Be VERY careful

"Tenga MUCHO cuidado",  is the horrified reaction of Oaxaquenos to my upcoming car trip to Central America.   I agree politely, and refrain from saying that in the US, I get a similar response in regards to my trips to Mexico.

Confident that I was dealing with an urban legend, I decided to bust it by searching the statistics.  I extricated the data below from a report  by the UN Office of Drugs and Crime.

The numbers represent the violent deaths (homicides) per year, for every 100,000 of population.
  • Worldwide, the average rate for violent deaths is 7.
  • Central America is the second most violent region in the world  (after Southern Africa) with a death rate of  29.
  • Honduras it the most violent country, at 82.  That's pretty bad.  It means you have a one percent chance of being murdered every twelve years.
  • In the other Central American countries, the rate ranges from El Salvador-66, to Costa Rica-10.
  • In Mexico, the rate is 23.  (In Oaxaca it is 2.3).
  • In other countries of interest, the violent death rates is as follows: US -5, South Korea-3, and Israel-2.
  • Looking for a safe haven?  The rate in Polynesia is 0.1.  Australia and Western Europe tie for second place at 1
Even though the city of Tegucigalpa, the Honduran capital, offers free funerals, I will stay in Honduras less than 24 hours.  In other countries I will be careful.

Dancing zombies

Zombies dancing with skeletons to the rhythm of a native singer.
Day of the Dead in Oaxaca?
Lila Downs, one of my favorite local talents, staged this version at the Latin Grammys:
Lila Downs at the Grammys

She received the Grammy for her latest CD, Pecados y Milagros.  BTW, sometimes, she also does Jazz.

Pictures at an Exhibition

The lively beat of  Latin reggae enticed me into the colonial courtyard.  Free mezcal and a tub full of beer, ensured that I stay.  I joined a festive crowd attending the opening night of a photography exhibition.  In Oaxaca, you often stumble into gems like this, by just walking the streets.  I sipped the mezcal, chased it with some beer, and after sufficiently enjoying  the young band, walked into the exhibition.
The first room surprised me.  The walls were covered with portraits of women.  As I walked around the room, I was compelled to pause for long minutes in front of each one of them. Young, old, pretty, not so pretty, all displayed an intense personality that shone through the black-and-white photos.  Their piercing eyes engaged mine and reflected my own curiosity, 'Who are you?  What do you do?'  The labels provided only their names.  I spent extra time in front of the attractive woman whose name sounded Israeli.  The other rooms contained more portraits, of both genders.  All the photos were in black-and-white, and all exhibited an eye-catching quality, clarity and tone.  Each person, for I felt I was looking at a person not a photo, had something special that attracted attention.  A pensive look, a smile, a puff on a cigarette, even a playful up-yours gesture.  Crossing from one room to another, felt like abandoning old friends.  These photos were not snapshots, clearly they were the result of dedicated photo session, but it was also clear that the subjects felt relaxed and free to express themselves.  I was amazed at the magical ability of the artist to vividly project real personalities.
"I would love to have a conversation with each one of these people." I told Adi.

The last room I entered, was actually the first of the exhibition.  Here I found that the photographer's name is Alberto (El Negro) Ibanez.  A Oaxaqueno.  In the posted introduction, I found possible explanations for the high photographic quality and impressive personalities.  The photos were captured on film, then developed and printed in the lab (not digital), and the subjects (Including Rivka Galchen), are authors that, over the years, participated in the Oaxaca Book Fair. 

P.S.
The next day I returned to the exhibition and tried to discover El Negro's magic.  I found some technical elements that he favored, but none that he used exclusively.  I realized that wide aperture, close perspective, or side-lighting, will not transform me into a photographer.  Maybe a film camera?

Cinderella

As we talk with another person, we delude ourselves that we are interacting with a human, while in fact we are only communicating with shallow model.  A model of our own construction, convenient for every day use, but far from the truth.  I found, that taking the trouble to go past the model, leads me to fascinating discoveries.  Even if the model  reads "Boring", the human behind it always has unique and interesting aspects.  To perceive a 'real person' requires attentive listening.  Most people, including I, don't have the inclination or skill to do so.  Two of my friends,using two distinct methods, do it well.

Kobi goes about the task by posing to his interviewee a stream of short, well-constructed questions.  His questions are both interesting and challenging.  His subjects enjoy the process, and reward Kobi with generous detail.  Adi, on the other hand, displays her empathy through tone-of-voice and body language.  Her partners are captivated by her energy, and feel they are talking to a 'best-friend'.  Kobi can mine most of the facts regarding people's life.  Adi may miss some facts, but they often reveal to her their innermost secrets and painful emotions.  I benefit from both Kobi and Adi's skills, by sitting unobtrusively on the sidelines.

We met Nico and Irma in Wednesday's Danzon, and soon we became friends.  He is a tall, energetic, and  looks much younger than his eighty-eight years.  Irma is thirty-six years his junior.  She is short, plump, and her cute face is always smiling.  They look happy together.  Irma's model reads 'Peace and Love.'

This is the story of the 'real' Irma, as told to me by Adi.

Irma grew up in Oaxaca, not far from the city center, but a world away from the colonial mansions of the capital..  Their small house, situated in the previously indigenous neighborhood, lacked running water and electricity.   From early on, Irma's mother forced her to do the household chores while her siblings sat idle.   She remembers herself at the age of five, standing on a stool, over a wood-burning stove, stirring stew.
"I was lucky not to get burned"  she muses.
She served the table while the family ate dinner.  When they were done, she, ate alone in the kitchen.  That was the routine.  However, when her mother was angry, she would grab Irma by her braids, beat her over the head, and slam her body against the wall.  At times her mother would supplement the beating with insults.
"You are not my daughter!" she would yell,"Get out of my house!"
Irma noted that her complexion and stature were markedly different than her siblings, but she had no one with whom she could share her suspicions.

As Irma told Adi about her childhood, she began weeping uncontrollably   Eventually she calmed enough to continue.

Irma's only consolation was her father.  When the two of them were alone, he would hug her, bring her sweets, and tell her how he loved her the most.  However, the one time she complained to him about her mother's abuse, she heard her parents quarrel, and then her mother took revenge by beating her even more.  She did not try it again.

Marriage at the age of sixteen didn't help Irma escape her misery.  She avoided her husband's first assault through a determined demonstration of a heavy skillet, a demonstration which was sufficiently educational to discourage him from any future attempts, but not sufficient to prevent his verbal abuse, or flagrant womanizing.  Eventually she divorced him.

Her well-practiced sewing and cooking skills, allowed her to work and support herself.  However her childhood left her gloomy, withdrawn and socially inept.  One evening, she was captivated by music flowing from an adjacent room.  She timidly knocked, entered, and met her neighbor.  At the time, Nico was seventy, and she was thirty four.  He was warm, gentle and kind.  Slowly and patiently he coaxed her out of her shell, and they fell in love.  They have been together now for eighteen years.

On his death bed, Irma's father told her about a woman in his past, whom he loved very much.  He said that the woman's name was also Irma and that the two look very much alike.  At that point her mother interrupted the confession by entering the room.  Irma never learned more about her circumstances and the identity of her biological mother.

Irma's friends observe a 'happy-end' story, but sometimes, in her dreams, Irma visits her childhood, and wakes up crying.