A Pilgrimage to Eternity

 

 A Pilgrimage to Eternity

By Timothy Egan

 

“And men go abroad to admire the heights of mountains, the mighty waves of the sea, the broad tides of rivers, the compass of the ocean, and the circuits of the stars, yet pass over the mystery of themselves without a thought.”

–St. Augustine

 

“I was told I could find the saint’s relics at the comparatively small Catholic church of St. Thomas of Canterbury. The sacred scraps are behind glass about the altar in the Martyr’s Chapel. One object is a piece of cloth from his clerical vestment. The other is a bone chip, wrapped in jewels, though there is no explanation of what part of Becket’s frame this came from. The skeletal nugget could be anyone’s, and the cloth could be a fraud as well. In this dark and lonely chapel in Canterbury’s old town, you have to accept on faith that the two holiest items did indeed belong to Thomas Becket. I sit and take in what aura there is, the years and hopes imbued in these average looking objects. I think of all the people with tumorous bellies or sightless eyes, pleading, Sadly, I am not feeling anything. But then, I didn't ask for anything. Not just yet…” Tim Egan APTE p. 18

 

We do not have all the answers. We are on a spiritual journey. We look to Scriptures, reason and tradition to help us on our way. Whoever you are, we offer you a space to draw nearer to God and with us. –Sign in St. Martins, Canterbury. APTE p. 19

 

To enter the Kingdom of Heaven, one must allow himself to be amazed. In our relationship with God, in prayer, do we allow ourselves to be amazed or do we think that prayer is talking to God like a parrot? Do we let ourselves be surprised? Because the encounter with the Lord is always a living encounter, not an encounter at a museum.

–Pope Francis

 

The greatest danger is not that we aim too high and miss it, but that we aim too low and reach it.

 –Michelangelo

 

Hope guides me.

–Petrarch

 

“I believe in the Resurrection, and I owe this sentiment to the Via Francigena. I’d been moving in this direction for a month or so, even as I grew more and more disgusted with the powerful custodian of this life-affirming event. The evidence from the first century, the many people who shower they had seen the risen Christ and chose death rather than recanting, is a compelling argument–for who would die for a fraud? But what cinched it for me was something the young Lutheran minister in Geneva, Andy Willis, said about the message of Easter from Jesus, some that echoes Jewish sentiment on what happens after death: “Nothing can keep my love in a grave.” Tim Egan APTE p. 319.

 

Years ago when the desire to walk the Camino to Santiago was but a tiny seed, I came upon Timothy Egan’s A Pilgrimage to Eternity at a bookstore. I had noticed it was of the Via Francigena, the ancient pilgrimage route from Canterbury to Rome.  its subtitle is what caught my attention: from Canterbury to Rome in Search of a Faith. I didn’t purchase the book (my work schedule made it hard to read recreationally) but I was left with the desire to read it.

 

As I leave for Rome in less than two weeks, where I plan to walk the Via Francigena from Siena to Rome, I recently read the book. It is an engaging and intelligent adventure as Egan recounts his physical and interior pilgrimage on the VF, as he calls the Via Francigena. As a “lapsed” Irish Catholic, he slowly reveals his reasons for the pilgrimage: his desire to reassess the faith in which he was raised and its relevance for a contemporary man. As he walks, he jostles the evidence for the opposing positions: how the Catholic church has brought value and benefits to the world versus the scandals and inhumanities it has committed in the name of Christ. He acknowledges the great achievements of the Church (the salvaging of knowledge and culture by the monasteries at the fall of Rome, the hospices for travelers, the fomentation of culture), while countering them with the failings of the Church (the Crusades, the Catholic-Protestant religious wars, the African slave trade, the Inquisition, the burning of heretics, the Holocaust, the genocide in Rwanda). In the cases of the great horrors, he lingers, as we also want to do, on where God was in the face of such suffering and evil. As a journalist educated in Jesuit schools, he understands the free will of humans, but it provides little comfort in the great horrors of the 20th century and how God could allow this to happen. Egan also calls to mind the Church’s reluctance to accept the advances of science, as when Galileo postulates contradicted the Church’s understanding of how the universe functioned. 

 

Egan also shares his family’s challenges with the Church as when his mother was asked by her parish priest and local bishop not to have a hysterectomy even though her doctor recommended it for her health. He also recounts his family's horrific experience with a pedophile priest and the lack of accountability by Church authorities to keep children and minors safe, and the lasting trauma it left in the lives of victims. 

 

As Egan travels, he fleshes out the lives of saints–Thomas Beckett, Augustine, Francis + Clare, Ignatius, and many other saints who are remembered along the VF–and their acts of love and altruism and generosity. He points out the popular piety and faith of many present Christians to continue to bring their pleas to God and his holy ones. Egan is not without his petition–his sister-in-law has cancer and his wife is moving heaven and earth to find a cure. But ultimately, Egan’s primary question is around the role of faith in God.

 

In the end he affirms his faith. He cites how early Christians were witnesses to Jesus’ resurrection and were willing to die for their faith. Certainly, there was something there. He also appreciates how present Christians live out the Gospel in helping their fellow man in contradiction to the prevailing culture and attitude, e.g., those to feed and shelter migrants who are presently unwanted in Western countries. He has a fond appreciation of the late Pope Francis, whose openness to migrants, scientists, agnostics, atheists, queer folk and those on the margins stand in stark contrast to the present science-skeptism and anti-immigration of the present US administration. Ultimately, he recognizes the need to forgive the many sins those in the Church have committed to his family and those through the ages. 

 

I appreciate the book as it describes well those Catholics whose parents were devout Catholics, who had an unwavering trust and faith in the Church and its teachings. While the following generation of Catholics desired to keep the faith of their forebears they were more educated, and more skeptical of the Church’s pronouncements and less defensive in regards to the failings and scandals of the Church. In some cases, these Catholics became more selective of the Church's teaching, “cafeteria Catholics” is a common derisive term. But I would venture to say that these Catholics are using their conscience (reason, current knowledge, and the rationale for the teaching) to come to discern whether a tenet should be followed. We are called to choose that which brings us life and leave what does not.  

 

As a life-long Catholic who is grateful for the faith given me by my parents, I have sought ot articulate and live the Gospel in a manner and in a language comprehensible to the contemporary person. One can see the Pascal Mystery in the cycle of life, from the clear example of the metamorphosis of the butterfly to all organisms who live out their life cycle giving life to the next generation of organisms. Life after death is present in the many memorial services of individuals whose love and actions continue to live out in the hearts and minds of those who remain. But ultimately, the belief in the Resurrection, perhaps the most difficult and the most central part of the Christian creed, is a mystery, a tenet based on faith. Fr. James Martin S.J. has stated, “One of the best explanations is that the Jesuits explain the Church to the world and the world to the Church.” I would say that explaining the Catholic beliefs to the contemporary person is an ongoing personal vocation; it starts in the interior reflection with God and is evangelized in word and action.

Wanderlust

This is what is behind the special relationship between tale and travel, and, perhaps, the reason why narrative writing is so closely bound up with walking. To write is to carve a new path through the terrain of the imagination, or to point out new features on a familiar route. To read is to travel through that terrain that the author as guide - a guide one may not always agree with our trust, but who can at least be counted upon to take one somewhere. I have often wished that my sentences could be written out as a single line running into distances so that it would be clear that a sentence is likewise a road and reading is traveling. --Rebecca Solnit, Wanderlust, p. 78.

“But strange things do happen when you trudge twenty miles a day, day after day, month after month. Things you only become totally conscious of in retrospect. For one thing I had remembered in minute and Technicolor detail everything that had ever happened in my past and all the people who belonged there. I had remembered every word of conversations I had or overheard way, way back in my childhood and in this way I had been able to review these events with a kind of emotional detachment as if they had happened to somebody else. I was rediscovering and getting to know people who were long since dead and forgotten. I had dredged up things I had no idea existed. People, faces, names, places, feelings, bits of knowledge, all waiting for inspection. It was a giant cleansing of all the garbage and muck that had accumulated in my brain, a gentle catharsis. And because of that, I suppose, I could now see much more clearly into my present relationships with people and with myself. And I was happy, there is simply no other word for it.” -Robyn Davidson, Tracks

 

“The two important things that I did learn were that you are as powerful and strong as you allow yourself to be, and the most difficult part of any endeavour is taking the first step, making the first decision.” -Robyn Davidson

 

"Only in the print of pilgrims actually ascending the mountain does the familiar shape that unites the other prints vanish. When we are attracted, we draw near, when we draw near, the sight that attracted us dissolves: the face of the beloved blurs or fractures as one draws near for a kiss, the smooth cone of Mt. Fuji becomes rough rock form underfoot to blot out the sky in Hokusai’s print of the mountain pilgrims. The objective form of the mountain seems to dissolve into subjective experience, and meaning of walking up a mountain fragments. --Rebecca Solnit. Wanderlust, p.148

 

“On Saturday night the city joined in the promenade on Market Street, the broad thoroughfare that begins at the waterfront and cuts its straight path of miles to Twin Peaks. The sidewalks were wide and the crowd walking toward the bay met the crowd walking toward the ocean. The outpouring of the population was spontaneous, as if in response to an urge for instant celebration. Every quarter of the city discharged its residents into the broad procession. Ladies and gentlemen of imposing social repute; their German and Irish servant girls, arms held fast in the arms of their sweethearts; French, Spaniards, gaunt, hard-working Portuguese; Mexicans, the Indian showing in reddened skin and high cheekbone—everybody, anybody, left home and shop, hotel, restaurant, and beer garden to empty into Market Street in a river of color. Sailors of every nation deserted their ships at the waterfront and, hurrying up Market Street in groups, joined the vibrating mass excited by the lights and stir and the gaiety of the throng. ‘This is San Francisco,’ their faces said. It was carnival; no confetti, but the air a criss-cross of a thousand messages; no masks, but eyes frankly charged with challenge. Down Market from Powell to Kearny, three long blocks, up Kearny to Bush, three short ones, then back again, over and over for hours, until a glance of curiosity deepened to one of interest; interest expanded into a smile, and a smile into anything. Father and I went downtown every Saturday night. We walked through avenues of light in a world hardly solid. Something was happening everywhere, every minute, something to be happy about… . We walked and walked and still something kept happening afresh.” --Harriet Lane Levy, 920 O’Farrell Street

 

“On ordinary days we each walk alone or with a companion or two on the sidewalks, and the streets are used for transit and for commerce.  On extraordinary days—on the holidays that are anniversaries of historic and religious events and on the days we make history ourselves— we walk together, and the whole street is stamping out the meaning of the day.  Walking, which can be prayer, sex, communion with the land, or musing, becomes speech in these demonstrations and uprisings, and a lot of history has been written with the feet of citizens walking through their cities.  Such walking is a bodily demonstration of political or cultural conditions and one of the most universally available forms of public expression.  It could be called marching, in that it is common movement toward a common goal, but the participants have not surrendered their individuality as have those soldiers whose lockstep signifies that they have become interchangeable units under an absolute authority.  Instead, they signify the possibility of common ground between people who have not ceased to be different from each other, people who have at last become the public.  When bodily movement becomes a form of speech then the distinctions between words and deeds, between representations and actions, begin to blur, and so marches can themselves be liminal, another form of walking into the realm of the representational and symbolic— and sometimes, into history.”  

--Rebecca Solnit. Wanderlust, p.235

 

The end of an era

 

The end of an era

On Wednesday, May 22, I had our last staff meeting of the year—for me the last staff meeting ever. I had planned it as a celebratory end of the year: review of end of year duties, announcement of transitions and new staff, soliciting of volunteers for committees for next year, a space for community schools and field day. It closed with an EOY share out—participants were asked to share a word that defined the year and express gratitude for anyone there. As appreciations were mentioned I realized that this was the last time this was happening and I wanted to be here with this crew one last time and partake of the flautas that had been ordered. I realized that I had to prioritize saying goodbye over the standing meeting I had scheduled right after.

 

And with 6 days of instruction left, I am looking forward to my retirement with anticipation and grief which have noticed in the past few months. The anticipation is heighted especially when I have to deal with a problem—a coverage for a class, frustration with the glacial speed of Central Office Departments, solving budget issues, sheer exhaustion, failure on deliverables or sheer exhaustion—"this is the last time I have to deal with this" I tell myself. 

 

But beneath the stress and exhaustion, there is grief. Being an educator has been part of my entire adult identity—37 years—it has provided me with purpose and meaning. It has also provided me with a social outlet than my introverted nature does not necessarily incline to. I have been blessed to have had a pretty good run in education. And now that chapter is closing and I need to close up the last loose ends—it is as if I am on my death bed trying to leave directives for when I am gone.

 

I realize that I have to let go. Longfellow will thrive and do well without me. It will not fall apart. I look forward to unstructured time and not being sleep deprived, but I also know that a part of me will die. And this is what I grieve. The loss of the delight and beauty of being an educator, to be privilege to witness growth, ah-ha moments and occasions of joy and laughter. I expect and hope to be transformed to something else. I will find time to make art, travel, sleep, be with people and find meaning in other ways.

 

And once the storm is over,

© 2020 Hector Viveros Lee

“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”
― haruki murakami

Is Covid-19 the tragedy we have been waiting for?

A decline in polarization.
by Peter T. Coleman

The extraordinary shock(s) to our system that the coronavirus pandemic is bringing has the potential to break America out of the 50-plus year pattern of escalating political and cultural polarization we have been trapped in, and help us to change course toward greater national solidarity and functionality. It might sound idealistic, but there are two reasons to think it can happen.

The first is the “common enemy” scenario, in which people begin to look past their differences when faced with a shared external threat. COVID-19 is presenting us with a formidable enemy that will not distinguish between reds and blues, and might provide us with fusion-like energy and a singularity of purpose to help us reset and regroup. During the Blitz, the 56-day Nazi bombing campaign against the Britain, Winston Churchill’s cabinet was amazed and heartened to witness the ascendance of human goodness—altruism, compassion and generosity of spirit and action.

The second reason is the “political shock wave” scenario. Studies have shown that strong, enduring relational patterns often become more susceptible to change after some type of major shock destabilizes them. This doesn’t necessarily happen right away, but a study of 850 enduring inter-state conflicts that occurred between 1816 to 1992 found that more than 75 percent of them ended within 10 years of a major destabilizing shock. Societal shocks can break different ways, making things better or worse. But given our current levels of tension, this scenario suggests that now is the time to begin to promote more constructive patterns in our cultural and political discourse. The time for change is clearly ripening. (Politico, March 19, 2020)

In Shakespeare’s play Romeo and Juliet, the title protagonists fall in love but they each belong to long-standing enemy families, the Capulets and the Montagues, respectively. The tension in the tragedy is between of the lovers’ between their new found love for each other and their loyalty to their respective families. In the drama, the youths encounter supporters and detractors of their relationship and they navigate how to be together. In their efforts to deceive their families, they tragically die. It is their death that brings an end to the feud between the families.  The loss of their respective children opens a way for the Montagues and the Capulets to make peace with each other.

Looking at the deep political divide in the US which we have been in for at least 30 years, I have often wondered what tragedy would be necessary before we can put away our differences to find common ground. I thought perhaps a war, or some catastrophe. We are now in the midst of an epidemic that is impacting the entire world. It is an invisible enemy and we are severely hampered by insufficient testing, who is a carrier and no vaccine. In the meantime, we will have to shelter in place, as our economy takes a nose dive and the infections continue to surge. Perhaps this the tragedy that will bring us together.  

La tercera edad

On my way home I stopped in Gilroy to get a pair of black shoes—my usual, casual and comfortable and versatile Rockports. I know where the store is in the outlet center; it’s an easy off and on.

When I came to the counter to make my purchase them, the attendant asked, “Was there someone helping you?”

“No.”

“Would you like another pair at 40% off?

“No, thanks.”

“You are eligible for a discount if you are member of AAA or AARP.”

“I’m a member of AAA.” (Did she just say a member of AARP?)

Into my late twenties, I was carded. I found it as both compliment and an annoyance. When I got into my 30s I considered it was false flattery. I don’t remember when finally cashiers and barmaids stopped asking for my ID but it was uneventful. Not that that signaled my arrival into adulthood, but suddenly the carding stopped—no need for ID for beer or wine or alcohol.

“Sir, your purchase is one dollar short to be eligible for a $15 discount from AAA.”

“Yes….” (AARP. AARP. Really?)

“Would you like to buy something else?”

“I don’t need anything else.”  (It’s my gray hair or my wrinkles….)

“If you buy a pair of socks, it will be less than if you don’t.  Would you like a pair of socks?”

“Let me see. ”  (AARP? I don’t feel old.)

I chose a pair of black socks. I look at myself in the mirror behind the counter and squint to see the value of my hair.

“Thank you sir. You have a good evening.”

“Thank you. You’ve been very kind.”

That weekend Robert was kidding with me. “Hector, your gray hair is catching up to me.”

“That’s OK, Robert. I am not vain.” I quipped.

I hold my vanity tightly like a crutch. And now I am ushered into the third age by a stranger.

Christ the King

You say I am a king.

For this I was born and for his I came into the world:

To testify to the truth.

Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.

--John 18:37

We encounter truths in our lives. Some “truths” are given to us. But some truths are born out of experience and life—no less real than the laws of physics. Below I provide some truths that I’ve come to in my life or truths I try to live out:

• The purpose of life is to love and be loved.
• I can only change myself. As I recognize the circumstances necessary for my change, I can have compassion and only invite others to their own change.
• Change can be both scary and life-affirming.
• I must accept people as they are and as they can be.
• Failure to address a problem is sometimes not a lack of knowledge and will but of imagination.
• When I am angry, I must find the cause within rather than the cause without.
• Man (and woman) are not meant to be alone. Gen 2:18
• To have strength for my job, I must remember to nourish myself, identify and do the things that I enjoy about my job, and remind myself of my core values as to why chose this job.
• To do nothing is a value.
• Be creative. Recreate.
• The best cure for loneliness is solitude.
• I have to have a God otherwise I will create one.

© Hector Lee, 2012

The Normal Heart

On Wednesday, we went to see Larry Kramer’s The Normal Heart at A.C.T. It was a moving drama set in the early 80s when the appearance of AIDS/HIV began to appear among the gay community of NYC. Kramer’s alter-ego Ned is a Cassandra telling the gay community, the medical establishment and politicians to do act on this information, but their tepid and fearful response incends Ned, whose lover and friends are impacted by AIDS. I thought the drama by Kramer, who founded ACT-UP and the Gay Men’s Health Crisis (GMHC), would be a screed against what individuals and organizations had failed to do in the face of an epidemic, but it was an emotional work because of the impact AIDS had on loving relationships: that with family, with lovers and friends. I was especially moved my the depiction of one character bringing his dying partner back to his mother—a modern day pieta. HIV infections continues to rise among many populations and the take away is that we should fight and scream for that which we truly care about. 

PLI closure

After 14 months of intense learning, bonding, changing and hoop-jumping our Principal Leadership Institute Cohort 12 comes to a close. I am still revising my LARP (thesis) but the end of the program is here. I am so grateful to the learning, the intensity and friendships I gained. I am a changed person. While I was not offered any of the administrative positions I applied and interviewed for, we shall see what the future holds.

I don’t know what the previous cohorts have been like. But this has been an amazing cohort. We are a transitional cohort: Lynda’s last cohort and Rebecca’s first. We got to know each other and bonded in the summer, worked exceedingly hard in the fall, LARPed (thesis writing) full time in the spring (and summer) and completed our internship this summer and LARPed some more. But we had D3 (our social committee) to remind us to have fun, and as we become effective social justice leaders we recall Emma Goldman’s admonition, “If I can’t dance, I don’t want to be a part of your revolution.”

We leave with the criteria of what a good school is, cognizance of the gods we serve and the gods we choose to serve, of the importance of identity, race, gender, sexual orientation, and religion in our role as leaders, how to have courageous conversations, recognize data as our friend, build our educational expertise, do research, prepare and cultivate our communities for change, and hold our schools together for the purposes greater than ourselves. For ultimately we carry on the legacy of our educator forebears for this present generation, that they too, when it is their time, will be women and men of courage, vision, and social justice.

A priest once told me, “if you want to be happy, be grateful.” So let me live in the house of gratitude in acknowledging the gift of what the PLI Cohort 12 has been. We have been a blessing to each other, our collaboration & our initiatives, our conversations and conflicts, our affect and our accomplishments, our venting and validations. You have my admiration, gratitude and love. 

A big thank you goes out to Rebecca, who helped us to see that data can be our friend. If I recall sometime in the Spring she had us graph our stress and it put the our lives in perspective.

She has been with us from the beginning and was a constant reminder not to give up hope. “Si se puede.” Thank you Rebecca, I hope you see our gratitude to you in the teachers we support when things get dark and desperate, “Si se puede.”

At our introductory session we were given a Rumi poem to ponder. So let me end with Rumi.

“The way of love is not 
a subtle argument. 



The door there
is devastation. 



Birds make great sky-circles 
of their freedom. 


How do they learn it? 



They fall, and falling, 
they're given wings.”

So let us fall in order to be given the wings we need.

© 2012 Hector Viveros Lee

Violeta's niece and Nelson

 I appreciate my family coming out to see me.

On beauty

On Beauty

Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her unless she herself be your way and your guide?

And how shall you speak of her except she be the weaver of your speech?

….

It is not the image you would see nor the song you would hear,

But rather an image you see though you close your eyes and a song you hear though you shut your ears.

It is not the sap within the furrowed bark, nor a wing attached to a claw,

But rather a garden for ever in bloom and a flock of angels for ever in flight.

People of Orphalese, beauty is life when life unveils her holy face.

But you are life and you are the veil.

Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror.

But you are eternity and you are the mirror.

--Kahlil Gibran

In personal trying times, I notice how more attuned I am to beauty around me: a spangled sunset, or being under the umbrella of a gingko tree, or the crashing of waves on the rocky shore, or the spray of stars at night, or the pull of jasmine on a summer night, or the thunder of a waterfall, or the delicate architecture of a flower. I am stuck by these transient moments if only briefly—which mirror our fleeting life.  Nothing gold can stay. It is as if the beauty assuages my soul and brings me respite and solace and strength when there is none; and I live on this bread for temporary periods.

But perhaps I am arrested by beauty because the beauty within recognizes the beauty without. There is the philosophical tenet sicut videt sicut, like sees like, which means I see the beauty in you because I see the beauty in me. And being so, I should be awe of the beauty that resides in me and allows me to see what a wonderful world.

Hermann Herder 1926-2011

 11 Now Mary stood outside the tomb crying. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb 12 and saw two angels in white, seated where Jesus’ body had been, one at the head and the other at the foot.

 13 They asked her, “Woman, why are you crying?”

“They have taken my Lord away,” she said, “and I don’t know where they have put him.” 14 At this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not realize that it was Jesus.

 15 He asked her, “Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?”

   Thinking he was the gardener, she said, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him.”

 16 Jesus said to her, “Mary.”

   She turned toward him and cried out in Aramaic, “Rabboni!” (which means “Teacher”).

John 20:11-16

© Hector Lee, 2011

I found out Gwendolin’s father, Herman, recently died. I too grieve as Gwendolin has lost a parent and mentor. I remember him as a reflective, thoughtful and generous man.

As he knew I illustrated, he once gave me a subtle and beautiful idea of the Resurrection. In the gospel of John, Mary Magdalene is distraught with the death of Jesus and when she sees him, whom she mistakes him for the gardener. He saw Jesus as a gardener carrying and presenting a large bouquet of flowers, as a symbol and sign of the joy and beauty of new life.

Puebla, Mexico

 March 16, 2009

• Internet
• Breakfast
• 8:40 am Bus station
• 1:30 pm Puebla
• Museo Amparo
• Catedral
• Fonda de Sta Clara
• Walk

 

Puebla, Mexico

Today I arrived in Puebla, Mexico, famous for Popocatepetl, tiles, pottery, and mole. I had a chance to try this famous dish in La Fonda de Santa Clara, which was good. But also on the menu were escarmoles, art eggs, which are seasonal. I tried a dish. They were yummy. They looked like tiny yellow corn kernels, but they were smooth and buttery. They didn´t have a particular taste other than they were buttery and had the texture of mushrooms. They were served with guacamole and eaten in tortillas as tacos. What a treat. Better than the grasshoppers.

Oaxaca

 March 11, 2009

• 10:30 am arrive in Oaxaca
• Hostel
• Downtown Oaxaca
• Museo de Oaxaca
• Danzon
• Café
• Internet
• Hostel

 

March 12, 2009

• Breakfast
• Templo de la compania
• Museo de Rufino Tamayo
• Museo Grafico
• Artesanias Regionales y Populares de Oaxaca
• Museo de Arte Contemporaneo de Oaxaca
• Basilica de la Soledad
• Jardin Etnobotanico
• Dinner

 

March 13, 2009

• Bus
• Ejutla—Ocotlan
• Museo Rodolfo Morales
• Artesania Aguilar
• Casa Rodolfo Morales
• Bus
• Oaxaca
• Park
• Mass
• Sto Domingo

 

March 14, 2009

• Mass
• Breakfast
• Park
• Casa Crespo—Oscar
• Museo de Pintores Oaxaquenos
• Parque Chapulines
• Manuel & Gualalupe in Park
• Danzon estudiantil
• Son cubano
• Hostel

 

March 15, 2009

• Breakfast
• Monte Alban
• Oaxaca
• Lunch with Tom, Nancy, Lee Ann
• Tianguis
• Hostel
• Sto. Domingo
• Mass
• Tlayuda

 

Oaxaca

I thought San Cristobal de las Casas was the Mexican San Francisco, but Oaxaca is vying for that place. Or could it be that San Francisco is the US-Oaxaca. The place has so much art, artistic venues, museums and music in the plaza (yesterday there was a 40 piece orchestra playing danzon music while the audience danced. It is foodie paradise. And it is warmer and not so cold here. It is a magical place.

 

It has been wonderful to travel through Mexico and Central America. But to be honest it is getting tiring to pack up and settle into a new city every few days or so and orient myself. And while I do meet people it is not the same as friends. Or it could be the headache I have for lack of sleep on the bus last night.

 

Ocotlan

Getting there was one story. I asked the bus driver to let me know when Ocotlan stop was, which is 45 minutes south of Oaxaca. And he forgot. I had to get another bus (and pay the fare again) to get back to Ocotlan.

It is a neat little village where on Fridays the village and the localities have there open air market which surrounds the central plaza, the market and the church. The Zapotecs have been gathering here from before the arrival of the Spanish so it is a very old market. They sell everything: produce, meat, poultry, plastics, bread, textiles, shoes, woodwork, mezcal, and tejote (a drink made with cacao, cacao flowers and pisle--it is very refreshing). They also make these empanadas: they are large corn tortillas made fresh. They are filled with yellow mole, chicken, cilantro and Oaxaca cheese. They are folded over and toasted crisp. Then seasoned with fresh onions and lime juice.

But Ocotlan is also known for its artesanias, put on the map by Rodolfo Morales, who with his time and money renovated the former Dominican monastery into a small museum of the city artesanias. The most famous is from the Aguilar family who make these colorful clay figurines of daily life, funerals, marriages, Fridas, mermaids, devils, Virgen Marys and ladies of the night. I got to visit there studio. The founding mother is now deceased and the work is carried out by her daughters. I got to talk to Juan, Irene´s son about the process. Fascinating.

 

I had a cooking class today. At Casa Crespo, the owner/cook Oscar showed me how to make a guajillo mole with chicken. We also made two kinds of salsa, guacamole, a pureed bean soup, fried banana croquets filled with fresh cheese and topped with salsa, and  2 kinds of quesadillas. One quesadilla had cheese, a zucchini flower and epazote (a herb). The other had cheese and grasshoppers. The Oaxacan cheese was too strong so the grasshoppers were like little, salty crunchy things.

So later I went to the market to buy. They sold them large, medium and small. I bought M$35 pesos worth ($USD 2.35) for about a cup. They are stir-fried with salt and lemon and really don¨t taste like anything except they are lemony, salty and crunchy. I am bringing a bag home. 

 

One of the adventures of traveling are the people you meet.

While in San Cristobal de las Casas, I met Enoko, a young Basque sound engineer ,who for the last three years has donated time and energy to a Zapatista community. Through the course of the conversation, his efforts to liberate his country has linked him to other communities who have been oppressed. And while the community with which he works is far from perfect in its democracy, its efforts are to build a community where material goods are held in common and necessary needs are provided for. While I have reservations about a socialist system as I have seen it, I admire his work to build a more equitable world.

Also in San Cristobal, I met Jorge, a American-Mexican artist/entrepreneur who does some fascinating jewelry, delicate pieces of art using actual leaves which are plasticized. Some of the work is set with precious stones. He recruits young artists to help create and design pieces of art. He was an engaging and welcoming, though opinionated man. He had some interesting thoughts about Mexico and the US. He assessed Mexico as corrupt and inefficient and all those who do business here are “wringing Mexico dry and selling it on the international market. His experience is that packages leaving Mexico are scanned and when agents see that it contains jewelry, it “disappears.” He was looking to locate his business to the US where he can find talented, honest and ambitions young students to train to create art. His assessment of the US as a place to do business is not any better; the US while the US is efficient it is as corrupt. His cynical assessment of Mexico as an inefficient, corrupt nation disturbed me, mostly my sense that there is a great deal of truth to it. His assessment of the US as a corrupt while efficient country left me thinking. His assessment of his Japanese, who buy his jewelry, was skewed as he perceived them as disdaining the non-Japanese.

In Oaxaca’s main plaza, I met a Manuel and Guadalupe, a married couple, teachers, who gave me the history of the May 2006 teachers’ strike, which mobilized the city and state to demand from the government accountability and living wages. In May of 2006, the teachers’ union gave the government a list of needs and received a “slap in the face.” The teachers responded by having rallies and demonstrations articulating their position and protesting the governments’ response by striking and setting up encampments in the Zocalo, the central square. In June, the government took repressive measures against the teachers with surveillance and armed helicopter and soldiers armed with tear gas, batons, and pepper spray. The teachers had been prepared in case of such a move and mobilized their communications (TV and radio). The people supported the teachers by giving them refuge and providing them with sticks and stones to fight back. Young boys carried wheel barrows filled with stones to hurl at soldiers. The sidewalks and benches were broken to create more stones. Subcommandante Marcos told the teachers that they had “cojones” because they fought with nothing more than sticks and stones, while the Zapatistas had guns. The relato was very moving and inspiring. The strike ended in November 2006 due to the fact that that strike has gone on for more than six months (no income for the teachers) and the fact that the leader of the union had disappeared (it is assumed that he was bribed away) and the second in command was not as capable and the strike lost steam.

The teachers’ union inspired other Oaxacans that they could change the social order. And other organizations mobilized to align themselves with the teachers and showed the people that they could demand changes.

While in a Son Cubano, a bar in Oaxaca, I also met Daniel, a young man who works for the army. He was a handsome, talented jack of all trades: an architect, a mason, a leader, an English speaker and a soldier. He had been involved in the “control” of Zapatista territory in Chiapas. His assessment is that the Zapatistas in Chiapas want to separate from Mexico, and that the US is creating dissention so that it can eventually create a canal along Tehuanapec isthmus. While I agree that the US doesn’t always have the interests of the local people in mind, I did have a difficult believing him. After being in Panama and knowing that what the Panama Canal, which was in the US’s possession, cost in resources and 25,000 human lives, I doubt the US would want to build a canal through Mexico’s isthmus. The people you meet make traveling so interesting.

 

El que busca la verdad, corre el riesgo de encontrarla.

--Victor Manuel