Travel to Be Free

Rainy Season

laguerita — Wed, 19 Dec 2007 02:45:00 GMT

Oaxaca during rainy season is a sight to see. For about eight months out of the year, Oaxaca's climate is as unchanging as any other high-altitude desert. Days are hot. Nights are cool. Every day is dry. Many people think deserts are boring. The brown landscape seems to be dead and dessicated under the unmerciful sun. I lived in Oaxaca two years ago during the driest part of the year which is April and May. Water was scarce and the water company was saying the wells were dry. Everyone was waiting for the rains to come, but I didn't. I left to moist, cool San Cristobal. This year, though, I am here for rainy season and I am glad. Many travelers hear "rain" or "rainy season" and head the other direction. Oh, but to see nature rejoice in what it waits all year for is quite the event.

The mornings are fresh, chilly, yet steaming as the sun dries up the puddles on cobblestone streets. Afternoons heat up, dry and deserty, like the Oaxaca of other months, set below a white and blue calico sky. As the sun goes down, thunder cracks imitating the inaudible sound of breaking heat. First, faintly across the valley, the rumble rolls in ahead of grey-black clouds louder and louder as the day darkens. Amazing lightening shows can be enjoyed from any rooftop. This is life lived in a valley. It's like a natural stadium where the sky is the stage.

As the storm blows closer, thunder builds with momentum. The heat gives way to gusting winds bringing in raindrops refugees before the stampede. Drop by drop, tip-tapping the metal corrugated roofs, this is only the beginning. A small moment passes, minutes where the evening is shrouded in shadow and half-basking sunlight. Then, as if on cue, a soft shuffle explodes into a BOOM! so strong one's chest reverberates with the thunder's echo. BOOM! FLASH! As if waiting to be formally announced, the sky opens up to baptize everything with furiously happy rage. The rain is the main attraction.

All evidence of urban breath, smog, even urban noise cowers away in the face of the season's daily exercise. People run for cover, stay inside, give thanks as the rain falls hard. From under certain roofs the sound of a million raindrops falling on corrugated metal can drown out even wall-shaking thunder claps. Conversation is muted, TVs are silenced and the only thing to do is watch and listen with marvel. Life pauses during one of these storms. The pouring, drenching rain only lasts about fifteen minutes, climaxes and only a cuddling drizzle wets Oaxaca. Sweet dreams are had falling asleep to the sound of rain only to wake up to a sunny fresh and chilly morning in which the ritualistic ceremony will repeat itself once again.

Everything about the rain is truly magnificent. The smells it carries from the mountains on its winds, the immensity of its cacophony and release it abates. Oaxacans love rainy season. Rainy season is when a desert comes of age and presents its beauty, its charms and fertility. Dry river beds fill with muddy torrents. Dormant cacti lazily bloom into fleeting flowers. June bugs come out of hiding. And the hills cupping beautiful colonial Oaxaca appear to have been painted, reupholstered, every ridge, nook, cranny, and ravine is blanketed in the soft green fuzz of life.

Rainy season may not be the ideal tourist season nor may it be all that spectacular to someone who is not intimate with deserts' nuances. However, to those who live here or to those who know desert locations, rainy season can feel like the unveiling of one of nature's most delicate masterpieces.

Ode to D.F.

laguerita — Wed, 19 Dec 2007 02:43:00 GMT

Ode to Mexico City, D.F. (day-efay)

I am no longer afraid.
This urban beast, the capital of my beloved Mexico, the virtually unavoidable axis used to intimidate me. It is enormous, dirty and dangerous.
But now, it is mine.

Mexico City is a cacophony of contradictions.
It is the capital of corruption and culture.
A city where education and ingenuity mirror a poverty of wealth, where Mexican affection rubs a rough urban edge.
D.F., the mega-complex, where EVERYTHING, ANYTHING and NOTHING happen all in the same momento, en una vez.

It has been called a parasite; sucking water, resources, clean air and people from far and wide.
It is the haven, they say, of crime, kidnapping and piracy. It is dirty, smelly and raw.

At the same time, it is a relic, a living museum, a defining piece of world history over 700 years old.
Mexico City, the center of two once great, prospering empires built one atop of another.
The Spanish smothering the Aztec.
Zocálo atop Plaza Mayor.
Cathedral atop temple.
Palacio atop palace.
Beautiful buildings built from bloodshed now sit sinking on their uneven foundations as the new Mexican market, the new Mexican empire struggles as it flourishes.

D.F. is a literal, metaphorical and physical feast for the senses and it is all about la venta, the sale.
The grey, smog-stained structures erupt with color at street-level: red, blue, yellow, green, a rainbow of tarps, umbrellas and make-shift markets.
You can buy anything in this city in a store or on the street, en la calle.
The street is usually quicker, cheaper and more crowded than the stores, anything you can think of and a couple of things you never imagined are pesos away and around every corner.

Silence is the only elusive commodity. Between car horns, whistles, cat-calls, sirens and sing-songy street vendors, "¡Apesoapesoapeso! ¡Barabarabara! ¡Paselepaselepasele!" hawking their wares.
One may think to escape to a church or cathedral to find a reverent noiselessness, but here in Mexico, faith and prayer have a permeating whisper all their own.

D.F. is fumes, food and sewer.
It is a place for the tolerant and the forgiving.
Mexico City must be forgiven for its filth and feo-ness, so it may be awed and admired for its pride and grace.

Surviving Zimbabwe

laguerita — Wed, 19 Dec 2007 02:42:00 GMT

Aaah...wonderful, smiling Zimbabwe. After days and days in Africa, in the Botswanan bush, I finally hear drums. Africa, where the first heart beat, the drum beats on, like the Zimbabweans keep on keeping on.

We are still on safari. I am still on my first organized travel tour group and I happen to be with four scientists. As an artist, it becomes painful to hear science being used to take the fun out of everything. I am tired of being scolded for anthropomorphizing and scoffed at for daring to think that animals can have fun. Even the allure of bungee jumping off the Victoria Falls Bridge is tainted by talk of maximum velocity and trajectory.
I finally come to feel sorry for the scientists at the Boma restaurant in Victoria Falls, a touristy spot featuring game meat and dancing, drumming. This display of dancing, drumming, community-building Zimbabwe-style inspires the scientists to talk economics yet again. "Can they really make a living being dancers?" one asks. Maybe that is the trick, that is their mistake: they can't see the people. They only see poverty.

My mom orders a Diet Coke that costs $240,000 Zim dollars and dinner costs over $3,000,000 Zim dollars. It seems ridiculous, almost funny, these prices, but speaks to the economic strife of the country. Yes, there is reason for the scientists to care so much for economics while they are here, but they discuss, pity and complain in the same breath. They relate stories of the current Zimbabwean president and his insanity that they saw on CNN from the comfort of their Manhattan home. They shoot sad, condescending faces at the waiters at the restaurant lamenting their situation. "These poor, poor people," they say.

Then they complain, the armchair liberals. They complain about aggressive street-vendors and the amount of tourists in Vic Falls. After spending at least $10,000 USD each to go on an American-organized safari, they complain about staying at a foreign-owned hotel. "I feel bad most of my money is leaving the country," says one. When told about the local library's need for children's books, another one balks at the idea of spending $45 USD to send a box of books over. I thought they wanted to help these poor, poor people, but $45 seems like too much to spend to help them out. They don't even talk to the people. They keep the CNN images seen from sofas in their living rooms and feel guilty. These Americans feel guilty about a situation they didn't even cause. Instead of interacting with the place, its people, they only frown and cleanse their hands with anti-bacterial gel.

The Zimbabwean people don't need pity. They need clothes, shoes, pens, paper and they ask for it all, but in trade. Zimbabweans have a reputation of being honest, hard workers. They trade. They do not come with their hands out, they come with their wares...and what beautiful wares!! Our days spent at the Vic Falls market are by far the most memorable of the trip. After Botswana, a country of only one native craft, basket weaving, I am blown away by the myriad of Zimbabwean artistic expression. Yes, all this art is aimed at tourists, but in a country in the midst of financial collapse, tourism feeds the starving artists and their starving families. Supposedly, it is illegal to use US dollars in Zimbabwe, but some one looks the other way in regards to Vic Falls. I imagine Vic Falls is the best to be if you are Zimbabwean thanks to tourism. Employment is plentiful and constant. US dollars make acquiring goods possible over the near-by borders of Zambia and Botswana. Tourism, I believe, is saving this part of the country.

My mom and I go to the markets with bags of clothes. We go to the ladies market first. Batiks, wood carvings and stone sculptures all available for a couple pieces of clothing and a few dollars. We talk to the ladies selling batiks first. As I open my bag of clothes I am surrounded. These ladies get first pick and like typical women, they are choosy going for the best clothes. The whole negotiation process is filled with laughter, tough bargaining and integrity. We then head to the men's market down the street. Each stall has a name: "Discount Store", "Chicago Bulls", "Walmart". Everyone tells us their name almost immediately and I start to think it may be a custom like receiving gifts with two hands instead of one. We hear names like Truth, Lucky, Gift, and Good Price. My mom and I laugh and tell them we know their mothers didn't name them Good Price. The men tell us their Ndebele names and everyone giggles as we butcher the sounds. One guy looks at us and says, "See? Just call me Good Price and I give you good price."

Despite the reports coming out of this country, I don't feel any desperation from these people. Yes, they are poor and looking at their outward appearance their poverty is apparent, but the dignity of their character is unavoidable.

Zimbabweans proudly declare that they are survivors. They are a proud, persevering group of people who seriously never cease to smile. One Zimbabwean even declares that Botswanan people aren't as happy as Zimbabweans because they have more money. "Money doesn't bring happiness," he says. These are people who are not jaded, not by their situation, nor by the tourism that surrounds them. When my mom and I return to the market the next day, a man starts walking next to us, smiling as he follows us. It takes us a minute to notice, but when we look at his hat, his smile grows wider. "Nice hat," my mom says realizing it was one we traded yesterday. The man just starts laughing and gives my mom a one-armed hug saying, "Nice to see you again."

I leave Zimbabwe missing the laughter, the smiles and the short lessons in the Ndebele language.
I leave Zimbabwe awed by their art, music and spirit.
I leave Zimbabwe believing in the people, believing that they are surviving and will continue to survive with unbroken spirits.

Sudando en Taganga

laguerita — Wed, 19 Dec 2007 02:39:00 GMT

I thought I knew what it meant to sweat when I went to Indonesia 7 years ago. I did a jungle trek in Bukit Lewang, Sumatra, Indonesia, to see the orangutans. I trekked through tropical rain forest, up and down hills and in all the pictures my skin gleams with perspiration. I could have sworn to you that I was sweating to the point where it ceased to be salty and all that dripped off my body was purified water. I never thought I would sweat that much again. I never thought I would experience heat like that, but then again, I never really thought I would come to Colombia.

Needless to say, it is hot in Taganga, Colombia. It's not so much an opressive, humid heat as a constant, unabiding characteristic of the place. One sweats just sitting still, swatting flies away from one's food or waiting for a cooling breeze. It feels good in a way, like a ritual cleansing. A heat like this is only bearable at the beach with the ocean only a few meters away.

I came to Colombia for only two reasons. One reason was to come to the Caribbean and the other was to dance. Aside from being known for their violence and cocaine, Colombia is also known as the cradle of Cumbia, as masters of Salsa, as a nation that dances. Colombia is a wonderful, peaceful, undiscovered jewel in South America. The people are friendly, warm and I hoped that in a small town like Taganga, I would find a small salsa bar and a boy to dance with.

When I first arrived, I went on the hunt. I was looking for Colombians my age to shoot the shit with, to show me around and to take me out. Immediately, en la calle, in the street, I found the artesans. Artesans are easy people to meet. They are usually hippies who like to hang out and have a good time. I met Yury, a Jesus-look-a-like hippy from Bogotà, Diego a quirky young kid from Medellìn, Andres from Bogotà and his Canadian girlfriend Crista. Crista has been volunteering here for five months and was my guide to the locals. She said everyone was really nice and going out dancing would not be a problem. I had asked Yury earlier if he knew how to dance, which he of course said he did, but that doesn't say much because no self-respecting Colombian man would answer "no". Crista confirmed though that Yury did like to dance and we made plans to go out the next night.

I had my doubts about Yury from the beginning. He is one of these super hippies. All he can talk about is spiritual, new-agey crap. He's the type that can't joke around. For example, he asked me how old I was and when I told him I was practically a grandma with my 28-year-old-almost-30 ass, he of course comes back with, "Age doesn't really matter because time doesn't exist. We are just big balls of light, blah, blah, blah." Don't get me wrong. I am just as spiritual as the next closet hippy, but he wasn't saying anything I didn't know already. It was the same crap about indigenous people and hallucinagens, the Mayan calender, minimalism and Carlos Castaneda. I only mention all this because Yury had sort of attached himself to me and was destined to be my dance partner. The more he bored me with his lack of humor and his philosophical mumblings, the more I began to give up hope of having a night of uninhibited movement and rhythm.

The night we went out, Yury, Andres, Crista and I went to the beach so they could drink before going out. Crista and Andres were busy being all cute and cuddly and I was stuck listening to Yury's wisdom. During the course of his sermon, he's all, "Oh by the way, I love to damce, but I am not an expert or anything. I mean, I know the salsa steps, but fancy turns are not really my thing. I just like to move to the music." This was a blanketed way of saying, "I don't know how to salsa dance." My heart dropped and I was ready to go home, disappointed and defeated.

Just as I was about to say my "Ciaos", however, quirky, crazy Diego showed up wondering where we all were. He was ready to dance he said. I told them that I was going to go home, that I didn't feel like going out. Yury, of course, gave some crap like, "Life is for enjoying the moment, the present." Diego just looked me straight in the eye and said, "If you come out, I promise you the first dance." I looked the kid up and down and gave him a look like, "Is that a threat or an honor?" He just met my eyes again and said, "I'm from Medellìn," like it was supposed to mean something. I later found out that it certainly did.

So, I went out with them to a bar called El Garaje which is actually an old, small parking lot tranformed into a cool little bar. The dance floor is under the thatched roof of a palapa and there are trees to sit under. As we walked up to the bar one song was ending as another one began. It was a classic, popular salsa number. Diego turned to me and offered me his hand, dragging me onto the dance floor.

The heat under the palapa was intense in a steamy, communal sense of the word. There weren't many people dancing, so Diego and I had plenty of room to move. Sometimes it's hard to find your rhythm with a new dance partner. Everyone has their own style and Diego and I fit perfectly together. All I wanted to do in Colombia was dance until my feet hurt, dance until the sun came up, dance like it was my last day on Earth and dance we did.

Within minutes we were drenched in sweat. It was almost difficult to get through the turns because our hands would slip, but we connected nonetheless, missing turns, but never missing a step. It was hot. Salsa dancing is so provacative. The woman always has to be ready to be led through the turns. The man guides her with soft touches on the shoulder, the arm, the small of her back. When the man turns, the woman's hands always have to be ready to held again, to be taken. I only noticed how wet we both were when he would turn and I would let my hand slide along his back as he came full circle. Salsa songs are also so long that just when you think you have a had enough, when the song slows to almost a whisper, the horns start up again into yet another creshendo. And all those bodies on the dance floor, especially in Colombia, where everyone knows how to dance, has an intoxicating effect.

I felt like a super-star, like a Latina, like I passed the test. Diego would only dance with me. At one point some other guy asked me to dance, but Diego immediately cut in and whispered that none of the other girls danced as well as me. Poor Yury was left alone with Crista and Andres. He would only get up and dance to the occasional reggae song. I was lucky Diego showed up or it would have been a short, sad night. At one point, a traditional Afro-Colombian Cumbia song came on, drums beating with typìcal call and response lyrics. Everyone started clapping and singing and swinging their hips. Dancing is an unbelievable therapy. It is a drug unto itself. By the end of the night I was soaked. I could not stop sweating. My skirt was practically falling off of me because of the weight of its wetness. Diego was the same and we would just keep giving each other slithery, slidy hugs.

I don't think I can ever go back to living in the States. I can't give up this heat, this machisimo, this electricity. Ladies, Latin America is where it is at to feel like a woman, to feel like you are alive and strong and beautiful. Latin America is passion and music and revelry. I don't think I can ever go back to white boys again. They are just not in touch with their passion, with their masculinity, with their base. Here, in the heat, in the freedom of poverty, I feel at home.

Xalapa, Oaxaca, Chiapas and more

laguerita — Sat, 7 Apr 2007 06:28:00 GMT

Hello everyone!!!

I am back in my favorite country Mexico and I have more stories, tips to tell.

Please visit my travel blog at

www.traveltobefree.blogspot.com

Leave me a comment or send me a message here with any questions.

San Miguel, Guanajuato, Queretaro

laguerita — Sun, 10 Dec 2006 03:32:00 GMT

Que onda?

So, I have now come to northern Mexico (Northern Mexico being as different from Southern Mexico as the West coast is from the East in the US) and I don´t think I will ever tire of this pinche country.

Last night we stayed in San Miguel de Allende which really was retiree city. Even though migration season for the snow-birds doesn`t start until mid-December, there were still quite a few walking the tranquil streets. We are all pretty impressed witht he town eventhough the restaurants, stores and wine cellars all could have been plucked straight from California. We ate at a really nice restaurant and went to a couple bars. At night we met a nice Mexican dude who took us to a couple local locales and then went to bed.

We just arrived a couple hours ago to Guanjuato, the university/festival town and oh my god!!! We are all speechless wandering around the hilly, conlonial streets. This is by far one of the most impressive cities I have seen. Our hotel is also this funky, ancient, awesonley tiled wonder that also doubles as the house for the owner Lupita. She couldn`t be friendlier. I do not understand why there aren`t more tour groups that come here. San Miguel de Allende is only 1 1/2 hours away and there hot springs all around. I could definitely design a 10 day tour around these two towns and Guadalajara or Mexico City depending on how people wanted to come. Any takers?

Well, I am madly in love again with this beautiful country...the Spanish, the food, the architecture. I am in love with being so intimate with this lifestyle. I keep saying I want to go to South America, but there is just so much to see here.

We spent 3 awe-struck days in Guanajuato, seeing all the sights.
We saw Diego Rivera´s childhood home and some of his works. We climbed up un moton de stairs to reach the statue "La Pipila" and get a tremendous panoramic view of the city. We people watched and met a few folks.

We spent a day focused around death, which is quite appropriate considering Dia de los Muertos is right around the corner.

The Mexican chavo we me in San Miguel de Allende told us that if you wanted to see the famous mummies of Guanajuato all you had to do was go to the plaza in San MIguel on any given morning and you´ll see them. The blue-haired snow-birds reading the morning paper.   Hahahaha...funny joke. Little did we know that there really are famous mummies in Guanajuato and their in Guanajuato city.

We went to the mummy museum next to the cemetary on the outskirts
of town. See, in 186-something the people of Guanajuato needed to make more space in their cemetary, so they logicall decided to dig up some old corpses to make room for the new ones.   The climate and unusual soil conent in Guanajuato had strange effect on the cadavers. The had been naturally mummified and now are on display in the museum.   There are about 20+ mummies in glass coffin-like cases--some clothed, others not, some with remenants of facial
hair, some with hair in other parts, old women, babies. It was crazy. Then we peeked our heads into the cemetary and walked back to town.

After 3 days and the growing crowds of festival goers with approaching week-end, we decided to skip town and explore somewhere new. Based on time and funds we chose the "undiscovered jewel" that is Quéretaro.

One of the first things I noticed as we were walking around trying to find a place to stay was that the people and place seemed very affluent. We ate dinner in a crowded, hip, expensive Tapas restaurant/bar that had literally 200 tequilla bottles on the walls.   There were nice restaurants, coffee shops and expensive cars, but the weird things was that there were practically no tourists there. This little town seemed to be oozing with money, but I could not figure out where it was coming from.

We went out that night to dance club road where we danced to cheesy
Latin pop. We were out pretty late and once again everyone was very finely dressed to the nine´s. Well, I found out that there is a lot of German investment in the town-plastics factories and mechanical engineering centers. It was very interesting. Queretaro would defintely be a stop on my ten-day tour.

After buying tequilla at a liquor store, Graham, Allison and I headed back to DF to drop Graham off at the airport.

Without Graham the ladies were set free and we were headed to the beach.

I decided we should go to the best beach community I have seen in Mexico, Puerto Escondido. The only problem with Puerto is that you have to go through Oaxaca city to get there.

I love Oaxaca and wanted to show it to Allison, but what about the teacher´s riot? The army being called in to quell the un-rest? The rumors of dead tourists? I wanted to see what it was like for myself...and I took Allison along for the ride...