Weekend 2 A: El Chorro de Ingenio

I still cannot believe I am here. It is as if I've developed new blood vessels to aid in the spike in circulation, my brain is so overloaded with new experiences. Attention every college student - especially Kathy: leave your house. Live abroad.

On Friday night, Miguel, the coordinator of PESANE, invited us for a day at the ecological park. So, Saturday morning, I met up with Kelsey, and Noe, Lisette, Monica, Andres, Hugo, and Miguel, to go to the Chorro del Ingenio. We took a bus to the outskirts of town. Naturally, our first stop was Pollo Feliz, where we purchased the only food they sell: fried chicken and enchiladas. Then, our trek began. We wandered through what seemed like a community backyard, down a long, long winding road, with the heat on our backs and water bottles in our hands. I liked it. This is going to be very blonde, but I really felt "in nature".

After about half an hour, we finally reached the Chorro. Miguel, arguing that he would soon bring a large youth group from CASA, got us in for free. After he convinced the manager, we lunched, and entered the park, walking through fields of cactus. I had no clue that there are so many varieties - large, small, yellow, green, pointy or reminiscent of flowers, many in bloom. There were cactus nurseries, cactus fields, and a garden of rescued cactuses. I even bought cactus soap and cactus snacks. I have lost all respect for the cactus vendors at elementary schools Mothers Day sales. Amateurs.

After a while, we descended to the wetlands, walking across a large cement bridge through the stream. The stream only fills up during rainy season, so there was a minimal amount of water on the bottom. Huge rocks and green plant growths littered the fertile black soil. We continued down a dirt path, and before I knew it, stumbled upon the bank, the same rocky bottom we gazed at earlier. We walked on the rocks, and I was surprised to find myself on a mini-cliff, gazing even further down from my standpoint. A burning desire to get all the way down surged through me, one that I believe also infected everyone else, because that is exactly what we did. Carefully but rapidly, feeling out rock by rock, using our hands and our feet, we descended. Some of these guys really knew what they were doing. I, personally, felt not so much like a mountain cat but like a mountain monkey - and I loved every minute. Risk is an integral component of fun.

We finally reached the bottom, the only part where any water remained. We spread out on the rocks, absorbing the sun, with trees and sky miles above us, as we tossed rocks into the still water. Bloop! Splash! Someone blasted MP3s from his music phone. Kelsey sat still, taking pictures. Hugo stood off to the side, gazing at the water. I was a lizard.

Walking back, I could not believe we had climbed so low and gotten so high.

Weekend 1: Guadalajara

I had not spent 4 days in San Miguel when it was time to be on the move again. Kelsey received a phone call from her mothers friend Maria, who lives in Guadalajara, asking if we would want to spend the weekend (she was flying back to South Carolina next Thursday.) ¿Did she have to ask? We copped bus tickets the next day.

I rose before the sun on Saturday to catch the 7:15 bus. The journey lasted 5.5 hours, with stops in Leon and Guanajuato. My emergency supply of almonds quickly dissipated, and I soon grew hungry. Apparently, the bus company provides snacks, but you can only obtain them at your boarding point. Who knew? As we rode on, a strange mix of bus advertisements, music videos and movies flickered on the bus screen. If you ever want to add spice to Nicholas Cage, watch Ghost Rider in Spanish.

Kelsey and I arrived in the early afternoon, and took a cab to Marias house. Even before we walked in, the bright blue exterior of the house cheerfully greeted us. Maria grew up there with her 10 brothers and sisters - she was born in the living room! Even as she came out to greet us, she waved to someone across the street. Apparently, the entire block belonged to her cousines, aunts, and acquaintances. We were with family.

Kelsey and I barely had time to drop our bags, and she carried us off to the Mercado San Juan de Dios for shopping. Imagine Canal Street in Spanish. Now imagine someone packing Spanish Canal Street into a 4 story building that takes up an avenue. This was no Bloomingdales, honey. We passed an entire floor of tourist knicknacks, then jeans and sneakers, then fruit stands bordering fried chicken counters. I nearly had to hold hands just to keep up, but Maria was home: her mother used to be a vendor at the Mercado.

Natalie, Marias daughter, was flying back to South Carolina on Sunday, so we drove over to her uncles house in the evening, for a fiesta. The table creaked under vats of pico de gallo, tortillas, beans, nopales, peppers and salsa. I think the family was pleasantly surprised that the white girls nurtured a deep appreciation for spicy food. They also offered us grilled pork, and laughed at our vegetarian-ness. The hours of eating were followed by hours of dancing for the adults, and conversation about school and shopping for the young people. We were invited back to try the meat.

An odd mix of sadness and scurrying penetrated the house the next day, as Natalie prepared for her departure. More family came over, and we were treated to the smoothest tequila I have ever tasted, brought by another uncle. The conversation rollercoasted between Mexican politics, US-Russia relations, New York after 9/11, and Cancun. Apparently, someones acquaintance also had a Russian wife, so my presence in the circle was not completely alien.

Afterwards, Kelsey and I met up with SiSuk Carlos Morena, a kung fu brother of my SiFu. We went for dinner to a beautiful Mexican restaurant. More amazing food. (I will really have to find a gym when I get back, or none of my clothes will fit anymore). Then, SiSuk drove us to the Ving Tsun school, where I touched hands with some of his students. SiSuk spoke very highly of SiFu, and also showed us rather old photographs of kung fu family. Alex-in-green old. He treated us very well. I am grateful for the visit, especially since I feel like I just got my red shirt in the Spanish language.



In the evening, we visited Zapopan, walking under a beautiful arch and down a wide, cobble-stone paved avenue. Vendors and artists displayed their offerings, everything from pretty knick-knacks to original paintings to succulent elote. We walked over to the basilica, where mass was starting. In the courtyard below, dancers in red, green, blue, gold and black costumes, with bracelets clanging around their ankles and elaborate feather masks on their heads, performed an indigeneous dance. Among them danced a skeleton in black, a typical image of death popular here. The event embodied the cultural heritage of Mexico, demonstrating the blend of Catholicism and Native American traditions.

We rose early the next morning, and took a bus tour of Guadalajara. (I promise not to think poorly of all those tourists on NYC open-roof buses anymore.) Over 4 million people inhibit Guadalajara, and, unlike NY, its very horizontal. We drove past the cathedral, the university, the US consulate, numerous historical buildings and former convents. My favorite place that we passed, though, is the Shalom Nail Salon.

After the tour ended, we entered (this time with more confidence) San Juan de Dios, to buy souveniers and fresh fruit refreshments, and took the bus back to Marias house. The experienced differed greatly from the tour ride: the most prominent sights on the routes of Guadalajara public transportation are Subway and KFC. Before we knew it, though, it was 2 pm - and the last bus to San Miguel de Allende left at 3:15. Like madwomen, we dashed upstairs for our stuff, bid hasty goodbyes to our hosts, and hailed a cab to the bus station, back to San Miguel.

The First 2 Work Weeks

The CASA building, in all its glory

I spent my second night in a hostel, and was fortunate to find an apartment by the third night. Its a 10 minute walk from CASA, up and down a hill on Avenida de Los Ninos Heroes. The street names - when the streets actually have names - are rooted in history or religion: "28 de abril", "Avenida Independencia", "Calle San Rafael". I know this because I have embraced my status as extranjera, and rely on my trusty map. I feel like Dora the Explorer con su mapa. People who actually live here just direct me "Luego, luego" and recognize landmarks, instead. They also look at me as if I were from another world, and, I guess, I am.

The work at CASA is very interesting. The organization divided into several groups of promotores: PESANE, who provide workshops about sexual health to teenagers; ECOSS, who work with mothers; TEATRO, who put on works about ecology and family violence in primary schools; and REDESS, a radio program who broadcast throughout northern Guanajuato. The programs are run by young people in their late teen and early 20s, and coordinated very well by former promotores in their early-mid 20s. They take their jobs very seriously - there is none of the childish attitude you find in a lot of their peers in the US. There is also a day care, a library, a computer lab. Sliding scale fees are charged for all the services. I am sure this is out of necessity, to pay staff salaries, but I expected the "free and confidential" I am accustomed to, working at The Door AHC.

I have been going out with promotores to observe their work, in order to decide which group I will stick with for the summer. The program is very much self-starter, so if you're bored or unsatisfied, its basically your fault. Nadine, the founder, was soliciting a grant in order to create a new play with TEATRO and broadcast an on-air segment with REDESS, dealing with nutrition. The local people here eat so poorly! Chips, Coke, and fast food are ubiquitous. Mexico, apparently, is the world's biggest consumer of soft drinks, and the second fattest country in the world (after the US, naturally). The most popular chain in the city is Pollo Feliz, and the only advertisements more prominent than those of Coca Cola are those of Pepsi. Even the bottled water are Coke and Pepsi products. This is a direct clash with the healthy, traditional Mexican diet of fruits, vegetables, and legumes. It is also very ironic, because there is also much malnutrition, so having fat children is not considered unhealthy by many mothers. So, I decided to work on the up and coming nutrition program, which Lourdes, the administrator and a licensed gym teacher, will head. I decided to conduct a census, in order to gather data about the nutritional practices and beliefs of the residents of San Miguel and the surrounding communities. No such statistics exist. I will work on the census with ECOSS. Also, I will help write the play about nutrition, targetted at the children.



In addition, on Friday, Kelsey and Tim (the other interns) and I observed the work of CASA's hospital. It is a private hospital, and patients pay on a sliding scale. CASA developed a UN-recognized model of midwifery, so we were there primarily to observe their work. (The 3 year program, followed by a year of residency, is so popular, that women from other states travel to study with CASA. There is even a Guatelmateca.) However, the midwives cannot work in San Miguel's public hospital, due to political reasons. The government does not accept the midwife training curriculum. Rather, the parteras are contracted by CASA and paid by birth.

Our guide, a young midwife of 25, allowed us into the room of a woman who had given birth the night before. The 27-year old mother was attended by female members of the family, as well as her 3 other children. Afterwards, Kelsey, Tim and I took turns observing visits: Kelsey and Tim sat in on pregnancy check-ups, while I observed a GYN exam. This was especially cool for Kelsey, who was actually considering parteria as a career. It seems so womanly, and such a proper existence - to bring life into the world, and be so close to death at the sametime; it reminds me of the Red Tent. I was just about to sit in on a pregnancy check-up when my landlady called, alarming me of a strong smell of gas coming from my home. I ran home, remembering with bitterness that I left the oven on after an attempt to heat up breakfast tortillas. Thankfully, all the house needed to prevent me from Sylvia Plath's fate was a day of airing out.

The GYN exam I observed prior to my emergency was an experience. The patient entered, a woman of 37 who needed an HPV exam. She claimed to have her last exam 2 years ago, to use condoms for birth contol, and to obstain from drinking and smoking. Condoms, pills, and IUDs are provided free of charge by the state. She then went to the bathroom to change and then took her place on the same sheets used by the previous patient. (The sheets are changed twice a day. Luxuries such as disposable sheets are not available in a country of limited resources). I was baffled that the midwife did not ask the woman's permission to allow my presence, and that the woman did not inquire about it. The last thing I would want when my cervix is in someone's face is to have another stranger gaping at me. Embarassed, I asked if it would be okay for me to stay. She shrugged, as if she had no choice. I am extremely spoiled by The Door, where everything is not only free but extremely private.

Then, the exam began. The midwife snapped on the rubber gloves. She took out one of those horrible metal speculums (again, no disposable luxuries here), and talked the patient through the discomfort. After inserting it, she waved me over - to look at the woman's cervix! My curiosity overcame my modesty. Here it was! How many GYN exams have I had, and now I had the opportunity to actually see what the provider sees. Beneath the bushiness of her mons pubis, the canal was wide open, and there, at the end, was the pink entrance to her uterus. My eyes lit up. It looked so ... right. Better than the drawings. (Though this particular one seemed a bit inflamed). The midwife drew samples of discharge, using the same tools I have presented and explained to scores of AHC patients in the waiting room. Then, it was over. I thanked the woman as she walked out. Then, the midwife took down our phone numbers to alert us if there would be a birth and we wanted to observe it. I can't wait.

Getting to San Miguel

In a victorious battle against stubbornness and laziness, I have decided to listen to all those who mean well (especially Pat, Kelsey, Zoe and Christina), and begin to keep an online record of my summer in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. I guess uploading photos just isn't enough. Entonces...

On June 16, Aljame drove me to JFK at 2 am, and Jamal was good to stay with me until my flight was almost ready to take off at 5:30 am. (The man is a treasure.) The plane sailed into BUSH Int'l in Houston, TX with a slight delay, so I took off running to my transfer gate with barely 25 minutes to spare. My heart pumping, I collapsed at the check-in desk, and - grateful to have made it - presented my ticket, green card, and travel passport to the attendant. Surprised at the aquamarine cover, she murmured a cheerful, "What a pretty color" - but then handed it to the man behind her. My mind raced faster than my feet a few minutes ago. Something was wrong. The man deliberated with another woman behind him, and they made a series of unsuccessfuul phone call to I don't know who. Finally, it became clear that they were unertain I could enter Mexico without a visa. BS. I had called the consulate in NY. There was no visa requirement. But the words of resident aliens are mere whispers in the wind to the ears of Continental Airlines officials on a power trip. With only 10 minutes to spare before take-off, the second woman announced, "Pull her bags!" My plane went to Mexico City. I remained in Texas.

Lord, no, I prayed. I know this is happening for a reason. The man, name-tagged Rodriguez, instructed me to go to the Mexican consulate in downtown Houston to obtain a visa. Meanwhile, they would rebook a 5:30 flight to Mexico. It was 9:30 in the morning. He scribbled the name of the street in pink highlighter on my boarding pass, and turned his back. What? I could barely navigate through this airport - how was I to navigate through Texas?

But nothing motivates action like lack of choice. Following signs and asking strangers, I finally got into a cab. After a ride of about 25 minutes, we swerved off the highway, leaving behind the rising towers of downtown ahead of us. Circling around the blocks of one story houses, the driver finally spotted the Mexican flag ahead of us. This was the consulate? A shabby building a block from a gas station, with no entrance in sight, half a wooden fence, and a line of disgruntled people out front. Vincente Fox and Ban Ki-Moon would cry. This was definetely not New York.

We stopped in front of a laundromat-looking place, but with signs announcing COPIES PASSPORT COPIES in the window. A group of rugged looking men eyed us from the front, while another explained that the consulate entrance was in the back, and that the process could take an hour, or two, or a day - who knew with these visa proceedings? Thank God, the driver offered to wait. Needless to say, I tipped him well.

Going around the photo-copy building, up a rickety wooden ramp, and further on to the second floor, I entered the consulate. My eyes widened at the line of people snaking to get up to the "Passport" windows. There was well over a hundred. Every single one looked Mexican. The memory of hours of waiting in the greencard line flashed in my head. So, that's why I'm here, I realized. God allowed me to see first handed the US-Mexican relations at the border state, excellent background information for my thesis on immigration.

Ironically, only 4 people waited at the "Visa" counter. The administrator sighed in annoyance when he heard my story. "They are confused over there" he said of the BUSH Continental workers. Apparently, I was not the only person in this situation. He stamped a 90 day permit into my travel passport and waved goodbye. No visa required.

Triumphant, I returned to the airport, and changed to a flight to Leon (another blessing, as Leon is 2 hours closer to San Miguel than DF). Sitting in the front seat at the tiny air jet, I gazed out the window, loving flying. Fear and excitement gripped my heart every time the airplane shook with turbulence as we entered another cloud. I was inside clouds! And the mountains, so majestic even from above. Exhausted but exhilirated, I drifted off to sleep.

The voice of the flight attendant asking about sandwich choices woke me. I asked for a vegetarian option. "Oh," she wrinkled her forehead. "We don't do that anymore." Can I say no more Continental? So much for my sincere appreciation of their marketing campaign...

We landed in Silao, which is to BUSH Int'l what David must have appeared to Goliath. Ah, but more aventuras. As expected, while I flew to Leon, my suitcase safely arrived miles away in Mexico City. I explained the situation to the Continental agent, and arranged to have a delivery to CASA. I was just grateful that he understood my Spanish. After many assurances from airport staff, I got into a taxi to San Miguel, to the house of Shelley, the CASA intern coordinator. An hour and a half later,she took me in, fed me salad (another vegetarian) and let me use her shower and a spare bedroom downstairs. I fell asleep across the hall from her four year old, grateful to finally be in San Miguel.