tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86383533165536399112024-03-12T22:44:02.706-07:00Chip TripsExcursions and ExpeditionsChipsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17236068118310501365noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8638353316553639911.post-67378102490757040282014-11-08T09:25:00.000-08:002014-11-13T09:26:30.117-08:00The Erlkonig<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
During the day, California’s capital was an exercise, like
California itself, in ersatz eclecticism. There was something unreal,
but not entirely unpleasant, the way Abyssinian domes, Ionic Greek
facades , Chauteauesque mansards and Franco-Italian Gotho-Renaissance
Revival spires peeked out from behind an assortment of palm trees, oaks
and firs all intermingled with middling vernacular renditions of Deco,
International, Post Modern and Deco Revival constructs. Everything —
like California itself — tried to be something. It was entertaining if
not inspiring and, the near perfect balmy weather made up for whatever
the failures in human endeavor.<br />
<br />
But at night the place turned
dark, forlorn and foreboding -- a dimly lit urban abandonment
frequented only by the shadow of the homeless, the deranged, the drugged
and prostituted. <br />
<br />
<br />
To be sure, under and across the
freeway, “Old Town” was hoppin. But “Old Town” is an ersatz conjerie of
curio shops, pseudo saloons, and corporate eateries in old buildings
gussied up as a Gold Rush main street without the mud and horseshit. It
could just as easily been done up as an Alpine Village and people would
have flocked there for the “atmosphere.” <br />
<br />
The truth is, the
United States has no civilisation — if by civilization one means the
kind of heart beat that takes place at the centre of a social organism.
In large cities, like Paris or Buenos Aires, the whole is made up of <i>
arrondissements</i> each with its own centre, functioning as cities within a
city. In the U.S. such sub urbs are called “neighborhoods” and these
exist in the more successful U.S. cities like San Francisco and New
York. But even in these latter cases, civic coherence is swamped and
lost within a vast sprawl of repetitive exurban nothingness. <br />
<br />
As
we flew into Portland, we were impressed and appalled at what Americans
had done to the majestic banks of the Columbia River. Instead of
promenades, inns, eateries and docks, the river was lined with blacktop
parking lots and one commodity box after the other distinguished only by
their bright corporate logos: ROSS, TJMAX, HOME DEPOT, WALMART,
PENNYS, TARGET, K-MART, Starbucks, Domino’s Pizza, TacoBell, Wendy’s
Jiffy Lube, BIG FIVE, MACY’s, Olive Garden..... What a wasteland.<br />
<br />
And
the wasteland connected Sacramento’s desolate non-centre with the non
centers of Redding, Eugene, Salem, Portland, Olympia, Tacoma-Seattle.
Within this thousand mile stretch there were pockets of rural beauty —
mostly in Southern Oregon. But even here, behind the lush and lovely
trees one spotted little more than trailers and trash. Even these
fleeting “pastoral interludes” quickly gave way to gas stations, fast
food stops, car lots and malls. Every now and then, the monotony was
interrupted by the bright and blinding 100,000 watt billboard of an
Indian Nation Gambling Casino.<br />
<br />
One would think that in such a
motorized society, the highways would at least be serviceable but they
were not. The lanes were far too narrow for the type of traffic they
are bearing, sixty percent of which is comprised of 57 foot commodity
trailers, cannonading down the road at 15 miles over speed limit. The
lanes were dimly marked — at times no more than a grey smudge — and more
often than not there was no shoulder to the road. <br />
<br />
(Painting the
lane lines white was an incredibly stupid idea, given that they become
invisible during day-time rain when light reflects off watery surfaces.)<br />
<br />
Just
as “invisible” are the so-called road-side services which invariably
are nowhere near the road side, leaving one to get lost in a jumble of
unfamiliar intersections this or that side of the freeway. <br />
<br />
Last
but not least, the roadway surface might as well be cobblestoned. The
impression I took away from Seattle was
thunka-thunka-thunka-thunka-thunka-KACHUNKA CLUNK-
thunka-thunka-thunka-thunka-thunka-thanka- BRRRRRRRRRRUMPA BRRRRRRRRUMPA
-thunka-thunka-thunka-thunka-thunka KACHUNKA CLUNK thunka thunka
thunk..... One might think that a “world class city” could afford a
world class road.<br />
<br />
This is not to say that the United States is
the only place where such desolation has taken hold. The U.S. may have
been the place where the end began, but it has taken hold — and
continues to take hold — everywhere. <br />
<br />
What kind of human being
does such an environment produce? A “motorized unit” is only the half
of it. The isolated monadism of the auto-mobile is only a metaphor for
the artificial wrap-around on human consciousness. Just as one’s physical
horizon is literally a jumble of corporate lights, so too the horizons
of the mind are infused and banded with commodified thoughts and
ideas. <br />
<br />
The whole expanse was Plato’s cave in the open air and,
in place of ill-formed and shadowy opinions, bright and blinking
idea-slogans passing for thought. <br />
<br />
Marx said more than he knew
when he described the appearance of capitalism as a vast warehouse of
commodities. The warehouse is in fact a commodity-system in which
consumption is just as regularized and produced as production. It is
not simply that “capitalists” control the means of production but rather
that capitalism also controls the demands of consumption (i.e. “us”)
and the whole systole and diastole is its own self-sustaining,
self-perpetuating system in which everything is commodified. <br />
<br />
The Erlkonig has devoured all. </div>
<br />Chipsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17236068118310501365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8638353316553639911.post-6526035558336003802014-11-02T13:26:00.000-08:002014-11-09T13:34:47.045-08:00The Fomes of Equality<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
We recently came across a photograph that gave us a <i>soupier pour temps perdus.</i> A time when travel was a festive occasion rather than a demeaning experience in prison security.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfjuZa1aoXYsF-kGaeg1YjB0K0LnkJPMEfYE1g3ZDxiSDlAsgqOqpVofcDEKyK2ogDcKlGqmqGeQHiGU6VqicamYAullREGCAmLU_2xe9Zvp8UBM2isJsNZYSuTsZtIZsH4zAqQ6AI8WU_/s1600/enhanced-buzz-wide-92%233CCA4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfjuZa1aoXYsF-kGaeg1YjB0K0LnkJPMEfYE1g3ZDxiSDlAsgqOqpVofcDEKyK2ogDcKlGqmqGeQHiGU6VqicamYAullREGCAmLU_2xe9Zvp8UBM2isJsNZYSuTsZtIZsH4zAqQ6AI8WU_/s1600/enhanced-buzz-wide-92%233CCA4.jpg" height="320" width="302" /></a></div>
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<br />
Whether by boat, train or plain family or friends accompanied the travelers to the terminal and, in the case of boats and trains, to their cabins where they partied, chatted or went over last details before waving farewell from the dock or platform after the last call. <br />
<br />
It seems incredible now.<br />
<br />
The photograph by Fred Lyons, probably dates from the early half of the 1950’s, a time when there was an actual middle class of entrepreneurs and professionals who dressed up when they went out, and would not think of going out without dressing properly which for ladies meant gloves. <br />
<br />
One of Paul Newman’s last films, Mr and Mrs. Bridge, was about this class its virtues and limitations.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA6WKgmVIB_Z2Cl9NPVJaBh2utHGORPQVjThxpxIRfPvU3enEwi4tRkf0rvHlBG-dmcV7_n0SUAZqcAyuxQeknoAJCU-aPGk0WIpfifviJvNDoJ6pZaSAZSeuZ4TSuYdAb2EXgB8Wd5yhw/s1600/mr-and-mrs-bridge_l.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA6WKgmVIB_Z2Cl9NPVJaBh2utHGORPQVjThxpxIRfPvU3enEwi4tRkf0rvHlBG-dmcV7_n0SUAZqcAyuxQeknoAJCU-aPGk0WIpfifviJvNDoJ6pZaSAZSeuZ4TSuYdAb2EXgB8Wd5yhw/s1600/mr-and-mrs-bridge_l.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr. & Mrs. Bridge discover Paris</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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This was not all of America — and not necessarily its better part — but it was the surviving vestige of burgertum before everything got swamped in a spurious and vulgar egalitarianism.<br />
<br />
The Ancients equated egalitarianism with tyranny and, as Edward Gibbon later noted, the despotism of the Caesars was complete when Caracalla granted Roman citizenship to all inhabitants of the Empire. <br />
<br />
There is perhaps some truth to that perspective. When everyone is deemed equal then everyone is equally fungible and, of necessity, not warranting any particular respect. The interchangeability of one unit-human with another seems to have debasing effect.<br />
<br />
This debasement arises, in the first instance, from the fact that equality of itself a fortiori increases the numbers involved in anything. When travelers are few they can be accommodated, when they are many their travel becomes a question of crowd control. In days of prop planes, stewardesses walked the aisle with trays of rock candy or chewing gum offered to passengers to help relieve stuffy ears as the plane ascended in altitude. Once jets arrived they marched down the aisle all but throwing bags of peanuts at the anonymous crowd; and now they simply patrol the prison cabin.<br />
<br />
When as a boy traveling alone my father’s flight was delayed for some mechanical reason, Air France insured that he was taken to dinner by the chief steward. It went without question that the airline would provide dinner to its passengers and, in the case of a boy, that he would be properly accompanied by an adult. And father was not flying first class, either. <br />
<br />
But the debasement also arises inversely from the fact that oligarchy — that is, inequality — just as a fortiori gives rise to privilege and respect. Legal equality is an abstraction which is given content by social conditions. There is no doubt that while 1950’s boat voyagers may have been treated politely at the docks, San Francisco police and union busters were meting out a different treatment to the striking longshoremen on those docks. Equality Under Law has always been applied unequally under the sun.<br />
<br />
But is not “some” better than “none”? Even when only “decent” people could avail themselves of legally protected privacies, the abstraction of the Fourth Amendment still derived living force from that availability. Albeit applied unevenly there was meat on the bones. But when equality of circumstances makes it impossible for anyone and everyone to assert a claim to legal privacy then the Fourth Amendment simply withers away even in legal contemplation.<br />
<br />
I’m sure it was considerations like these on the interplay between form and function that led Aristotle to conclude that middling-mixed “constitutions” which combined elements of oligarchy and democracy were the most desirable. <br />
<br />
In the 1960’s the urban and provincial middle class of white gloves and fedoras was in fact being destroyed by relentless economic forces. The destruction was masked by the illusion that we were making progress toward “social equality” and “inclusiveness.” But being included in an anonymous mass is simply prison.<br />
<br />
In the early 70’s a friend of my father’s got arrested for smoking pot on a Santa Monica beach. His father, a Navy captain from Boston, rather disdainfully remarked, “If he’s going to act like a hippie he can expect to be treated like a hippy.” Rejoice! We are all hippies now. <br />
<br />
Such thoughts rumbled through my mind as i tried to pack my bags in compliance with Homeland Security requirements. <b>Think about that</b>: “my bags” + “compliance” + national security imperatives. This equals freedom? No it does not. <br />
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<br />Nor was it a matter of being “restricted” from carrying a can of gasoline or a gun into the airplane cabin. The <a href="http://www.tsa.gov/traveler-information">Transport Security Administration</a> web site had screenfuls of “information” on how I was required to pack my bags, down to an including putting all toiletry liquids into clear, transparent containers in a clear 1 quart sized ziplock baggie. This was no more free than recruits being told how to arrange their gear in foot lockers.<br />
<br />
Although I spread the ordeal over several days, it took at least a solid eight hours for me to pack 1 shoulder bag and one small 24” x 10” x 17” bag (including wheels and handles) not to exceed 40 lbs. <br />
<br />
Nor was this a matter of simply ascertaining whether fishing poles and/or canes but not ski poles (pointed ergo weaponizable) were allowed on board, it was also a matter of figuring out “packing strategies” For example, if I couldn’t pack the lap top into the small suitcase because it had to be in a special pouch and accessible for arbitrary inspection by TSA agents, then I had to carry it in my shoulder bag, which meant that camera and papers and other items had to be moved from the shoulder briefcase to the the suitcase which didn’t leave enough room for a second pair of slacks... and so on <i>ad nauseam.</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>In the line the people come and go... Do I dare, Do I dare to pack a nail clipper?</i></div>
<br />
But packing was not only a question of what where. It was also a matter of being ready to prove one’s special — not “entitlement” — but “exemption” from default prohibitions. <br />
<br />
My doctor had prescribed some sleeping pills (Ambien) which, as it turned out, are Class IV narcotics and which as a “restricted” substance are monitored by the Drug Enforecment Administration. So, I wondered, what if, while inspecting my 1 quart clear ziplock baggies, an agent espies the little pill tube with 4 Ambiens in it? And what about that tube of prescription antibiotic ointment that could possibly be a suspect gelatinous substance? Although the pill contained had the Rx label affixed the ointment did not, and so I decided in an abundance of caution to bring a list of my current medications (on clinic stationary to be sure).</div>
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This was obscene. I had to be ready to stand inspection on my private personal medications. As they said of Nazi Germany: <i>the question is not what is prohibited but what is allowed. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
By the time I finished the Packing Drill, I was filled with deep and abiding loathing of “equality.”<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>“...To enhance safety & security, please immediately report any suspicious activity to air port police....”</i></div>
<br />
Nothing in the actual event of my travel did anything to lessen my loathing. As it was, I encountered no difficulties and, presenting no difficulties to anyone, everyone was very polite to me. My travel had a longish lay-over but otherwise was completely uneventful, which in today’s world translates to “good.”<br />
<br />
But there was no question that from beginning to end I was a “processable.” At every turn what I encountered was a crowd control management system. <br />
<br />
From the online reservations and confirmation emails, to the 24 hour pre-booking and printable boarding bar-code, to the special drop off/pick up carts for oversized on line baggage, to the in-flight saf-T instructions, to the airport-shuttle boarding area to the hotel clerk who asks for your zip code and birthdate... everything was pre-planned, event-processed and smooth. What gets overlooked is that you yourself are simply an element within the smoothness. <br />
<br />
There is no place I know of where people are more ready with a smile than Mexico. It is a genuine, laughter-filled smile that says: “Behold! Another human!” as if one has just met a fellow-creature during a trek through the jungle. <br />
<br />
This is not to say that Mexicans are better humans or that they can’t be the nastiest, meanest, cruelest sons of bitches of God’s earth. That too. And no one who truly knows Mexico would deny it. But the smiles, when the come, are absolutely heartfelt and open. When not being sons of bitches, Mexicans enjoy one another. Either way, they are nothing if not human.<br />
<br />
Throughout my transposition processing every smile i encountered was simply and no more than a lubricant. </div>
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<br />
What has happened is not simply the commodification of everything but the systematized automated commodification of everything. <br />
<br />
In fact, people are so robotized that they are programmed not to react in an angry and human way when you do get angry at them. You are being “dealt with” and “managed”. Don’t take anything personally, because absolutely none of it is including yourself, which is a travel unit, a fare-unit, a room unit... and so on, <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>“...in the seat pocket in front of you. And we would like to take this moment to express our special gratitude to all servicemenanwomen and their families traveling with us today for their sacrifices on behalf of our country...”</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Heil to you too.</div>
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Chipsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17236068118310501365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8638353316553639911.post-9661364992305924282011-11-24T19:59:00.000-08:002011-11-24T20:01:14.487-08:00View from under a Bridge<blockquote> </blockquote><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQOvULQ0KbVMPOXQvf_8rwEva4_wA2p-tji3b6wPPAwopXlpYxqxTbfxrZIqjqsliL6GAnxqbfo5ZW23lmItecoBY8yx9Xmfg96uBUDCuo8GuTBsqXq5zryu7d68Khr9EMoT60GJFQrGzM/s1600/CD0041%2540.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 293px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQOvULQ0KbVMPOXQvf_8rwEva4_wA2p-tji3b6wPPAwopXlpYxqxTbfxrZIqjqsliL6GAnxqbfo5ZW23lmItecoBY8yx9Xmfg96uBUDCuo8GuTBsqXq5zryu7d68Khr9EMoT60GJFQrGzM/s400/CD0041%2540.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5678778372222156818" border="0" /></a><br />.Chipsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17236068118310501365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8638353316553639911.post-47937433729695466912010-01-19T22:20:00.000-08:002010-01-19T22:30:56.995-08:00Kitsilano<blockquote> </blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I had to pick up my health card which had been mailed to my temporary post office box in the Kitsilano district of Vancouver. So I piled the pups into the truck and headed on up.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I've been trying to figure out the best way to get from here to there. So far, no way has cost less than hour or not involved getting struck in urban traffic at some point. Today's route, along the boundary line and then up highway 99 which turns into Oak Street is probably the best, although it still takes a long time.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Kitsilano is in the western end of Vancouver nestled between Granville Island to the immediate east and the University of B.C., on the city's jutting promonitory point to the west. It is an architecturally eclectic, demographically mixed neighbourhood of students, elderlies and upscale yuppies. The overall sense is: quiet and trendy.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4W949rgHa7qit2RRWx6Zq0pYn-D02FHAp4XCU0BjLlUJIMDPXj-5cgpWQcSod1EhAYK24OeZIAfd2307zLPrJHnGz3q2zYd_J1uwqD7AksP_Y_wrp8UTN9Q0gqaNJo20M52Nbr4TDhdPf/s1600-h/box&bung.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4W949rgHa7qit2RRWx6Zq0pYn-D02FHAp4XCU0BjLlUJIMDPXj-5cgpWQcSod1EhAYK24OeZIAfd2307zLPrJHnGz3q2zYd_J1uwqD7AksP_Y_wrp8UTN9Q0gqaNJo20M52Nbr4TDhdPf/s400/box&bung.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428704556101010322" border="0" /></a>Bowhow Box & Berkeley Bungalow<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The main drag is West Fourth Street which is a non descript, fairly ugly commercial strip containing a mix of book-stores, health spas, bistros, cheapo import shops, home & futon stores, Lexis dealerships and second hand stores. In fact the Salvation Army store and the BMW show room stand face to face. The Mexican restaurant looked like it had passable norteño food with (they said) an entré or two from Oaxaca or Yucatan. Several doors down there was a French bistro, offering first and second "assietes" and a fixed price dinner for $26.00. I took note.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieZCedSvHLjLhQn7nlt16WqneMKNRn91tvcRzvdWVSim8zSRS7sHEcsCRVMEeh0etJ7xEkLjTb6j4oXUoLzPILjsOoRIaVa-7E0vWsQmXyVHRRFmxUi7dPXDF-w8uUeFchznyVFvpAAvPJ/s1600-h/kitlisanopark.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieZCedSvHLjLhQn7nlt16WqneMKNRn91tvcRzvdWVSim8zSRS7sHEcsCRVMEeh0etJ7xEkLjTb6j4oXUoLzPILjsOoRIaVa-7E0vWsQmXyVHRRFmxUi7dPXDF-w8uUeFchznyVFvpAAvPJ/s400/kitlisanopark.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428703954581934274" border="0" /></a>Kitsilano Beach Park (Low Key & Very High Dollar)<br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Away from Fourth street, everything becomes rather sedate and relaxed. Even in leaf-bare winter the trees have an emollient effect. I walked the doggies around and they were quite happy to sniff the wealth of doggie news insensible to us but evident to them.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">We walked on over to the "Beach" area, which feels like a promonitory into the bay even though it isn't. I stared out over the bay, past Vancouver Island and out onto the immensely far away see horizon of the Pacific.<br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjOwgk56yzyjn1lSvEzMCjoUGUWqHApeECO0sipg1MGERDHWod3fdIiE35K3VhkzL5ZyjC9MAiVQsI1dVpAWP_k2tO_0WIcqNM4qhvqxDkqhKaT1VBh_l7LhfFrGpyzC-sMu7o_GDVSPZo/s1600-h/kitlan-bay3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 475px; height: 154px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjOwgk56yzyjn1lSvEzMCjoUGUWqHApeECO0sipg1MGERDHWod3fdIiE35K3VhkzL5ZyjC9MAiVQsI1dVpAWP_k2tO_0WIcqNM4qhvqxDkqhKaT1VBh_l7LhfFrGpyzC-sMu7o_GDVSPZo/s400/kitlan-bay3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428704293280969442" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">click to zoom</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">One of the features that keeps on impressing me is how immense this area really is. On a map, Vancouver looks smallish - a decent sized city rather like San Francisco. But the sheer scale of things around here dwarfs the Bay Area. To my left lay a vast expanse of water... to my right a towering wall of mountainous rock that dwarfed the high rises at its feet.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwNQ_2qTqq_bNkOCJWxdvl2W2iRZk0URzsG1cynZB_6JeM0y9l4Gvaf7RUo-AgeDoU_DPUqpsFTw_FdOR-lyFxEM5G-G88oeBQ9HefhXer4WRDWOOzx1UJPwUj8QqoM_0T4Lk37piblAsi/s1600-h/kitlanbay5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 470px; height: 193px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwNQ_2qTqq_bNkOCJWxdvl2W2iRZk0URzsG1cynZB_6JeM0y9l4Gvaf7RUo-AgeDoU_DPUqpsFTw_FdOR-lyFxEM5G-G88oeBQ9HefhXer4WRDWOOzx1UJPwUj8QqoM_0T4Lk37piblAsi/s400/kitlanbay5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428703724043991218" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">click to zoom</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Kitsilano is an enticing urban alternative to pastoral Aldergrove. I need to find a quicker route so I can explore some more.<br /><br />.<br /></div>Chipsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17236068118310501365noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8638353316553639911.post-73481599031983793712009-12-07T11:58:00.000-08:002010-01-15T12:07:04.432-08:00A Certain Kind of Silence<blockquote> </blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Of late, I have sensed a certain emptiness of feeling. Was it the sense of a vast solitary expanse of geography just beyond the huddled confines of urbanism? I couldn't quite put my finger on it; and then, idling in a line of traffic it suddenly hit me : <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">there are no bumper stickers in Canada! </span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">What a strange place where everyone keeps his opinions to himself. It makes the place strangely silent<br /></div><br />.Chipsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17236068118310501365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8638353316553639911.post-21278282375588455752009-11-24T20:19:00.000-08:002010-01-18T20:50:02.522-08:00Mountains Jagged Majesty<blockquote> </blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDuZfQnzgXWuQsbjt4zQW4Jc05S0VGw36iF2hKKv1NsR_-BoNmZ4jsN1CMwJawfUZm13exaCTwgBNo-9VF4WsBGqOsRzHI7LGl5CkmaqSyFUvsamlqKD8DsBZJe-tjiyGub7MFooplnkwi/s1600-h/pano2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 483px; height: 153px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDuZfQnzgXWuQsbjt4zQW4Jc05S0VGw36iF2hKKv1NsR_-BoNmZ4jsN1CMwJawfUZm13exaCTwgBNo-9VF4WsBGqOsRzHI7LGl5CkmaqSyFUvsamlqKD8DsBZJe-tjiyGub7MFooplnkwi/s400/pano2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428305372975823218" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">click to enlarge for somewhat better sense</span><br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The most distinctive and impressive feature of the Fraser Valley is the arc of jagged mountains that enclose it to the north and east. I don't think I've ever seen a horizon quite so violent and primeval. It is as if some demiurge ripped the sky with a sharp, uneven stone or perhaps just tore it open leaving a nasty rocky scar. It is quite awesome in its stoney and snow capped majesty. And still, it is beautiful.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Sometimes, as dogs sniff earth, I just stand and sight this majestic beauty that is strangely consoling in the humbling sense of smallness it engenders. At other times I am left with the sense that just beyond those jagged ranges, there lurk strange monsters in the howling arctic wind, or maybe the vast drop off of the world's edge into infinite darkness. Of course I "know" --- on the basis of those rumours we call education -- that it is not so, but I can imagine what the first men to approach these ranges must have felt and feared.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOPoPYdf8faECfgv-ijflXSU1WjZUkp_DxOUAAMX0xxWmKDUp_W98V0J7ogxwlbiL7KFf-IcqnMjbVo_wE40snH7f6vqg4mLpnK4oGcwkX6C2Gr6Ut9hRy6-iZ31emKPE0EKevJ6NlIUSV/s1600-h/pano1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 496px; height: 177px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOPoPYdf8faECfgv-ijflXSU1WjZUkp_DxOUAAMX0xxWmKDUp_W98V0J7ogxwlbiL7KFf-IcqnMjbVo_wE40snH7f6vqg4mLpnK4oGcwkX6C2Gr6Ut9hRy6-iZ31emKPE0EKevJ6NlIUSV/s400/pano1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428305095324046754" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" >click to enlarge for somewhat better sense</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span>Chipsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17236068118310501365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8638353316553639911.post-31209305737827419052009-11-01T11:20:00.000-08:002009-11-02T12:14:44.791-08:00A Different Kind of Fondness<blockquote></blockquote><br />I needed a haircut for which I need cash; and so, I stopped off at the Alder Credit Union where I extracted some real money.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Lx33sjw5s6dRQk6qkTY5t_prdyvHpiYjiKQfu9Xeq1E9eLxd0gDJ5SxM-kVphAGn7uIFbh5jm6ycLXA2UrSAFsQvKiU0dE8uAIdlfP63vcmMt-Yp0y8I0l45aiYHUoP4UIRhZ9ECTt8P/s1600-h/20back.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 144px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Lx33sjw5s6dRQk6qkTY5t_prdyvHpiYjiKQfu9Xeq1E9eLxd0gDJ5SxM-kVphAGn7uIFbh5jm6ycLXA2UrSAFsQvKiU0dE8uAIdlfP63vcmMt-Yp0y8I0l45aiYHUoP4UIRhZ9ECTt8P/s320/20back.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399589634238801858" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The problem with indigenous countries like Mexico and Canada, is that once they decided to acknowledge their native roots their currency got emblazoned with hideous primitive motifs, like dismembered goddesses and Chac Mols for fresh, palpitating hearts. And so, as I held a newly minted 20 dollar bill in my hand, it was unsurprising, albeit disappointing, to see some grotesque depiction of bird beaked monkey men -- or whatnot -- crammed into some sort of paddle-bark. Where the hell was <span style="font-style: italic;">Her Serene Majesty</span> ... mother to us all?<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Well... what was this damn Indian thing anyway....? I googled. It is actually a modern sculpture by a modern Canadian known as Bill Reid...; in other words, a post-apartheit multi-cultural synthesis of kumbaya... But why take my word for it? <a href="http://wcg-footsandfotos.blogspot.com/2009/11/091101-haida-gwai.html">Reid's sculpture</a> depicts<br /><br /><blockquote>"The Raven, the traditional trickster of Haida mythology, holding the steering oar; the Mouse Woman, crouched under Raven's tail; the Grizzly Bear, sitting at the bow and staring toward Raven; the Bear mother, Grizzly's human wife; their cubs, Good Bear (ears pointed forward) and Bad Bear (ears pointed back); Beaver, Raven's uncle; Dogfish Woman; the Eagle; the Frog; the Wolf, claws imbedded in Beaver's back and teeth in Eagle's wing; a small human paddler in Haida garb known as the Ancient Reluctant Conscript; and, at the sculpture's focal point, the human Shaman..."</blockquote>Now wait a minute! Cunning birds, dogfish women, mama bears and would be <span style="font-style: italic;">draft dodgers</span>??? How can you not warm to dollar like that? The engraved sculpture suddenly lost its alien primitiveness and made some (I almost choke to say it) universal part of me smile.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCeauEuzuWRSLMU8lByGXYO3-NDFh6U4Tr2o3_MnVgTpWL7MW3UFd8BkF1qE2otSqxqyEoDu4mfmhGH-1GpPk6A8w5Tnd-diT7zBS4t3jHQfHHKc8smdqawMkyJmY8obkohJ_GTaYXfISY/s1600-h/20front.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 144px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCeauEuzuWRSLMU8lByGXYO3-NDFh6U4Tr2o3_MnVgTpWL7MW3UFd8BkF1qE2otSqxqyEoDu4mfmhGH-1GpPk6A8w5Tnd-diT7zBS4t3jHQfHHKc8smdqawMkyJmY8obkohJ_GTaYXfISY/s320/20front.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399594554583778226" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Yes, I still appreciate Her Serenity on the other side. How could I not, since she reminds me of my boyhood? But <span style="font-style: italic;">Haida Gwai's</span> animal boat doesn't seem so alien after all and evokes a different kind of fondness. I'm glad it's there.<br /><br />.<br /></div>Chipsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17236068118310501365noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8638353316553639911.post-82665955684543039412009-11-01T11:00:00.000-08:002009-11-02T11:02:13.158-08:00Neighbour of a Different Sort<blockquote></blockquote><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6yAuDArKMrR27mCTD2mw_I6REUdErOoKidvsBevzr8WwgOtOLaG-yqK5YzxkKaEHGxUa-EiP07oX7b53rGw7R7Jd7JVFIdjYfG7cuU-2j7-agix0DL5BJZoQzMnYif11vXPwMczhTtMtu/s1600-h/BackHome.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6yAuDArKMrR27mCTD2mw_I6REUdErOoKidvsBevzr8WwgOtOLaG-yqK5YzxkKaEHGxUa-EiP07oX7b53rGw7R7Jd7JVFIdjYfG7cuU-2j7-agix0DL5BJZoQzMnYif11vXPwMczhTtMtu/s320/BackHome.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399583499658064178" border="0" /></a><br />.Chipsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17236068118310501365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8638353316553639911.post-50727534460643744112009-10-31T10:38:00.000-07:002009-11-02T11:13:42.480-08:00Avenue Zero<blockquote></blockquote><blockquote></blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">After our pad about in a forested park, I decided to drive down to "Avenue Zero" -- the line between us and our Southern Neighbour.<br /></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilpXWCjBR0JC7AnyN52gSmngq0iixM5cYhgjAOwTbEf0ZRd3pQSwyT-IrgyH69RWCz5tQGiNPxpTantdjAd2x5SAsdd6Exft-v0rwsMb5cKcTvqgPsNJ7B9v_0J32A-_PS75FD0EQbZRoS/s1600-h/CanView.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 172px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilpXWCjBR0JC7AnyN52gSmngq0iixM5cYhgjAOwTbEf0ZRd3pQSwyT-IrgyH69RWCz5tQGiNPxpTantdjAd2x5SAsdd6Exft-v0rwsMb5cKcTvqgPsNJ7B9v_0J32A-_PS75FD0EQbZRoS/s320/CanView.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399580012177611458" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">At this longitude, Canada is hilly and forested, Southland is a vast flood plain. Both are beautiful in their own rights.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX3sDNg6KglgG7AFryMIosy_HRRH7-1_n6tDaRBjZbQF_juZdud7ZRR4eIT3MXGhXO2YiOE-Licy3Z4Zmdd-CiHUYhz0urrpil34COrtjOTlUSz67QmejqGcZAp6CZD22ZzgYHrfV9MIr0/s1600-h/Whatcom.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 171px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX3sDNg6KglgG7AFryMIosy_HRRH7-1_n6tDaRBjZbQF_juZdud7ZRR4eIT3MXGhXO2YiOE-Licy3Z4Zmdd-CiHUYhz0urrpil34COrtjOTlUSz67QmejqGcZAp6CZD22ZzgYHrfV9MIr0/s320/Whatcom.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399580175656747666" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Off to my left, I espied a U.S. Border Vehickle, parked in the rushes vigiling against "potential terrorists" crawling through the grass to invade The Homeland.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">As we drove back into Canada, I pondered the obsessive compulsive disorder that has seized the vast midrift of North America. Are they going to post Border Safety Vehicles every 1000 yards a mare usque ad mari?<br /><br />.<br /></div>Chipsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17236068118310501365noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8638353316553639911.post-10310154012463187322008-05-31T19:53:00.000-07:002011-10-30T13:10:40.244-07:00Four Postcards from Mexico - Postal Cuarto<blockquote></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br />The following afternoon, Saturday, we were scheduled to travel up the foothills of Ixtlazihuatl, for dinner with the Hinojosas, friends of Lara’s at San Isidro Labrador. “They’re very amable,” she said, “<span style="font-style: italic;">buena gente</span>, but... conservative.” “<span style="font-style: italic;">Ya me imaginaba</span>” I said. I had met one of their sons, Eduardo, several years back and we formed an instant liking for one another based on our shared feeling for Benito Juarez, Mexico’s great Liberal Liberator whom Eduardo called a <span style="font-style: italic;">paricidio, corrupto, ingrato, apóstata y traidor</span>. Needless to say, Juarez is something of a fault-line in Mexican political history.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">“And don’t go talking about ‘indians’,” Lara mock-admonished me. Juarez was a full blooded Zapotec Indian, so that playing from a politically correct deck of cards, a person who despised him is supposedly a white racist who deprecates “<span style="font-style: italic;">los indios</span>” -- the currently correct term for which is “<span style="font-style: italic;">indigenas</span>” But, life is never that simple. When, during that lunch several years back, I made reference to “the Indians,” Eduardo had another outburst. “<span style="font-style: italic;">Se les llama indígenas</span>!” “Ya, ya.” I replied, “but “Indians” is a perfectly fine word...even Las Casas (their great protector) referred to the natives as ‘indians’.” As far as I was concerned it all depended on how the word was used. Eduardo would not be convinced and after a cascade of contrary explanations concluded with “my skin may be white, but my heart is brown!” Now, five years later, Lara and I looked at one another, put hand to heart, finger to air and simultaneously broke out laughing... “<span style="font-style: italic;">pero my corazón es moreno</span>” Nevertheless, I promised to speak only of ‘<span style="font-style: italic;">los indigenas</span>’. ”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuVhnHzQ9NStnokI7U9Fe0u39Otdhm6xvZgvW_UBHjdWzaSGU8uUA5VgKY2bkstPOeQLsVjDMEruWH92VPSppzxAIXju8HG6oeO3ERDai0vuPsHmesliV0stvMEkMWhhV9zUGg2wQp-nCh/s1600-h/Isidro.Pano.25.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuVhnHzQ9NStnokI7U9Fe0u39Otdhm6xvZgvW_UBHjdWzaSGU8uUA5VgKY2bkstPOeQLsVjDMEruWH92VPSppzxAIXju8HG6oeO3ERDai0vuPsHmesliV0stvMEkMWhhV9zUGg2wQp-nCh/s320/Isidro.Pano.25.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252386114156447826" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Everything about San Isidro bespoke privilege; not luxury, but the well-being one enjoys when fate has been kind. Impeccably maintained, the house rests on rolling green slopes overlooking the entire valley. Mt. Ixtlazihuatl forms an impressive backdrop, the visual equivalent on this grey-sky day of a Bach fugue.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">We arrived late, because another fire had broken out and Lara had to do her round ups. Don Hector Hinojosa a tall, portly man, in open shirt and suspenders, had waited the time with a copa or two and greeted us amiably at the gate.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Lara was nervous, still worrying about the fire. “<span style="font-style: italic;">Mira mi querida</span>,” Don Hector said at once authoritative and gentle, “come inside, <span style="font-style: italic;">ya</span>, and relax. You’ve done what you can do, so now let it take care of itself.” “<span style="font-style: italic;">Bienvenido a su casa</span>,” he said to me, as he draped his arm over my shoulder and led me inside.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidOYa91y2Aj9nrdIonHHVHK22XGoC9I7JeUnnGp8ceyqFIEWSx8k50T0cnWNcbfZML4N05jSDGvt5numPiLPTas66t0IetyFI2B4-4ARiZzR6oqmpgsVsRBk_uZGUucxjVWc1rqBaMTA64/s1600-h/SanIsidro.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidOYa91y2Aj9nrdIonHHVHK22XGoC9I7JeUnnGp8ceyqFIEWSx8k50T0cnWNcbfZML4N05jSDGvt5numPiLPTas66t0IetyFI2B4-4ARiZzR6oqmpgsVsRBk_uZGUucxjVWc1rqBaMTA64/s320/SanIsidro.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252386840943585202" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Clean and comfortable, the hacienda was far from grand. By size and privacy of style it was more of a rancho, not that anyone in their right mind would turn their nose up at it on that account. Don Hector’s wife, Eugenia, came out from the kitchen and after introductions and greetings we stood around chatting while a delayed dinner was got together.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Standing there in the living room, I noticed a large polished wood and glass display case which contained an exquisite meter long model of a turn of the century steamer. Don Hector saw my interest and walked me over to it.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">“This was sent to Don Porfirio, in the days before the internet.” I looked at him quizzically. “Well today,” he explained, “they would simply send some <span style="font-style: italic;">imagenes en PDF</span>, but in those days.....” “<br /><br />Ah, yes, I see your point... Well it’s quite beautiful.”<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"Yes, the shipbuilders in Bremerhaven were hoping to sell it to the Mexican Government. <span style="font-style: italic;">Desgraciadamente</span>, the model never made it to Mexico (City) and Don Porfirio never saw it.”<br /></div><br />"The Revolution?"<br /><br />"Yes."<br /><br />"Ah."<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">It didn’t take a shipbuilder to figure out my next question, and so Don Hector went on to explain, how for near 50 years, the model languished in a crate at the warehouse in Veracruz. When as an young engineer he went to work for the port city, his boss was clearing out the warehouse and gave it to him as a wedding present.<br /></div><br />“Very nice gift,” I said. Don Hector thought so too.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic;">La comida</span> was ready and we made our way into the comedor. Don Hector sat at the head of the table with his wife at his left. He pulled out a lacquered placard of sorts and read from one of several printed prayers on the board. “... make us mindful to seek sustenance for our souls as we gratefully receive this sustenance for our bodies....” We all crossed ourselves, before passing around the serving dishes of a very <span style="font-style: italic;">comida familiar</span> of white bread, salad, rolled tacos, beans and several varieties of soft drinks.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Our table talk was inconsequential except for a brief political interlude in which the topic of NAFTA came up when I remarked that the tortillas appeared to made of white corn. Most <span style="font-style: italic;">NorteAmericanos</span>, were taught to think of NAFTA as friendly neighbors trading sugar for flour over the fence. To the extent that they think otherwise now, it is in terms of “jobs lost overseas.” What they do not realize, even now, is that NAFTA was simply a protocol for economic conquest, connived at with Quislings in the Mexican Government.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Under its terms, Mexico was prohibited from providing agricultural price supports to its own farmers, whereas no such prohibition applied to the United States. As a result, large corporate agribusiness, simply flooded the Mexican market with cheap industrial yellow corn, underselling Mexican growers who traditionally had grown a high percentage of white corn, which is now virtually non-existent. Also virtually non-existent are thousands of small and medium Mexican farms, whose campesinos, fled economically devastated villages and illegally migrated up north “seeking to take advantage of our way of life.” As the New York <span style="font-style: italic;">Times</span> put it sanctimoniously, NAFTA has “ shaken up Mexican farming — mostly for the better” The <span style="font-style: italic;">Times</span> went on to instruct that “ Mexico needs investment to increase yields and move out of corn and into more lucrative crops” while and the Mexican Government “ will also need to help more rural Mexicans find jobs outside agriculture.”<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">It was hardly surprising that once the Mexican peasantry was destroyed, large U.S. Agric-Corps would buy up huge tracts of land, and convert them into food factories, worked by Mexican campesinos, at last freed from their feudal bondage. The only difference between these holdings and the villainous pre-revolutionary corporate haciendas is that Cargill, Arthur Daniel Midland and Tyson dispense with manorial facades.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">“No,” came the reply, “this corn is grown locally.” “That’s nice to know,” I said before going on to say in a classic Freudian slip, “it’s terrible what <span style="font-style: italic;">el Tratado</span>, has done to <span style="font-style: italic;">los indios</span>”. Eduardo choked and Lara kicked me under the table.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">“You oppose the present government?” one of Eduardo’s younger brothers asked, as he fed some pablum into his infant’s mouth. “Of course he does,” Eduardo said emphatically, “if people do not like the present regime es <span style="font-style: italic;">porque aman a la patria</span>.”<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Don Hector smiled and made an irrelevant comment, the effect of which was to put the table talk back on track of the ordinary and happy. Two of Don Hector’s other sons popped in with their wives, children and infants, and after everyone standing up and getting introduced and making some smaller talk, popped out again.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">As we sat around the table drinking coffee, Don Hector told his wife to bring out the foto albums of their honeymoon. Soon we were looking at browning colour pictures from the early sixties that showed newly weds and friends at some country grove pic nic and then the couple alone, standing next to a wrought iron park bench on the flagstone pathway in front of the cathedral at Aguascalientes, a slim young man in sweater-vest and slacks with his young wife, in a plain cotton dress with a sweater draped over her shoulders and looking new to the role of <span style="font-style: italic;">señora</span>.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I was taken back and taken aback. I recognized the scene as I had been through Aguascalientes in those very years when returning home by bus or train during school vacations.. But I had forgotten how relatively deserted Mexico was in those days. The whole country had only 60 millions, up 20 million from a decade before. Still, the country was a ways from being awash with people and at <span style="font-style: italic;">el tiempo de la comida</span>, and at other times, the streets of provincial cities would be well nigh deserted.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The only other person in the photo was an Indian woman in the near background, making her way up to the cathedral on her knees, as Sr. and Sra. Hinojosa stood smiling and facing away toward the camera. They were not ignoring the woman in any <span style="font-style: italic;">despective</span> way. No doubt they had seen her, the way one sees people praying in church, the way one sees balloon vendors, or couples on a park bench. The woman on her knees was simply going about her prayer-business, and it was no one else’s business to gawk or fuss. I held the photo as long as I politely could. One doesn’t see much of that either... in the new Mexico.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">“...we had a wonderful spiritual advisor up there, right my darling?”<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">“yes,” Doña Eugenia nodded, “he was a wonderful being...”<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">“... but they wouldn’t let him leave his diocese, even though we begged the bishop...”<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">“Spiritual advisor...” it was said in the way one would speak about the gardener, or cook. People walked on their knees, people had spiritual guides, while others, apostates and parricides, made revolution; it was all quite usual.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Don Hector led me over to a <span style="font-style: italic;">mueble</span> on which stood a thicket of photos. One by one he showed me pictures of his sons, who stood with their arms around their wives or holding an infant; all except for one young who stood alone by some flowers in a garden dressed in a brown Franciscan habit... "Does he continue in his vocation?" I asked. “No, he left. He wanted to get married.” Then Don Hector added, “I don’t ask about my sons’ lives. <span style="font-style: italic;">Solo quiero que sean felices </span>and that they know that whenever they want, for <span style="font-style: italic;">whatever</span> reason, they can come to me.”<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">At that point, Eduardo came over, and said, “Let me show your around.” We walked outside and he started showing me the grounds, his stables, his collections of bridles, the orchards, and a big dry pond. “It was wonderful, when it was filled with water,” he said, “we used to eat Sunday lunch out here, and we kids swung from a rope from that tree over there..”<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">“What happened?” I asked “<span style="font-style: italic;">Los campesinos</span> needed the mountain run off for their fields.” he said this with resignation but without bitterness. It was inconceivable to deprive people of water they needed to survive. So that was that; everything passes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEAGbqL16AunH9HtweC54maGct4ALe0l4QDf_4VTqiKH_kORk5u0vLQLjRXPEB2bNeEti0osoY9U4lcAuULXEB789vUHu3G0KuKn7Hgrlfh13OWOXOQ7WnQopB51RuRjZxT_JeFZxAtkJv/s1600-h/0531.Establas.29.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 330px; height: 248px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEAGbqL16AunH9HtweC54maGct4ALe0l4QDf_4VTqiKH_kORk5u0vLQLjRXPEB2bNeEti0osoY9U4lcAuULXEB789vUHu3G0KuKn7Hgrlfh13OWOXOQ7WnQopB51RuRjZxT_JeFZxAtkJv/s320/0531.Establas.29.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252394917769597362" border="0" /></a>With or with-out a pond, it was a very beautiful spot, and I told Eduardo that he was lucky. He knew it. Still, I asked, had he ever travelled abroad? He replied, somewhat off-handedly, that perhaps someday he would go to Europe. He would like to visit the Louvre and the Prado. Had he ever thought of going to the United States, I asked. “<span style="font-style: italic;">Para que</span>?” Came the terse reply, “For what?” My mind ran through a quick stack of postcards: the Empire State, Maine fishing village, Grand Tetons, Golden Gate. He waited until he could see by my look that I had answered the question for him, whereupon he tacked on the inevitable conclusion: "<span style="font-style: italic;">No me tiene ningun interés</span>."<br /><br />Nor apparently for anyone else I was meeting. It’s not that they are unawares of the United States... the din from north of the border is inescapable. It’s rather that, at best, they think the U.S. is tiresome.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">A part of me wanted, to say that the United States is not all Hollywood trash, bad manners, rapacious exploitation, and neocon monsters; that interesting things are being done and there are good people here too. But the look in their eyes answers, “So what?” And yes, “So what?” -- It’s not as if there aren’t good and interesting people elsewhere. In fact, at all times, under all regimes, there have been good people doing interesting things. Why should the U.S. think that its “good and interesting people” make it exceptional or provide a saving exception? The fact is that for the past 50 years the U.S. has brought depredation and destruction the world over. People in the U.S. are oblivious to this precisely because we have benefitted from this program of plunder. Not elsewhere. So, there are good people in the U.S. too. So what? People shrug and go about their business.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course not all Mexicans feel this way. Especially among the middle and upper middle classes in Mexico City there are large segments of people whose habits and expectations in life are entirely americanized. And of course, there are millions who have been sucked up into le standard by those disgorging cloacas of globalized consumer culture. All this is as true in Mexico as it is in China, France or Argentina. But in the provinces and even more in the pueblos ... it is otherwise. They are not anti-American... it is more lethally indifferent than that.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Many of these <span style="font-style: italic;">campesinos</span> are the same people I meet in the United States. “So, how do you like it here,” I ask. “<span style="font-style: italic;">Pues ya sabe...no</span>?” Comes the defeasing reply. They don’t have to explain. They don’t like the “here” <span style="font-style: italic;">en el norte</span> They think it’s cold, unfeeling, uptight, ungracious, un-everything. So why are they here? “<span style="font-style: italic;">Pues, ya sabe ...no</span>?” They don’t have to explain that either. Life in Mexico, loved as it is, is “muy dificil” if not outright impossible and downright <span style="font-style: italic;">pinche</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">But not for the Hinojosas. “Yes,” I replied to Eduardo. “why leave at all?” Just then a herd of sheep came barrelling down upon us.<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibqukA6B_4Phz1RFZ9afGL3oIc9EQrpvOw50i9ehdB_Rjt3gkFD3l2zs4Sg2UT6w_-j2Gk1aWA12Cy8mQUxON3xcOyCqNZ_IzPJvx1DjdOsRuflbGqpGyx4QMnp19rJ_BHnIlq3O29pv8W/s1600-h/Sheep.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibqukA6B_4Phz1RFZ9afGL3oIc9EQrpvOw50i9ehdB_Rjt3gkFD3l2zs4Sg2UT6w_-j2Gk1aWA12Cy8mQUxON3xcOyCqNZ_IzPJvx1DjdOsRuflbGqpGyx4QMnp19rJ_BHnIlq3O29pv8W/s320/Sheep.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252390885003108450" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">It finally came time for us to take our leave. Back at the doorway, Don Hector put his arm around my shoulder and shook my hand. It had been, a pleasure; <span style="font-style: italic;">aqui tiene su casa</span>; come back whenever you wish. I told him he had a lovely house, that I would make it a point to come back soon. “Not too soon,” he laughed<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">After hugging Lara, and making arrangements to “conectar” again in the coming week. Eduardo walked us to the truck for the bump back down to San Pablo. As we made our way through the darkened car-paths and alleys, I thought of Don Hector’s amiable greeting, his boat, his honeymoon pictures, his children, his placard with table prayers and his “... spiritual advisor...” “What are they, I wondered... <span style="font-style: italic;">Opus</span>? <span style="font-style: italic;">Legionarios de Cristo</span>? “ It didn’t matter. Don Hector had welcomed me to his ranch, let me know what he believed, showed me the fruits of his life and told me he was happy.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidN8MGVkupOFN2Hhwb-PEs8DbPvpMoT8ggyax3pRN0JWGOv-MEdo4n0xjJxCnBKCxpWHMhoIPpFGi4RekDfKjOy3cAANFVPxznbB-7706ssTUCsTqvH9UlWrTQFFB3N4hQ8wOmKwpglSoY/s1600-h/0103532-PopocatAndChapel-40.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidN8MGVkupOFN2Hhwb-PEs8DbPvpMoT8ggyax3pRN0JWGOv-MEdo4n0xjJxCnBKCxpWHMhoIPpFGi4RekDfKjOy3cAANFVPxznbB-7706ssTUCsTqvH9UlWrTQFFB3N4hQ8wOmKwpglSoY/s320/0103532-PopocatAndChapel-40.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252391974302341090" border="0" /></a>Next morning, I was up at the crack of dawn. Lara drove me to the bus station at San Martín for the trip back over the mountain passes into the Valley of Mexico. The sun was bright and the sky was clear. There were as yet no cars on the road and the countryside was bathed in Sunday morning tranquility as we sped past chocolate coloured fields, small villages, church spires with fading paper pennants hanging from the bell-tower, mounds of village garbage being scavenged by dogs and, then, deep phalanxes of pine trees pointing upward at 9000 feet.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">How many times I have travelled this mountain road between the two great valleys of the Mexican <span style="font-style: italic;">altiplano</span>, joining the short span of my life to a train voyagers through centuries past. They used to call it <span style="font-style: italic;">El Paso de Cortez</span>. but even before him it was journeyed by Aztec warriors and, before them by, merchant traders from <span style="font-style: italic;">Teotihuacan</span> heading south with obsidian for jade. As we sped down the <span style="font-style: italic;">maguey</span> covered slopes into Mexico City, in the emollient morning sun, I was filled with a rooted and abiding sense of familiarity<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">It being Sunday, the air in Mexico City was breathable. Being early, there was little traffic, and from the window of the bus, I could see that the <span style="font-style: italic;">el gobierno</span> had planted playgrounds, trees and parks along either side of the road. Early morning joggers and exercisers were out doing their motions. I was glad at least that through the interminable stretches of barrio on either side, there was at least this scrubby green belt people could use, early enough, to get out in the still fresh air.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Back at TAPO, I dragged my rolling duffel over to the dispatch cab booth. <span style="font-style: italic;">Sitio</span> cabs are supposed to be safer than free roaming street cabs, although a modicum of sense would alert one to the dubiousness of this proposition in a country where the police themselves have been caught in theft, drug and, now, kidnap rings. Still, a hope and prayer seemed better than a prayer alone.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The access to the airport is always under construction and, as the cab wound its way through unfamiliar streets, I wondered if there was anything I could say that would not disclose that I was completely lost and totally at his mercy. “Very sunny, morning, eh?” “<span style="font-style: italic;">Si señor</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">hace mucho sol</span>” he replied non-commitally. At last, some hangars appeared in view and I relaxed, tipping him handsomely as he unloaded my bags.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Mexico was never this way. This fear hangs over the city like a moral smog far worse than the 75 tons of dessicated feces that supposedly float about in the air. No one cared all that much when it was only the filthy rich and the filthy politicians who had to run about with guarda-espaladas, but as society becomes more and more economically polarized anyone above zero can be considered “filthy rich” by those who have nothing. With typical ingenuity some bands engage in “virtual kidnapping” -- a kind of blackmail based on a telephone call which pretends to have kidnapped a loved one whose personal data have been stolen and whose habits were previously observed. I doubt people will be able to put up with it much longer.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I had worried that, getting struck in some horrible traffic or highway snafu, I would miss my plane; but, as things turned out, I had arrived four hours early and thus had plenty of time to sit around and contemplate the brutal surroundings of the newly remodelled airport.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Thinking to have a good breakfast before a long day, I got a table at a chain restaurant called FLAPS, and ordered the “specialty of the day” -- a ranch style steak breakfast. What was special about it was that the steak was quite rotten. Equally special was the manager’s refusal to admit it. I was annoyed and disgusted but not surprised. It has always been the case -- notwithstanding the Department of Public Health -- that the worst places to eat at in Mexico are not the “dirty” open air street stands but the “tourist safe” eateries like Sanborns, Dennys, and now Flaps.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Leaving the steak and no tip on the table, I decided to get security over with once and for all, and went to lie back in one of the waiting rooms where I closed my eyes and let my mind drift back to the plains and slopes of Puebla and to how far Lara had come, in the six years, since she first inherited the property. I was glad she had opted not to turn San Pablo into a spa for the pampered.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">“They are always, reminding me of my mother,” she had said, “<span style="font-style: italic;">tu mamá fue tan buenísma</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">persona.</span>..” I could hear it in my mind. “<span style="font-style: italic;">Ah, la señora Irma</span>, was such a fine person. When she found out that the children in the school had no books, she took it upon herself to speak to the Governor himself...” The obvious and necessary response to such “recollections” would be to ask if the books were still in use. “<span style="font-style: italic;">Ayyy, señora, pues fijase que</span>.....” So perhaps it was the villagers’ memory of my cousin’s mother that had pushed her along. In all events and alongside the ongoing struggle to rehabilitate San Pablo Lara had become, as she said, “<span style="font-style: italic;">del pueblo</span>”.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The call for my flight sounded over the loudspeaker and I was soon enough being propelled antiseptically through the skies back to the United States.Upon landing we lost ourselves in the jumble of baggage carousels and immigration lines, snaking through the maze of ropes. As I stood in line inching along, I noticed the brushed steel logo of Homeland Security lit tastefully and sharply by recessed lighting. Empires are all equally ostentatious. I also noticed small black spheres discretely dispersed along the moldings. Thinking of Winston, I blanded my mind of any grousing thoughts.<br /></div><br />At last my turn came. I stepped up from the yellow line to the immigration counter and handed the ICE officer my passport.<br /><br />“Looks like you’ve had a long day,” he said. as he pecked the keyboard<br />“Actually longer, I started at six by bus.”<br />“Are you bringing anything back? he asked as he looked at the screen<br />“Nah, just a couple of nic nacs”<br /><br />He handed me back my passport<br /><br />“Well...welcome home.”<br />“Thanks; it’s good to be back.”<br /><br /><br />©WCG, 2008<br />.Chipsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17236068118310501365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8638353316553639911.post-69538902434232990262008-05-30T20:55:00.000-07:002011-10-30T13:08:54.249-07:00Four Postcards from Mexico - Postal Tercero<div style="text-align: justify;"><blockquote></blockquote><br />On the way back from <span style="font-style: italic;">Los Vientos</span>, we got lost and we ended up driving into the neighboring state of Tlaxacala before doubling back, the very long way, to Puebla and San Martin, arriving home late at night. The following day we slept in late and did not do much of anything.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">As Lara, Stefo and I sat in the kitchen having a late morning coffee, Lara asked me what I thought of the association proposal. Upon retiring from politics, Gustavo had purchased an hacienda which he wanted to convert into a <span style="font-style: italic;">hotel histórico</span>. The genre started to popularize itself in the Sixties, about the same time that French <span style="font-style: italic;">chateaux</span> were being converted to exclusive retreats. The hacienda hotels aimed at a somewhat broader base of lodger but the appeal was essentially the same: a taste of luxury with a hint of forbidden elitism. From his presentation, I gathered that Gustavo wanted to popularize the genre even further. Phrases like “historical tours” and “railway connections” cropped up during his presentation.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Stefo said that it seemed to him Gustavo couldn’t get any financing from the government going hat in hand himself, so he wanted to put together an “association.” I asked Lara if she wanted to convert San Pablo into a spa or if she thought the association goals could be expanded to cover agricultural needs like irrigation and seed money.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Lara wasn’t sure but did not like the idea of turning San Pablo into a resort. “Don Hector, with whom we are going to have dinner on Saturday, refuses to have anything to do with it,” she said.” I asked her why. Because, she replied, once an hacienda is declared a <span style="font-style: italic;">patrimonio</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">cultural</span>, one can’t do anything without bureaucrat approval. Two of the <span style="font-style: italic;">hacendados</span> had been in favor of the idea, and two others were skeptical.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-tQ5eVHbhMweHymQ2CK1R1ye5W7duMzxpqbrfBw1f69jfPEsZa2CsU1-98T4NT4xj4HQRL_713h-4N-Km3UAw71Qt6aQd_OfBbMLee5IPfkKR9UvT3YzPt_XxA6vLwBAUNZkEHieXNXWZ/s1600-h/31.0530.Puebla:Catedral2.77.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-tQ5eVHbhMweHymQ2CK1R1ye5W7duMzxpqbrfBw1f69jfPEsZa2CsU1-98T4NT4xj4HQRL_713h-4N-Km3UAw71Qt6aQd_OfBbMLee5IPfkKR9UvT3YzPt_XxA6vLwBAUNZkEHieXNXWZ/s320/31.0530.Puebla:Catedral2.77.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252221791895620114" border="0" /></a>The day was slipping by quickly and so I asked Lara to give me a ride back down to San Martín where I could take the bus to Puebla to buy some souvenir <span style="font-style: italic;">talavera</span> for some friends back home. From the Puebla “TAPO” I took a cab to the center of town and arranged with driver to pick me up in two hours. As it turned out, I got my shopping done in 15 minutes and had time to kill; so I walked around the city centre.<br /><br />About 15 or so years ago, everyone made off for the new malls being built on the outskirts of the city, and the <span style="font-style: italic;">zocalo</span> was left desolate and decaying, What had once been a place of congregated liveliness had become sullen and seedy. I was delighted to see that things had reversed course, that the <span style="font-style: italic;">zocalo</span> and in fact the whole city center had recovered and even surpassed its former vibrancy, as buildings were repaired, renovated and given new uses<br /></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSCVX8gNY1tco2Mpi862UDdOW9kTmQiKjt9LEwyZIFtoOU9zhVsIp6mNRahebY1u9WMFLEjckZXs08G50HeIGDcyUPnhayipMDpXt4Pl-95_kPqF-xgZ1gHh8gC63p3joBs3QXyo0msmzD/s1600-h/Puebla:Zoc.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 350px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSCVX8gNY1tco2Mpi862UDdOW9kTmQiKjt9LEwyZIFtoOU9zhVsIp6mNRahebY1u9WMFLEjckZXs08G50HeIGDcyUPnhayipMDpXt4Pl-95_kPqF-xgZ1gHh8gC63p3joBs3QXyo0msmzD/s320/Puebla:Zoc.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252221162749255602" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtusPWSHmz77q67OXy0igFnw4ZReYW5kZ9yJ-2Fx1Qk1pK8RU969YwLQ3dswbY7tgNEh9N2-FQVogGJsr7BJZqHjGBBEGF_ObDojWUvrMoKtNuq85XpkpZBGN_0bDb39k0_2YFvywgYlYs/s1600-h/PueZocArcos.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 297px; height: 395px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtusPWSHmz77q67OXy0igFnw4ZReYW5kZ9yJ-2Fx1Qk1pK8RU969YwLQ3dswbY7tgNEh9N2-FQVogGJsr7BJZqHjGBBEGF_ObDojWUvrMoKtNuq85XpkpZBGN_0bDb39k0_2YFvywgYlYs/s400/PueZocArcos.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252009868663726722" border="0" /></a>I walked around the town taking random videos and pictures. As I stood in front of the cathedral I noticed a bright coloured patch of stone at the crest of the facade. I zoomed in and to my astonishment the coat of arms of the Spanish Crown filled my sights. During the terrible war of Independence, the people had chiselled and smashed virtually every royal and aristocratic coat of arms, so that none are to be seen on any of the country’s ancient buildings. Evidently, someone in Puebla had decided to rectify matters as part of the city’s renovation and as I walked about I detected a number of additional replaced coats of arms.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The taxi driver never reappeared as arranged, and as it was getting dark, I hailed another cab and returned to the bus station and back to San Pablo<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">When I got back, Lara was in a state because a fire had broken out further up the mountain. It had been a dry season, and she was concerned since the government does virtually nothing to fight the fires. We got into Lara’s truck and drove around the paved and unpaved roads through the maze of hills and pueblos trying to find one of her crew-leaders while at the same time trying to get in touch with her foreman, Juanito, on the <span style="font-style: italic;">celular</span>.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">We had planned a leisurely supper and the day before, Epimenio, her “estate carpenter” -- it seems far too fancy a title -- had promised that his wife would prepare us a real -- not canned -- mole and, at my request, fried plantains with rice. As we pulled up to his adobe house, with its rough hewn wood slat fence and ambling chickens, Epimenio and one of his little boys or girls came out and after seeing it was us, went back inside and emerged with an assortment of differently colored plastic bowls and containers which I put between my feet and held on my lap.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Oiga, Epimenio</span>, Lara asked, <span style="font-style: italic;">no has visto a Juanito por ahí.</span>..? No... he hadn’t seen him recently.... the last he saw... Lara explained the urgency and told him to tell Juanito to get in touch with her as soon as possible<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">At this altitude on the skirts of Ixtlazihuatl there is no need for topes, although occasionally for a few meters, one hits a smooth spot. As we bumped around this warren of pathways, ambling dogs, small plots, and half finished and half decayed huts and houses, I knew that to the inhabitants of this patch of Puebla, it all had a structure and logic unknown to outsiders and not visible on any Google Earth. Somehow that made me happy.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFaa4j5VnCAJXccgV5u4u0PKWj98C355Nk97Esfy40aAjnqNz4oeBt6F_j-yewaqisiOfNDItqlrn-RMZGckDN3cGO10RlqzsTkBznQyv1K22P-8DO1YENJsRBCwnnR9MwozKb_ZPiOn9b/s1600-h/pueblo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFaa4j5VnCAJXccgV5u4u0PKWj98C355Nk97Esfy40aAjnqNz4oeBt6F_j-yewaqisiOfNDItqlrn-RMZGckDN3cGO10RlqzsTkBznQyv1K22P-8DO1YENJsRBCwnnR9MwozKb_ZPiOn9b/s400/pueblo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252008907113965234" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Lara pulled up to Pablito’s house, just as Juanito came on the line. <span style="font-style: italic;">Espera un segundo</span>, she said putting the <span style="font-style: italic;">celular</span> in her lap and leaning over me as Pablo came running up to my side of the truck and as I balanced supper. <span style="font-style: italic;">Mira, Pablito</span>.... Pablo looked up toward the white smoke on the mountain. He knew what was coming. With a pained look on his face he hunched his shoulders and held up his hands,<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"> “<span style="font-style: italic;">Ayyyy señora, fíjase</span>.... “ he had just this very moment, killed his pig and he simply had to dress it... <span style="font-style: italic;">Si no fuera por eso</span>.... but his hands were, if not tied, covered with pig fat.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"> Of course Lara understood perfectly, leaving the matter with a request that he at least see if he could send two of the local <span style="font-style: italic;">muchachos</span> up the hill. “<span style="font-style: italic;">Si, si.</span>..” He would do his best.<br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Oiga Juanito... estas ah</span>i?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"> Juanito is a young good humored man going on 30 who has worked with Lara for the past six or so years. He has his own <span style="font-style: italic;">ranchito</span> where his family lives and where he keeps several milking cows. Although Lara pays him for his work, the relationship goes beyond “working for”. When Lara first arrived at San Pedro, she knew virtually nothing of country life -- at least nothing over and beyond the coddled, vacations of childhood. “I couldn’t have done it with out him,” she said. “He’s completely trustworthy and indispensable.”<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"> Mexico -- at least old Mexico -- is full of these relationships borne of mutual respect within positions of inequality. To be sure, the relationship has a material basis; Juanito would not work for someone who couldn’t pay him just as my cousin is not throwing money at vagabonds. But that does not mean they are connected simply by exchange values. The material is the working context for something more personal and, in this case work had made them friends.</div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The semblance of a working party was at last put together, and Juanito and Stefo led a crew up the mountain side to beat out the fire while Lara and I (still not acclimatized to the altitude) sat in the kitchen, drank some wine and watched the supper get cold.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">At length, about 9.30 when supper was quite cold, Lara and I decided we might as well eat although by then the chicken itself might just as well have come out of a can.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu9iZO6cGfn49I3obBUqBW_tTuSR1k1Va3n3InFbfZ__FK35wOpX3bkNJ1AgFpFsq5aaAXJtYiOCjvMxKQpkALgIYUp9ShryfAlxWl619sk6T2sGB1EBcnzMCqaYPjafx777ykmlCALFY1/s1600-h/SanPablo:Iztla.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu9iZO6cGfn49I3obBUqBW_tTuSR1k1Va3n3InFbfZ__FK35wOpX3bkNJ1AgFpFsq5aaAXJtYiOCjvMxKQpkALgIYUp9ShryfAlxWl619sk6T2sGB1EBcnzMCqaYPjafx777ykmlCALFY1/s400/SanPablo:Iztla.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252009253143138658" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Finally, about an hour later, Stefo and Juanito came tramping into the kitchen covered with sweat and dust. A frightened <span style="font-style: italic;">zorillo</span> had taken a bite into Juanito’s thumb, which he had wrapped up in some dirty strip of cloth. Lara insisted he clean and bandage it, and as they went off, I poured Esteban some wine and started re-reheating supper. When Juanito and Lara came back, we all sat down to the second half of dinner and talked into the night. The fire had been contained.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Next morning, Juanito arrived with a thumb that was quite swollen. <span style="font-style: italic;">No se preocupe... no es nada </span>he said with an <span style="font-style: italic;">así es</span> smile. <span style="font-style: italic;">Como que 'no' ? </span>Lara wouldn't hear of it and took him to the doctor.<br /></div><br /><br />©WCG, 2008<br /><br />.Chipsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17236068118310501365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8638353316553639911.post-53548571377531242342008-05-29T19:31:00.000-07:002011-10-30T13:07:00.539-07:00Four Postcards from Mexico - Postal Segundo<blockquote></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTIx0IM2IXBb_bcsOpY2NvrnR0m9YpfeBgBdlIjru2iJZRY-6rgGccMecW5M10WppF2AiSWiAL_eFLErH20P1o6I0Vk1Jik9mfBfVp1ERtborcbpxoCohmpH_zGc1nhZFvWSX52v3r7hCS/s1600-h/PanoAvietnos.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 408px; height: 145px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTIx0IM2IXBb_bcsOpY2NvrnR0m9YpfeBgBdlIjru2iJZRY-6rgGccMecW5M10WppF2AiSWiAL_eFLErH20P1o6I0Vk1Jik9mfBfVp1ERtborcbpxoCohmpH_zGc1nhZFvWSX52v3r7hCS/s320/PanoAvietnos.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252013419532420338" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The <span style="font-style: italic;">comida</span> was to be held at hacienda <span style="font-style: italic;">Los Vientos</span> at the other end of the state, and so the following day, at mid morning we set off to cross the expansive, soil rich, plains of Puebla, lush and green under the clear skies and bright blue celestial dome of the alti-plano.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">It was almost a three hour drive through a vast expanse of tree-dotted plains ringed by mountains in the distance and yielding their crops under a bright clear sky. As warm air blew through the <span style="font-style: italic;">pik op</span> we chatted idly about this and that over noise of the engine and the buffeting wind. Driving through a small town, we passed a roadside display of colorfully painted clay pigs. Somewhat beyond that we passed a small rocky hill-mound on top of which stood a white-washed votive niche and a cross. "Have you read <span style="font-style: italic;">Diarios de Motocicleta</span>?," I asked Lara. No, she hadn't. I went on to tell her of a story related by<span style="font-style: italic;"> el Ché</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"....so he and Alberto were riding the bus through the high mountain villages of Bolivia, when they came to the crest of the mountain at the top of which stood a big pile of rocks and a white-washed cross. Half the Indians in the bus cross themselves, the other half spit. ..."<br /></div><br />Lara gave me a look.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"...<span style="font-style: italic;">pues sí, eso también <span style="font-style: italic;">se preguntaba Che-- </span></span>what gives? Well, as it turns out, before the Spanish came, the Indians had this custom of taking a stone with them whenever they climbed or crossed a mountain. When they got to the top, they'd cast down their stone and their cares and leave them behind. The friars forbade the practice and erected crosses over the piles of stones. So now, some Indians cross themselves while others, for want of a stone, spit."<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Stefo and Lara let out gleeful, laughs. Lara loved the idea and said she was going to put up a pile of stones on the ridge above San Pablo.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXN00qRm1fAZtlgx_MlL_X5NmXD63dQYG_kByD7iVcIfYuNMDiOrnuNx9sF-Zx1JOBY6wvwV2jsoU1qscgB162ZodPnGKQ9cKG6BI5mR7a4gWzgMxz4cNW2y3pJJghtWAJHuS69_D0qVUQ/s1600-h/Vientos:Entrada.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXN00qRm1fAZtlgx_MlL_X5NmXD63dQYG_kByD7iVcIfYuNMDiOrnuNx9sF-Zx1JOBY6wvwV2jsoU1qscgB162ZodPnGKQ9cKG6BI5mR7a4gWzgMxz4cNW2y3pJJghtWAJHuS69_D0qVUQ/s320/Vientos:Entrada.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252013093920252818" border="0" /></a>Arriving at last, we turned into the confines of <span style="font-style: italic;">Los Vientos</span> one could immediately see that the hacienda had seen better days. The huge safe, accountant’s desks and barred cashier’s window in the hacienda office, now preserved as a museum display, indisputably pointed to a villainous pre-revolutionary past. Thanks to the propaganda of a faction and the visual rhetoric of Mexican muralists haciendas have been tagged with images of haughty Spaniards in the saddle sneering at despairing Indians hunched over under their masters’ spurs. Such propaganda was false because it blamed the facade not the realities.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">During the 19th century some of the great industrial haciendas were simply corporate enterprises dressed up as grand manors. They were oppressive and destructive of community life not because they were “haciendas” but because they were corporations. They did not draw from and sustain but simply leeched and suppressed...and often on a gigantic scale.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">By the looks of it, <span style="font-style: italic;">Los Vientos</span> had not been one of these 300,000 acre mega haciendas; but it had been large. Now, a little short of 100 years later, <span style="font-style: italic;">Los Vientos</span> is a profitable but much smaller broccoli farm hiring a fraction of the workers it used to have on the payroll.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Still, remnants of a greater past glory remained, among them, a handsome chapel all but conjoined to century tall tree that shaded the resting places of gentry past.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-JMASpic_e-COJ7PwnhaFQg4gDNKvhxy646K5ohjNnTI9tbJGKUUlq8-R25rjggPov3cyFHoZLUc_d-l6Y3Xv3SS5-_BPHKUddD5xxdwtuhtm3XZiXQmuxxXzGGeJszK9I_31rWF7PC7r/s1600-h/LosVientos:Church.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 331px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-JMASpic_e-COJ7PwnhaFQg4gDNKvhxy646K5ohjNnTI9tbJGKUUlq8-R25rjggPov3cyFHoZLUc_d-l6Y3Xv3SS5-_BPHKUddD5xxdwtuhtm3XZiXQmuxxXzGGeJszK9I_31rWF7PC7r/s320/LosVientos:Church.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252012506009808914" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Miguel, the haciendas' tall, slim, middle-aged scion greeted us at the door with an air of fatigued remove. He led us up to the first floor balcony where the other <span style="font-style: italic;">hacendados </span>were already seated around a table drinking “<span style="font-style: italic;">escoch</span>,” rum, beer, or sherry and enjoying hors d’oeuvres of chips, cheese cubes, and olives. They were dressed in waist jackets, open collar shirts, slacks or jeans and dusty boots. Despite the grandness of the structure, the tenor of the affair was much more in the manner of la <span style="font-style: italic;">pequeña burguesía</span> than the aristocratic pretensions of the Limantours, Escandons and Creels and other great names of the pre-revolutionary <span style="font-style: italic;">Porfirian</span> oligarchy.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">As I sipped my <span style="font-style: italic;">jerez</span>, Miguel’s mother, a neatly dressed, somewhat bony woman in her 6o’s sat down next to me. Some moments later, she lifted up the hors d’oeuvre platter. <span style="font-style: italic;">Se le ofrece un queso? </span> she asked as she held the cheese in front of me. “Oh, no, no thank you very much.” I replied. “Ah,” she said, looking suddenly chagrined. Several minutes passed, and she again lifted the platter and held it before me. “<span style="font-style: italic;">Por favor, no se le ofrece un antojito</span>?” I chuckled politely, “You’re very kind, but no, thank you very much.” “Ah,” she said, looking even more chagrined than before, as she put the platter down in what was almost a gesture of despair.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I figuratively slapped my forehead and berated my stupidity. Too damn long in <span style="font-style: italic;">Gringolandia</span>. In Mexico, in just the reverse of the United States, it is an insult to refuse any offer of hospitality. I might as well have told the poor woman that her cheese wasn’t good enough for me. I back-pedalled as best I could. Mumbling something about “<span style="font-style: italic;">en dieta</span>...” I reached for a slice of <span style="font-style: italic;">jicama</span> and thanked her for her offer. She eyed me suspiciously.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">As we mingled around before dinner, my cousin remarked that Doña Rosaura, had asked her why I spoke so “strangely”... “What does she mean strange.? ... Never mind; did you explain? ” “Yes.” “What did she say?” “<span style="font-style: italic;">Pues , ‘Ah’.</span>” Yes, I had been living among the savages up north. That explained everything.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNRh476e7LW4qqehnC0ynlmjdr46-hBko-shhWvg3QPXaBZNQ52nemSlgy-n_86ZbyHbwedTS83Ocv7TtvXKm0LtOcrFF42s9_0wm5vZeemhWxl9rsAhB3dEfyM-4G9SZmY8EU8Mco-w4S/s1600-h/LosVientos:Arcos.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNRh476e7LW4qqehnC0ynlmjdr46-hBko-shhWvg3QPXaBZNQ52nemSlgy-n_86ZbyHbwedTS83Ocv7TtvXKm0LtOcrFF42s9_0wm5vZeemhWxl9rsAhB3dEfyM-4G9SZmY8EU8Mco-w4S/s320/LosVientos:Arcos.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252012288454342354" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">When just about everyone had arrived, we proceeded to the dining room - a small rectangular room adjoining the kitchen, furnished with an assortment of chairs, stained-wood sideboards from the turn of the 19th century with collected bright ceramics and plastic nic-nacs from the 20th (including a Donald Duck), miscellaneous prints of imaginary squires hunting equally imaginary fawns and the obligatory <span style="font-style: italic;">Last Supper </span>by Da Vinci hanging directly under a strip of flourescent lighting.<br /><br />As Miguel and one of the <span style="font-style: italic;">mozos</span> brought us our courses, the other <span style="font-style: italic;">hacendados </span>talked about drainage ditches and milking cows, the rain this year and similar matters of concern and interest to the agricultural set. Doña Rosaura discretely eyed me from her end of the table. As it turns out, I was hungry and the food was nothing I didn’t like anyways even if, as my cousin later said, she must have gotten the mole sauce out of a can.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic;">En familia</span> Mexicans will eat mole or beans by tearing off a piece of tortilla, and rolling it into a scooping spoon. It is not considered gauche but rather a sign that you've enjoyed your food. As I scooped Doña Rosaura palpably relaxed.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">When they brought the coffee and desert, the talk turned from drainage ditches and cows to the proposed association, the advantages of which were explained by Gustavo Ovando, the proponent of the idea; but not before first intoning obligatory and florid encomiums of gratitude to our hosts for the magnificent “reception,” and “delectable” food, after which Gustavo went on to note and commend everyone for anything he could think of -- all not without light jokes, judiciously interspersed amidst the laudations.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggAKMsty6G8ilnsqvdyxsR2Uif49eRfmLUHMRL7ug6jo-zRV9wKMwwxn9r_dijAhjpVtThAipR4z5SBhKTkOH6zxMnRPpwfCQFwDtdnb65vfPXH42ouOAkVkFprvBCnU9RgYgfm5sekUMs/s1600-h/Vientos:Sala.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggAKMsty6G8ilnsqvdyxsR2Uif49eRfmLUHMRL7ug6jo-zRV9wKMwwxn9r_dijAhjpVtThAipR4z5SBhKTkOH6zxMnRPpwfCQFwDtdnb65vfPXH42ouOAkVkFprvBCnU9RgYgfm5sekUMs/s320/Vientos:Sala.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252011934445209922" border="0" /></a>Such after-dinner effusions are universal. But in Mexico, they retain an antique flavor that could come straight out of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Iliad</span> or a scene from <span style="font-style: italic;">Henry V</span>, where gentle provenance and valiant deeds are duly remembered and praised in turn. Some of my Spanish acquaintances tell me that they get a kick out of Latin American archaicisms and regret the clipped, functionality of modern Iberian Spanish. In this respect Mexico is still in its own time warp. As I sat there enjoying the roll of rococco flattery that spilled from our speaker’s lips, my cousin leaned over and whispered, “He was in <span style="font-style: italic;">la politica</span>.” “<span style="font-style: italic;">Se nota</span>” I said<br /><br /><br />After the meeting broke up, we all milled about chatting and wandering through the restored rooms which did recapture the ambience of the waning days of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Porfirian</span> epoch.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">At length some of us wandered over the dusty expanse that had, in those bygone days been a vast pond, toward the chapel. The streamers hanging on the outside, and some flowers on the altar inside, indicated that it was still in at least occasional use.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">There was a large, statute stood in the central niche behind the altar. Someone remarked that Doña Rosaura had said it was Michael the Archangel. “No, I don’t think so,” I said, “look at the dragon at his feet. It’s obviously St. George.” The person I was speaking to, ran over to Doña Rosaura and said, “<span style="font-style: italic;">Dice él que es San Jorge</span>.” “Eh?” She came over. “You say it’s St. George?” “Yes, look at the dragon.” A moment of doubt flickered in her eyes, before she rejoined emphatically. “<span style="font-style: italic;">Pero como</span>? Look at the wings...” Q.E.D. “But what about the dragon?” I said feebly. Another archangel blew his trumpet. “That’s not a dragon! It’s the devil.” The matter settled, she gave me a broad smile and walked away.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji4ZIbqdc1oK7bk2sQVSXQ5LHn8p9b587dqmYLkqqpkjk05qp3grDfrpy65_rHlZkfkgoGDMLYXMwofBkLpSGOKJZavlm_Xhxdlv9VH9Vet-txegqHGR8RXTEWe3OuGyfuZh5P4Hh2x5Sm/s1600-h/Altar.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji4ZIbqdc1oK7bk2sQVSXQ5LHn8p9b587dqmYLkqqpkjk05qp3grDfrpy65_rHlZkfkgoGDMLYXMwofBkLpSGOKJZavlm_Xhxdlv9VH9Vet-txegqHGR8RXTEWe3OuGyfuZh5P4Hh2x5Sm/s320/Altar.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252011564294233122" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Eventually, before taking our departures, we all drove over to a hillock to get a commanding view of the valley. A large rustic wooden cross hung with paper streamers stood almost hidden amidst the grey pines. As I wondered if I should spit, Gustavo came over, lead me to the edge of the hill and explained that by those mountains at the far end of the valley, they had recently uncovered the remains of an Olmec metropolis of an estimated 100,000 souls. 500 BC “The Olmecs, this far west?" I asked.” “Yes, <span style="font-style: italic;">imaginese</span>...” Mexico hoards it secrets and there is so much we still don’t know about the time-aliens that once lived here.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">As we milled about, one Luis B, who had arrived late, took me aside and asked if Lara was of the same Manrique-Villas as were connected to the Villa-Carrascos. “Yes, yes...” His eyes brightened up and he ran over to Lara to announce that his "grandfather <span style="font-style: italic;">era pistolero</span> for Don Maximiliano!"<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ5gcI_m2VcCgnIfNbqt3g1nCJrHEnE2mkkGU8y5GNAHi5gUYH4YM9WvZL1ZJoLigBt9zcxtLQvgZvqLx8CmFtbVq1mum2DvrqqibXg4efK5kddM8-ojZA85TqFnaZGgNNEgqnRUA_CuqK/s1600-h/Noria.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ5gcI_m2VcCgnIfNbqt3g1nCJrHEnE2mkkGU8y5GNAHi5gUYH4YM9WvZL1ZJoLigBt9zcxtLQvgZvqLx8CmFtbVq1mum2DvrqqibXg4efK5kddM8-ojZA85TqFnaZGgNNEgqnRUA_CuqK/s320/Noria.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252011316049459650" border="0" /></a><br />©WCG, 2008<br /><br />.Chipsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17236068118310501365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8638353316553639911.post-67619581129576346792008-05-27T14:37:00.000-07:002014-06-21T12:43:14.638-07:00Four Post Cards from Mexico - Postal Primero<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Over the years, the descent into Mexico City has gotten progressively more appalling as the sky has gone from “hazy” to light grey to tan to, now, dark brown. The question passes from, “How do people live in <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span>?” to “How am I going to <span style="font-style: italic;">surviv</span><span style="font-style: italic;">e</span> in that?” It is hard to believe that this great mountain-ringed valley once had the most crystalline skies in the hemisphere. So hard in fact, that the extermination of beauty leaves one numb.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhk0FlNdztGbW1ATLTogDHs9Nh6HnOewhSHSJH2n3LeD4iIq6UooxsU45IsyphmxG-RO9FdgVShuQDN1EEp77M-sPpCQm10GmuAz_l9CTLmFs-uy7grZqkZUgJ0CEjdJcj5FlhSbMUIc-d/s1600-h/Megalopolis.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhk0FlNdztGbW1ATLTogDHs9Nh6HnOewhSHSJH2n3LeD4iIq6UooxsU45IsyphmxG-RO9FdgVShuQDN1EEp77M-sPpCQm10GmuAz_l9CTLmFs-uy7grZqkZUgJ0CEjdJcj5FlhSbMUIc-d/s400/Megalopolis.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251933405887165122" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
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Numb, because the problem is intractable. To wish for clean air is to wish for the whole megalopolis of 25 million to be wiped off the surface of the Earth and the valley returned to <span style="font-style: italic;">ocelotl</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">coyotl.</span></div>
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Although it was indifferent to the burgeoning problem for many years, the Government has undertaken fairly aggressive steps to clean up the air. Five years ago, Mexican traffic presented the <span style="font-style: italic;">típico</span> spectacle of sleek limousines sharing the jam with vintage trucks, banged up buses and junkyards on wheels spewing either black diesel fumes or burning oil or both. No more. Almost all vehicles were new, green and smogged. And yet the air was worse.<br />
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The problem is that there are too many people and hence too many cars. There comes a threshold where no measures will affect the absolute amount of pollutants spewed into the air. The Government instituted an alternate driving day program; but, predictably enough, this backfired People simply got two cars with alternate plates. Not just the limousine set, but anyone who could.</div>
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Why do I hear that tart yankee voice? “Well...if people (i.e. <span style="font-style: italic;">those</span> people) are going to.....” blah blah blah.</div>
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But have they taken public transportation in <span style="font-style: italic;">el de efe </span>? (as the federal district is called). It’s not just that the swarms of micro-buses clogging traffic are jammed to overflow, so too the sleek, clean modern metro cars. There are just too many people trying to get to too many places at once ...and doing the things that all people do.</div>
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Several years back Univision reported that the D.F. Department of Public Health was proposing to outlaw that most Mexican of enterprises, the open air sale of food. It turns out that 75 tons of “desiccated feces” falls on the city every day, and the Department determined that these micro-pollutants contaminated the open air <span style="font-style: italic;">carnitas</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">jicama</span> slices, <span style="font-style: italic;">chicharron</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">tamales</span>. The vendors are still there, so the Department must have figured out that if shit was falling on the food it was also penetrating lungs.</div>
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The problem is not just exhaust, but deforestation due to the metastasizing slums, and dust due to the drying up of the pathetic remains of lake Texcoco. The D.F. government has one of the most aggressive tree planting programs in the world, but the poor trees can’t keep up.</div>
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As the plane touched down, I took one last gulp of clean refrigerated air before venturing into the soup.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG74xLbuPh13-C31CZjVWREkF9NHlwK86kzI1BlMUuBMz7i8REUeSnqQ-xWL6oqkv4axzBRjv1COK4k9d3iSjSdxIO2nekQ5Fe__HzAxRNYAK9ZnhDdW8H4oiEl9-nyNEsIGAvMgHCqYIz/s1600-h/valledemex.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG74xLbuPh13-C31CZjVWREkF9NHlwK86kzI1BlMUuBMz7i8REUeSnqQ-xWL6oqkv4axzBRjv1COK4k9d3iSjSdxIO2nekQ5Fe__HzAxRNYAK9ZnhDdW8H4oiEl9-nyNEsIGAvMgHCqYIz/s400/valledemex.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251932808098209410" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Valle de México (</span>1845) when <span style="font-style: italic;">ocelotl </span>ruled</span></div>
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Mexican bureaucrats have a long tradition of being slow, sullen and biting. This is part of a larger tradition of <span style="font-style: italic;">pinchi</span><span style="font-style: italic;">smo</span> which could perhaps be described as the art of using incredibly small things to screw you over in a major way. And so just as I sucked air before disembarking, I took a deep breath before stepping up to the immigration desk. “They’ll figure out something,” I pre-groused to myself.</div>
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The line monitor pointed to booth number five for Mexican Nationals. He didn’t look too bad.</div>
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“Buenas tardes,” he said.<br />
“Buenas tardes.”<br />
“Su pasaporte por favor”<br />
“Si,como no.”<br />
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Flip Flip Flip Stamp Stamp Staple</div>
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“Bienvenido” He told me to be sure to return the insert on my leaving the country</div>
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“Gracias”</div>
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Well I’ll be damned......<br />
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From that point on, it was easy sailing; and it is always surprising, in a pleasant way, how easy urban sailing can be in a place that is, or at least can be, a total disaster. Everything in the city is stressed to the limits -- air, water, sewage, space, deliveries, utilities, services -- and yet sometimes one cuts through it all like a knife through butter. I am sure it is this way in order to increase the Mexican conviction that life is utterly arbitrary and that only the Blessed Virgin is reliable.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVA8oJ4BR6nHO0ufhpPaYIgn_3-8sUFM0oMjnkgNEytPk1D86oXrAkwYTMnDEqJRH43BmFUTvVpEs0RYm3qFlqqJxmZtNq93SD_wzIVVGwpcjJvoBkcg4ejv3DbEN86_rPkoLOYuRK4VyF/s1600-h/InauguracionDelSegundoPisoDePerifericoEnSuTramoLas.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVA8oJ4BR6nHO0ufhpPaYIgn_3-8sUFM0oMjnkgNEytPk1D86oXrAkwYTMnDEqJRH43BmFUTvVpEs0RYm3qFlqqJxmZtNq93SD_wzIVVGwpcjJvoBkcg4ejv3DbEN86_rPkoLOYuRK4VyF/s200/InauguracionDelSegundoPisoDePerifericoEnSuTramoLas.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251940650401425666" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 309px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 229px;" /></a>In short order, over the new “second deck” of the cross-town freeway, I was hurtled from air port to the upscale residential section of <span style="font-style: italic;">El Pedregal</span>. Except in the older parts of town where there used to be a townhouse tradition, almost everyone in Mexico from middle class on up lives behind some sort of fence. In the <span style="font-style: italic;">Pedregal</span>, they live behind stone walls. The reason for this was that -- as the name might give way -- the development was built in an area that abounded in rock. In all events the result is a cold and foreboding maze of streets curving around between facing phalanxes of stone walls and solid wooden or metal gates.</div>
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I was deposited in front of one such wooden gate and rang the bell, as the cab driver waited. I rang again, as he waited some more “Look,” I said, “I’m sure they’re just slow, you can go.” “Are you sure?” “Yes, yes, of course.” “<span style="font-style: italic;">Seguro</span>?” “<span style="font-style: italic;">Sí Sí, hombre, vayase ya, no se preocupe</span>.”<br />
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I rang again, but there was still no answer. It was the maid’s day off and my hosts had said they would be at home all day. Still, I was an hour or so early from my estimated time of arrival, and they may have stepped out briefly. So I sat down, on my two-tone pastel-coloured rolling duffel and waited,. the very picture of a <span style="font-style: italic;">mature</span> gringo preppy in loafers, slacks, pink shirt and (loosened) school tie.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfCRlWMgxb0SDapy_DEqX3HIEzWsIkXN9BcwEbPhRTapp9J8kDZKKwSBsTQ0olsm2PsnQ-jBOcrlmpgTfw6h9b-LAh6eQVn3T445vHmXo8TYpkchX12MxHUCgKqASmtDZBwfnw_QeiGuLt/s1600-h/images" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfCRlWMgxb0SDapy_DEqX3HIEzWsIkXN9BcwEbPhRTapp9J8kDZKKwSBsTQ0olsm2PsnQ-jBOcrlmpgTfw6h9b-LAh6eQVn3T445vHmXo8TYpkchX12MxHUCgKqASmtDZBwfnw_QeiGuLt/s400/images" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251937555510816018" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 157px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 210px;" /></a><br />
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After a while I began to worry, as clouds (darker shades of brown) were forming. I should probably call R. to see what’s up, I thought. But I had no phone and, as might be imagined, the <span style="font-style: italic;">Pedreg</span><span style="font-style: italic;">al </span>is not the kind of place to have public phones. The expected protocol in the <span style="font-style: italic;">Pedregal</span> is that just as you drive up, the wooden or metal gate is silently opened by an attendant and swiftly closes again, as your car disappears into the walled interior with a faint swoosh of the tires, like water closing over the fins of a shark.</div>
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Just then, just that happened several doors down; but unlike most of the residences that house also had a guard booth. Aha! I walked over and asked the guard, who no doubt had noticed me sitting on my duffel, if I could borrow his phone. Ah... he was very sorry, señor, but he didn’t have a phone. Really? Yes, really, imagine that. He had a closed circuit tv, a radio, a funky radio, but no phone. Such is life. I went back to sitting on my duffle.<br />
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The idea of lugging my duffel and shoulder pack a mile down hill to the busy streets outside the development was not anything I was looking forward to. Just then, a young man, of about 30, in jeans and sneakers came around the corner walking a happy sniffing lab. Ah! The Blackberry Generation. He’ll have a phone for sure. I got up, and walked in his direction “<span style="font-style: italic;">Oiga, perdón</span>.... but you wouldn’t happen to have a phone I could use for a moment, I’m waiting...”<br />
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I didn’t get any further. The man froze with a look of sheer terror in his eyes. He shook his head violently, sharply called his dog and turned back in the direction from which he had come. As he sped-walked away I saw the phone on his belt.<br />
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Sitting behind his plate glass, the guard in the booth had seen it all, even if he had that studied Mexican look of not having noticed a thing. I walked over, and said, “You saw that, right?” “.. <span style="font-style: italic;">uhseh</span>. .” he replied. “<span style="font-style: italic;">Tienen miedo</span>” he added in a voice which spoke the disdain of those who have been “<span style="font-style: italic;">despe</span><span style="font-style: italic;">cted</span>” all their lives. “They’re afraid.” “<span style="font-style: italic;">De que</span>?” “<span style="font-style: italic;">Pues de los secuestro</span><span style="font-style: italic;">s</span>,” he said surprised to have to repeat the obvious. “Kidnappings? Here? in the <span style="font-style: italic;">Pedreg</span><span style="font-style: italic;">a</span>l?” “<span style="font-style: italic;">Por todas partes</span>.” he said dragging out the “<span style="font-style: italic;">todas</span>”. If a 30 year old male... If in the <span style="font-style: italic;">Ped</span><span style="font-style: italic;">regal.</span>..</div>
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I was instantly infected with fear.<br />
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I went back to the gate and repeatedly bellowed out the name of my host -- Annnnah!!! -- who shortly afterwards came down and opened the gate. “I don’t think the bell works....” she said.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinH28TFoqCOdftameo55Cif4b7WZWN0u0_KWbSb2wn7Eg4hUW2tABadvNXPhiP0mFiWl959pO_6otXIIftsYQYnadtBS2Amr2d0D7KI8lr8ksgmpC1NCetr6GoXPKsIn5y4rjMaUlQdpK9/s1600-h/WitaGardne.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinH28TFoqCOdftameo55Cif4b7WZWN0u0_KWbSb2wn7Eg4hUW2tABadvNXPhiP0mFiWl959pO_6otXIIftsYQYnadtBS2Amr2d0D7KI8lr8ksgmpC1NCetr6GoXPKsIn5y4rjMaUlQdpK9/s200/WitaGardne.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251938466569570562" style="cursor: pointer; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt;" /></a></div>
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I did not stay any longer than necessary in Mexico City, and two days later was on the bus over the mountains to Puebla, to visit my cousin, Lara, at her hacienda in the foothills beneath mount Ixtlazihuátl.<br />
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TAPO -- that’s what they call the new centralized bus station for autobuses heading to the south and eastern part of the country. It used to be that each bus company had its own terminal, and most of these were squalid affairs, even if the buses -- at least <span style="font-style: italic;">los de primera</span> -- weren’t so bad. The terminals were jammed with people trying to get into and out of buses at the same time; and the streets around the terminal were a congestion of newsstands, macaroon vendors, fruit vendors, lottery ticket vendors and children or old people sitting on twine wrapped bultos as flies swarmed over the juices and droppings that littered the sidewalks.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMVBVCJPoulSMsXWNehCvIEUFyiomUkG2jtb9LHALKpajClRWr2AeznmnXpe6zCNCVqR-nRPH4s5o3_aqRDTkYYdbX7H5nnUJcPLPer9fu5zpoVSzPFJW3qhFK92SJkzt0ywAR0WxsnrYF/s1600-h/tapo.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMVBVCJPoulSMsXWNehCvIEUFyiomUkG2jtb9LHALKpajClRWr2AeznmnXpe6zCNCVqR-nRPH4s5o3_aqRDTkYYdbX7H5nnUJcPLPer9fu5zpoVSzPFJW3qhFK92SJkzt0ywAR0WxsnrYF/s320/tapo.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251943457392684850" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
No more. TAPO is the true Pantheon of Buses, its immense dome covering a reflective marble floor on the circumference of which were arrayed the various bus companies’ brightly logo’d ticket niches. Marcus Agrippa would have been proud.<br />
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There were plenty of guards.<br />
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The mens’ room, however, was inconveniently located on a mezzanine portion of the circumference, which meant that one had to lug whatever he was lugging up a flight of stairs. To keep the bathroom “safe” they had installed a coin operated turnstiles made of rotating inter-spaced metal bars which would slice you into 20 pieces if they were sharp. Whoever designed this marvel intended you to leave your bags outside the bathroom where they could be stolen, or to trap and your luggage like a pig in a poke between the bars in the quarter turn allowed. Squeezing, grunting and grimacing, I got into and out of the bathroom vowing to feed the clown who designed this safety feature into a true human gin if I ever got my hands on him. Back on the shiny main floor marble disc, I headed over to the departure gate where, after being “wanded” by more security personnel, I boarded the bus.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_JTpTIK2TS8lj7GgiBpA5rwi4IljZqtHb1OUQhi2HKtuIEM3ffd512ivov1g8KOA3rbdOcILhCetkGLNiRnD6hlHQjLjJpd9F0Q1LqkOHCwBtF6sDEvN7wGzVZ9oWnjPVk7soSgNaUlJi/s1600-h/0119Aml3.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_JTpTIK2TS8lj7GgiBpA5rwi4IljZqtHb1OUQhi2HKtuIEM3ffd512ivov1g8KOA3rbdOcILhCetkGLNiRnD6hlHQjLjJpd9F0Q1LqkOHCwBtF6sDEvN7wGzVZ9oWnjPVk7soSgNaUlJi/s400/0119Aml3.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251932104942265202" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a>A result of the old anti-system was that the first half hour of the trip anywhere was spent hissing and grinding through city streets. The result of the new integrated TAPO system is that the first half hour of the trip out of the city is spent hissing and grinding along the congested southern exit-way. But just when one is about to give up hope of ever getting past the interminable urban detritus, the city stops and the bus is speeding up swooping curves into the pristine, pine covered mountains that separate el <span style="font-style: italic;">Valle de Mexico</span> from the Plains of Puebla.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2xP8gmTkbnPc-1Ni8Z5j76vxwuLITEku3EQvxEB6lP1GMDXahLDxw0b13WhCwRcu_Qolj1bwg70R7NtRmFAphCWjxxPBf82dlM0_vw4kk6eQlEqgL7mr9OUV_rBqjnUalkBEddLIptUGu/s1600-h/PanoPuebla.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2xP8gmTkbnPc-1Ni8Z5j76vxwuLITEku3EQvxEB6lP1GMDXahLDxw0b13WhCwRcu_Qolj1bwg70R7NtRmFAphCWjxxPBf82dlM0_vw4kk6eQlEqgL7mr9OUV_rBqjnUalkBEddLIptUGu/s320/PanoPuebla.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251978298108071922" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Puebla de los Angeles</span> was the third city the Spanish founded after landing ashore at Veracruz in 1519. Not only was it a necessary stop between Mexico City and Veracruz, more importantly it was a key juncture in Spain’s trade route that ran from the Philippines to Acapulco through Puebla to Veracruz and over the Main to Seville. Testimony to Puebla’s privileged position in this global trade is reflected in its towering cathedral, one of the most stunning examples of Ibero American baroque.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbYUIYEdTpQK_qz4svbTRui-9aRokTF56UegKrPpxIxzhniOTd0GsIBQ5nXhH2cG2_alLnSOc0kUTPWRK4JnIlsa3Cx96Uim6DtNiuP1SXohdbzMi0kgfuBlx44QhEMuO34-Iufdy9ToGT/s1600-h/talaverahapsburgo2.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbYUIYEdTpQK_qz4svbTRui-9aRokTF56UegKrPpxIxzhniOTd0GsIBQ5nXhH2cG2_alLnSOc0kUTPWRK4JnIlsa3Cx96Uim6DtNiuP1SXohdbzMi0kgfuBlx44QhEMuO34-Iufdy9ToGT/s320/talaverahapsburgo2.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251980314437013906" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 157px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 154px;" /></a>The abundance of red-clay in the region gave rise to brick making. Since, at the time Puebla was founded, Spain still controlled Holland, Delft dies and techniques were imported and gave birth to Puebla’s <span style="font-style: italic;">talavera</span> industry.</div>
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I did not go all the way to Puebla, but got off the bus 20 minutes sooner at San Martín Texmelucan, a scruffy, rural town that looks like a collection of old style bus stations. Twenty minutes later, my cousin and her husband, Stefo, arrived in their rattling Ford <span style="font-style: italic;">pik op.</span> Holaaaaaaaaa!! Hugs and protestations.</div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Bienvenido a Topelandia</span>. she said, I laughed. <span style="font-style: italic;">Topes</span> are Mexican speed bumps -- originally made out of grapefruit sized metal spheres, now usually just corrugated concrete. <span style="font-style: italic;">Topes</span> are ubiquitous and last visit, during a spine crunching moment of exasperation, I renamed the country. Actually, if I recall, I renamed it <span style="font-style: italic;">Pinche Topelandia</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEa2eEOOmd3GyiGUWbC1M1w-XLjPWEdxFwJFxVHED0HmY_P0aSyZw6EobiBYHie1iE8kkDuLMgW54wSzz9s4yEScaSPbkYr_M5tDmC1B3TouygOp7CrJAculzguCed6F_Wm9YQ6wJXTEH8/s1600-h/24.0530.00.SnFelipe.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEa2eEOOmd3GyiGUWbC1M1w-XLjPWEdxFwJFxVHED0HmY_P0aSyZw6EobiBYHie1iE8kkDuLMgW54wSzz9s4yEScaSPbkYr_M5tDmC1B3TouygOp7CrJAculzguCed6F_Wm9YQ6wJXTEH8/s320/24.0530.00.SnFelipe.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251982790579423522" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><span style="font-size: 85%;">San Felipe</span></div>
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After stopping off at the butcher’s to buy some pork chops, and at the <span style="font-style: italic;">tortilleria</span> for fresh tortillas we bumped our way upland, back in the direction of Ixtlazihuatlpast San Felipe and San Pablo del Rio to the hacienda.</div>
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As haciendas go, the buildings at San Pablo are on the small side, and might almost be classed as a rancho were it not for the 400 hectares surrounding it. There are books on the matter, with titles like <span style="font-style: italic;">La Morfología de la Hacienda en México</span>, and needless to say the question is not left to a simple answer. The long and short of it, in my opinion, is that an hacienda is a socio-economic organism that both draws from and sustains the community around it. A ranch on the other hand is a strictly private enterprise</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT9gmVhF5MUfyevX5s56ko8o8v1MmKcE1PslnEtI2nThAuX6iy6B7-pll1GRgs4BfbzTTrHLz11gaQ0Job74i6lINIhOzwFz9AcQhZE4gIaAWKWHdmcFT5Jv0GFWefvu79DU-wn6u8AJ2x/s1600-h/FACHA.PEDRO.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT9gmVhF5MUfyevX5s56ko8o8v1MmKcE1PslnEtI2nThAuX6iy6B7-pll1GRgs4BfbzTTrHLz11gaQ0Job74i6lINIhOzwFz9AcQhZE4gIaAWKWHdmcFT5Jv0GFWefvu79DU-wn6u8AJ2x/s400/FACHA.PEDRO.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251984629579111138" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
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Whatever its classification, during a long period of absence and illness, San Pablo fell into disrepair and was sharecropped out. Upon inheriting the property, my cousin set about to restore it, physically and as an economic organism. It is slow going and has taken an immense amount of work, “<span style="font-style: italic;">pero ya soy pueblerina</span>” she said, meaning she had left the city and city life and city-being behind.</div>
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After showing me the parts that had been remodelled, including of course, the chapel, we sat down to a late dinner.<br />
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“Tomorrow we have to go to a working <span style="font-style: italic;">comida</span> of <span style="font-style: italic;">hacendados</span> over at hacienda <span style="font-style: italic;">Los Vientos</span>.” she said with a glint in her eye.<br />
“A what?”<br />
She teased me some more, “They want to discuss forming an association...”<br />
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I gave her a you-must-be-kidding look. Warranted or not, centuries of conflict have left their mark and the thought of <span style="font-style: italic;">hacendados</span> meeting to form an “association” inevitably conjured up images of counter-revolution,</div>
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“<span style="font-style: italic;">N’ombre</span>,” she said ‘fessing up, <span style="font-style: italic;">no lo creas</span>, it’s just a meeting to see how best to deal with government bureaucracies.</div>
“That’s what they always say...”<br />
“Besides, they say they’ve fixed it up and its very pretty. Will you come?”<br />
“<span style="font-style: italic;">Claro</span> ...”<br />
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Sitting around after dinner, Lara brought up a mutual cousin with whom, “frankly,” she was quite annoyed. Apparently, cousin had favorably reviewed a book in which it was said (in so many words) that her grandfather Maximiliano had been something of a <span style="font-style: italic;">caudillo</span>/gangster type. “Ah, yes...” I said, “I think I saw that.” “<span style="font-style: italic;">Pero como</span>?” She had talked to aunt so-and-so over in Tlaxcala who had assured her it was all calumny, <span style="font-style: italic;">puras calumnias</span>... How could he write such a thing?” “But he didn’t; it was the book he was reviewing that did.” “But he should have disputed (<span style="font-style: italic;">desmentido</span>) the allegations!”</div>
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I thought of the genre oil painting of Maximiliano as a young army officer, in formal blue tunic with burgundy piping, standing slim and straight with his hand on the library table. And then of the table photograph of Don Maximiliano, in his 40’s, face at once smooth and chiseled, a little broader, but still erect in a tight fitting <span style="font-style: italic;">charro</span> jacket with its silver buckles and striped silk cravat, holding the flat rimmed, cloth hat of a <span style="font-style: italic;">jinete</span>, what the Spanish call a <span style="font-style: italic;">sombrero cordobés .</span> I wondered if I would have enjoyed meeting him.</div>
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I tried to mollify Lara. “Well... those rumours have been around for some time. Besides it was after the Revolution, and things were still unsettled.” I thought it best not to mention that at least half of Puebla took rumour for fact, and not to put too fine a point on “after.” “Well cousin could go to the devil, as far as she was concerned.</div>
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©WCG, 2008Chipsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17236068118310501365noreply@blogger.com0