Chiapas

Chiapas was full of an amazing natural beauty that I had not anticipated on my trip. In the brief time we were there we saw waterfalls, bright blue swimming holes, caves, lakes and a beautiful countryside. In the three days I managed to trek over almost half the state, seeing nothing but beauty along the way. Even long drives through the countryside revealed Zapatista villages, and on the Sunday we passed through you could see families along the road going to visit neighbors. Here are some highlights of the trip:

Idol Worship, Zapatista Rebels and Coca-Cola

Not many Americans go to Chiapas. On the flight we saw Germans. On our tours we ran in to the French and the British. Our hotel housed a few ex-pats but there were various Europeans and Japanese as well as a Dutch woman studying Mormons in the area. The explanation seems to be that Americans are afraid of the region.

On January 1st, 1994, the Zapatistas announced their insurrection in the jungle, taking over the city of San Cristóbal on the same day that the North American Free Trade Agreement went in to effect. The group, officially called the EZLN (Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional) declared war on Mexico, fighting--much as their Revolutionary War namesake Zapata did--for the land rights of the country's poor indigenous people. Participating villages consider themselves autonomous from the Mexican government, and many roadside signs loudly declare their support for the rebels. Still more obvious are the federal government signs which, aside from the military campaign, wage a propaganda war, their billboards announcing the social welfare projects they have completed in the area. These signs are often defaced by the locals.

Despite the conflict, we passed peacefully through the area on our drive through the jungle, although we did have to pay double at the Agua Azul waterfalls: one to the government and the other to the Zapatistas. In reality, there is very little actual fighting in the area; the battle is more ideological than combative. 

Getting to know Chiapas in the few brief  days that I was there, it comes as no surprise that the region would be the basis for the Zapatista revolt. Even the towns that are not involved in the movement are fiercely autonomous, like the village of San Juan Chamula just outside San Cristóbal. 

There, it is inadvisable to go without a guide, and a sign on the entrance to the church reads in broken English (as well as Spanish and what looks like French): "Warning: Before visiting te church please ank for autorisation of the turist office. Tankyou." Taking pictures is also not allowed, and while you can photograph the market scene from afar, if an official catches you snapping them or the inside of the church they will smash your camera on the ground until the chip comes out. Many of the locals also believe that it will capture their souls (although for a few pesos the children will often pose for you).

But Chamula is independent in other ways. They have their own government, and these officials can be seen holding court near the market every Sunday. There, they listen to the complaints of the villagers and settle disputes that have occurred during the week. The residents do not pay taxes, although the impoverished population of 80,000 Tzotzils does accept the government's subsidies.

This ethnic group is also distinctly different from the more northern Mexicans in other ways. One is the practice of religion. While in the church they have the usual patron saints, they pray to them like no one I have ever seen before. In fact, even entering the chapel takes your breath away. The smoky interior is lined with palm needles, and instead of pews is an open floor with space cleared for colored candle altars, each color symbolizing a different ailment. The villagers bring offerings: candles, eggs, corn, incense and pox (a strong alcohol that is slowly being replaced by coca-cola). 

Here the church is not only a place for spiritual worship but for physical and economic ailments as well. Each saint is attended to by a shaman, who counsels the worshipper. They take their pulse and rub the eggs or chicken bones on their bodies. The coca-cola is valued for it's ability to make the worshipper burp, thereby releasing the toxins within. While we were there a sick child lay wrapped in a shawl on his mother's back, the shaman--who can be a man or a woman--praying over him.

The people are encouraged to go to the church for healing first before seeking outside solutions. If their condition does not improve, they then attend the local hospital, which has two doctors: one with a medical background and the other a curandero. In this way the church is used as a place for counseling and healing, guiding people through their situations tinstead of simply curing the scientific cause of their maladies. People go to the church in all times of need, be their problems physical, emotional or economic. In fact, worshippers are encouraged to converse directly with the saints themselves. But when gazing at them they are often gazing at themselves: each figure has a mirror hanging around its neck.

While several elements of Christianity remain, the church is hardly the traditional mestizaje that I have encountered in the city, where Spanish culture reigns with a touch of the Aztec. While Jesus relegated to a less prominent spot in the abbey, the traditional cross also does not hold the prominence that I had come to expect. Instead, it is the Mayan cross that takes center stage, shaped similarly but with an entirely indigenous origin. Some say it is a stylized representation of corn, while others say it originates from the sacred Mayan tree whose long roots stretch down into the underworld and whose leaves reach up to the heavens. Both the tree and the cross are said to represent the three stages of life, from the unborn to the living to the afterlife. The Mayan cross is more curved than the Christian once, which has rigid edges and a much more tragic past. In most villages, like in San Lorenzo Zinacantán pictured below, the Mayan cross can be seen alongside the Christian one.

With so many distinctions from other parts of Mexico, it is small wonder that many of the people in Chiapas consider themselves apart from the country. The next day, in fact, I found myself at the edge of a lake in the southern part of the state looking over the water at the border of Guatemala. It reminded me of how arbitrary our form of nation building can be, wth the Maya just happening to have a line drawn through their civilizations, one of the grandest in history. I think with NAFTA they were tired of having all of these decisions made for them.

La Posada 5

After a long day of travel (of which our trip through the metro took almost half as long as the flight itself), we arrived in San Cristóbal, Chiapas at a tiny little hostel called La Posada 5. Not listed in any guidebooks, it was found by my friend Britta (who is currently living and studying in the town) and boasts a wonderful mixture of American ex-pats, European travelers, families with young children, and even a Dutch girl writing her graduate thesis on Mormons in the area. The water either came out nice and hot or not at all, and the mural-painted back yard sloped down to a beautiful view of the city where you could smoke a joint, play on the swing set, have a bonfire or beat bongo drums. At night, we would all gather around the kitchen table eating posole, playing cards, watching dubbed versions of the X-Files movie and hearing Walter, a former taxi driver from San Francisco, tell us stories of his travels. We slept very little but in the mornings we were always up early (some had never gone to bed at all) for the next day's adventures. 

¡Carnaval!

In Carnaval, everything is turned upside down...

It was crazy, hot, rainy, pretty, ugly, extravagant, poor, inebriating, exhausting. 

Money, it's a crime/ Share it fairly but don't take a slice of my pie...

My first trip to the bank in Mexico was thrilling. While the exchange rate had been $10 for 100 pesos as long as I could remember, the cost had shrunk to $8 in the six months since I had last visited. While it certainly made the math a little harder (and we all know that math is not my strong point), it sure made things a heck of a lot cheaper. As my friends struggled with euros in the face of a shrinking US dollar, everything for me became a discount.What should have been my $250 rent was now only $200.

Over the next month, I would routinely take out 1,000 pesos for my expenses. Looking over my bank statement, however, I soon realized that this was costing me even less than before. Starting at $76, by the end of my first month by statements showed that those 1,000 pesos were only costing me $69. 

What I had considered a luxury at first, however, was now turning seriously sour for the Mexican economy. While a 20% discount rate is nice, in the last few days that rate has reached 35%. And I am willing to take bets that, unless some drastic changes occur, 100 pesos will be bought for $5 by the time I leave in June. That is a 50% devaluation. 

Looking back, I suppose I was OK with profiting a little bit at the country's expense. After all, with the exchange rates down for the US, too, I figured it was a more or less "normal" part of the recession. And I think I was just happy to get the "discount." But as the rates continue to slip, Mexico increasingly sinks into hot water. 

While exchange rates don't technically affect the prices of domestic products, it does change the prices of imports and exports. Mexicans are now getting less money for the things they sell abroad and are paying more for the things they bring in. And what are they bringing in at higher prices? eighty-five percent of their rice, 65% of their wheat, and 48% of their meat. Mexicans also import 15 million tons of corn from the US each year, a grain that makes up for 59% of their caloric intake, half of their energy, a large part of their protein and is a significant source of fiber and calcium. With the exchange rate getting worse and worse every day, the prices they pay for things are increasing by 20-40%. 

Because so much is imported, domestic prices, too, are beginning to rise. Even a local shopkeeper or shoe-shiner needs to charge more so he can eat. And the currency is growing less and less valuable by the day, reaching an all-time low this month. As the Mexican Fed tries desperately to save the currency, there is not much they can do: lower interest rates too much and they risk stagnation, a combination of inflation and low to no growth. 

Honestly, I don't understand why the exchange rates have changed. According to conventional wisdom, the US dollar began to drop during the mortgage crisis because foreign investors no longer trusted their American investments. Less foreign investment means less demand for dollars and a weaker exchange rate. As for Mexico, the best explanation I have heard so far comes in the form of a popular maxim: when the US sneezes, Mexico gets a cold. Right now, they are certainly worse off than their neighbors to the north. 

With this in mind, I have concluded that the peso is weak because a) less people want to invest in Mexico (just as fewer are investing in the US) and b) the American economy is weak. 

But in Mexico, as far as I can tell, nothing much has changed. The country still ticks along much as it did six months ago. There is no new president, no drastic new policies, no new domestic crises. They are still capable of producing as much as before and have the workers and resources to do it. The only thing that has changed is the amount of money available. And it is this that makes financial recessions particularly hard for me to grasp.

I Love Courtyards!

The porch door to my room sits open now, and the light of the moon seeps in threw the sheer curtains, which wave ever so gently in the breeze. Sounds from the street trickle in: whistles, cars, vendors, and passersby. But the dangers of the street seem far away; the courtyard is my oasis.

Mexican homes fascinate me. From the street, one only sees walls. Walls and doors and the occasional barred window. They are pretty walls--bright orange, deep blue, whitewashed stucco--but walls they are, hiding everything behind their thick construction. Sometimes, however, just before a gate closes or as a car drives through, you catch a glimpse into that world. And the results are always surprising.

The wall next to my friend's house hides a construction site. Protected by a tent roofing that arches into street view, the property has neither house nor yard. Another one, just around the corner, harbors an orchard on the steps of a white a stucco home. My neighbor, I believe, houses a bank or secret operation, the doors revealing a line of men standing at the entrance and several guards.

In my courtyard, however, I feel protected. While the busy city rushes by outside, my bedroom doors open up onto a tile patio with potted plants lining the sides. I open the window to let the warm breeze in, and no one can disturb me. 

How I Learned About Mexico Through Yarn and Needles

Studying abroad, you have to find at least one way to immerse yourself in the culture outside of the program. While we are taking classes at the university itself, there is a difference between studying in a place and really living there. Eating the local food doesn't really count (unless you become a dedicated chef), and my friends' forays into making out with Mexican guys is not the sort of immersion I had in mind. So the question stands: how do I live my life, but as a local would? My friend, for example, joined the national water polo team where she was studying in Singapore.

At first I, too, thought of sports--there's a volleyball team that practices next door, and I sent a letter to the UNAM track coach. But so far these desires have gotten me no further than the viveros for my weekend runs.

I have taken up a bit of a shopping habit, not only because the clothes are cute and cheap but because I'm convinced that by wearing them I will stick out less. But this is more of a curiosity for me than a way to experience culture.

It wasn't until I'd been in the country a little less than a month that I realized I had already found one of my passions, and one of my projects, in Mexico: sewing. While the actual knitting is no problem for me (and an activity I am nothing short of obsessed with at home), the cultural challenge comes in getting the supplies. To knit a hat, I needed yarn, and to get yarn I had to find a yarn shop. Finding a yarn shop requires meeting other knitters who know where one is, or searching for it online. While Google Maps, which is based in the US, offers a pretty little satellite shot of my borough, it is basically useless for my purposes. What followed, then was an hour long internet search in which I not only learned the Spanish word for yarn (estambre) but where I located a nearby yarn shop and plotted my route to the store. 

Once there, which requires two short bus rides (or a long walk) and the navigation of my still relatively unexplored town, I walked past the entrance several times until I figured out how to ring the doorbell at the exclusive little site. Inside, I was confronted with an array of new vocabulary words, from the descriptive terms of each skein (alogodón, acrílico), to learning the gauges in metric and the difference between a gorra and a gorro. Even the checkout was an experience, where my name requires me to spell it out and the woman was utterly confounded by my "berkeley.edu" email address.

Finding time to knit has also been interesting. In the US, I usually knit in class, but I was cautious about trying this even in the Casa de California where we were studying for the first month. My intention to knit at UNAM was even the subject of an entire meal-time conversation with Conchita and her friends. But Tere, my Spanish teacher, was enthused by my work and even wrote down a place in the centro where I could get my yarn for cheaper. She also helped me translate words like pattern and took down my name in case she ever needed any knitting help. Lucia, my history teacher at the Casa was also tolerant of my knitting, and in fact liked my hat design so much that I am  making her one for our reunion potluck this week.

I have been a little more cautious about knitting in UNAM. So far I have busted out sticks and yarn in my lecture series class, which has drawn some positive comments from the students. And in my social theories class, my professor used my knitting as an example of something that has become mechanized under the capitalist system.

~

My biggest triumph so far, however, has not been in knitting projects but rather in sewing. While outside of my mother's house and the occasional borrowed sewing machine from a friend I rarely get to sew, living with a family in Mexico has presented a unique opportunity. After I showed Conchita my yellow dress, she offered to let me use her own sewing machine, and has since passed on three sewing books and her own sketchbook of clothes that she's made. (Below, a sleeveless shirt.)

Sewing in Mexico is a whole other process. Tela stores are way easier to find than yarn shops (and occupy an entire district in the centro), with a variety of fabric in all patterns and materials. My favorite is the selection of stretch jersey knits, which are almost impossible to find in any sort of variety in the US. They have everything from t-shirt material to sparkly American Apparel-type spandex. 

What surprised me, though, was the utter lack of patterns. While one of the bigger chains sells a few on a rack in the back, an owner of a smaller store told me that they didn't really sell any here. Conchita is going to inquire with her friend, but until then I will have to be a little more creative.

This is where her books come in. Written in Spanish, they lack patterns but have drawings and measurements to make everything from kid's pajamas to a wedding dress. I'm thinking of starting up a skirt or two and I have been carefully looking up words like pinza (dart) and ojales (buttonholes). 

Even as I write this article, my señora and her friend poke their heads in my porch door and ask how my knitting projects are coming along. I show off my dress again, and the friend promises to return with muestros (directions) for her own knitting projects. Conchita invites me to learn a fabric-painting technique.