in brilliant flowers, candles, and a 10’’ x 7’’ picture of the loved one. Many of the photographs that we saw were photo-shopped so that the person appeared to be walking in a garden, with a beam of light on them as if guiding them to heaven. On some, statues of crying angels stood guarding the photo.

The third level represents heaven, and there is usually a religious painting of La Virgin, a statue of Jesus Cristo, or a cross.

Along with marigolds, incense and candles stand at the base of the altar, lighting the path for the deceased.

Each major at UTIM builds elaborate altars honoring a Mexican hero

A montón of marigolds.

What is an ofrenda?

We pay our respects to the woman’s family. Coco makes “a sign of the cross” and kisses her thumb as she finishes the gesture. The señora leads us back into the patio and tells us to enjoy some of the wonderful food they have prepared. All of the women in the family are working hard; some making tortillas over an open fire, two are stirring enormous pots of mole and the others are busy preparing tamales for the visitors.

Café - with sugar and a lot of caffeine.

Making tamales

Bowls of mole poblano are brought to our tables, also, aguas made from sweet fruits, and of course, warm tortillas. We eat, give our thanks and continue on to the next casa.

In this small town, thirty-six altars were created this year – thirty–six loved ones passed away in just this past year.  We visit two more, an older man in his seventies who is mourning the loss of yet another son, and another family remembering their sweet abuelita (grandmother). We eat pipían – a green mole sauce made from pumpkin seeds over a chicken leg - and tamales wrapped in cornhusks. I am so full, but the family tells me it is a “grosería” (insult) to refuse to eat. So I eat another tamal.

En memoria de un hijo (son).

Altar in memory of an abuelita (grandmother).

These families are very poor, yet immediately after someone in the family has died, they begin saving their money to prepare for these altars and the grand feast. They could spend up to 30,000 pesos (about $3000), inviting complete strangers to meet and pay respects to their loved ones. These people believe the dead truly return – Lily tells me stories she has heard, food disappearing, candles flickering strangely. Superstition is as strong as the Catholic faith here.

Afterwards we travel to Huaquechula where there is a huge festival, with traditional Mexican folk dances, rides and games for children, and a market place selling a variety of Día de los Muertos souvenirs. The altars here are famous around the world I find out as I run into five Americans also taking in the spectacular tradition.

Altars in Huaquechula cost thousands of dollars to build.

Ballet Folklórico en Huaquechula

We take an alternative route home and decide to visit one more town with altars. A woman guides us into a small room with an altar dedicated to her husband. Her eyes are red; I can tell she has been crying. I read the sign by his photo – August 27, 2011.  This is a week after I arrived in Mexico, which seems like only yesterday.

The last altar we visit is a family celebrating the life of their grandmother. They are happy and pass around a bottle of tequila. They offer us candied pumpkin and atole – which is a sweet rice pudding-like substance. I thought I couldn’t eat anymore but I ended up enjoying THREE cups of this amazing stuff!

The next day Coco’s family invites me to the November 2nd Día de los Muertos tradition in Izucar’s panteón (cemetery). On this day, the tradition continues, taking the flowers, food, and candles from the altar to the graves of the loved ones. Doña Juanita (Coco’s mother) carries a large bouquet of cempezuchitl and a small, torn prayer book. Coco and her sister carry 2 large candles.

When we get to the cemetery, I am shocked at the amount of people. The place is packed with families, eating and even drinking Modelo around the gravesites. The afternoon sun is powerful; everyone carries umbrellas, and venders sell popcicles and ice cream in the paths between the tombs. Some family members have hired Mariachi bands to play for their relatives. The tradition of Coco’s family is much more simple and sweet. We visit five tombs, Doña Juanita leads us in prayers of the rosary, and we end in a joyous song, which Diego sings at the top of his lungs.

As a Spanish teacher, I thought I knew a lot about the Mexican culture, and particularly about Día de los Muertos. But after experiencing the kindness, generosity, and faith of these people, I realize I have a lot more to learn.