Tear Gas

A few weeks ago, the Zocalo was transformed from a tranquil, shady plaza, a pleasant destination for strolling and listening to street musicians, into a hectic marketplace.  The walkways were invaded by a horde of traditionally-dressed indigenous women and  rasta-haired hippies who spread their wares on the ground.
'Oaxaca has enough handicraft markets,' I whined to myself, 'why do they have to be in my favorite spot?'
To me, the added color, did not make up for the crowded feeling , nor for the smell of frying  snacks.  I asked an acquaintance what happened.  As far as I could understand, he attributed the change to the newly elected Governor.  I assumed the new Governor relaxed the regulations to provide more attractions for tourists while at the same time increasing his popularity.  This evening, I realized again, how lack of language fluency can lead to wildly wrong assumptions, and leaves me still a visitor in a foreign town.

Before dusk, Adi and I went into the still warm air to shop for art supplies.   Walking towards the Zocalo we passed a large villa whose exterior was being painted.  We attributed the strange smell to the fresh paint. However as we moved on, the smell did not diminish and ours eyes began to water.
'Something is wrong'  I thought.
It took a while to register that most people were walking in the opposite direction, all of them with teary eyes.  Some were trying to cover their faces with shawls or handkerchiefs.
Coming towards us, I saw our Danzon instructor, his face red and puffy.  Although he did not want to linger, he explained that the police deployed tear gas to expel illegal vendors from the Zocalo.  Apparently persuasion did not work, and the police resorted to force.  It must have been quite a show of force, because six blocks away, we were still finding it hard to breath.  I could only imagine what was going on at the epicenter.
"Is this like 2006?"  I asked.
"Not exactly" replied Lucio.
This was not the appropriate time for a lengthy political discussion.  I suppressed my inclination to go the Zocalo. and turned back home.  It took a while for our eyes and throat to return to normal.

I guess the street vendors assumed that the change of administration is a moment of weakness, which provides them with an opportunity.  The 2006 uprising erupted in the Zocalo when the Governor clashed with the middle-class teachers union.  I doubt whether the squatters of today have this kind of political organization or will.  Meanwhile, I am feeling slightly guilty.  True, I wished them gone, but I certainly did not wish them to be drowned in tear gas.

Barely Acceptable

I was in eighth grade, and "Barely acceptable" stood out boldly on my graduation certificate.  It was my grade in the Art class.  Even while trying to hide my disappointment, I had to admit that this score, just barely above "Failed", may have been a generous gesture by the teacher.  For as hard as I tried, what showed on the sheets I grudgingly submitted, was painfully different than what I had in mind.  I have been carrying this trauma ever since.  Eventually, I learned to joke about it while sketching stick figures.

When Adi suggested we take a drawing class, I recognized that after a long life of analytical activities, this may be the chance to finally give my right brain a workout.  I reasoned that even if I didn't learn to draw, I would benefit from improving my observation skills.  Furthermore, paying more attention to detail may decrease the occasional forgetfulness.

It was with significant trepidation that I came to the Casa de la Cultura Oaxacena, and sat at the large paint-smeared table. All my public school frustrations were bubbling just below the surface.  The instructions for the first class were simple.  Take a large sheet of paper, use a pencil, and draw the cube in front of us.  I started to work, and it was more than an hour before I came up for a breath.  Time flew, and my apprehension was greatly reduced.  On the second class, it was a bottle.  This time, it took the entire two hours before I raised my eyes from the work.  I was totally exhausted from the intense concentration, and the anxiety was a thing of the past.  Surprisingly, my sketches resembled the models, and surpassed my own criteria for "Acceptable".  Over the next few weeks, my mental stamina increased, and with it, my concentration level.  As I  translated what my eyes saw, into the fine movements of my hand and fingers, I was transported into an isolation bubble.  I could not hear nor see anything that went on around me.  My absorption became a source of amusement for Adi and the other fellow students.

For the last project this quarter, we used pastel chalk to draw an object of our choice.  A razor is used to scrape the variously colored sticks onto a rough-surfaced sheet, and then using a finger, you rub the powder into the paper.  I am not sure what element in this style caught my fancy.  Maybe it was the freedom from the laborious task of  shading in pencil, or maybe it was the infantile urge to put my fingers in a colored mess.  Whatever the reason, the new media changed the game from an interesting challenge into challenging fun.  It's hard for me to believe, but the apples shown above, are my graduation piece.

Meanwhile Adi, who in middle-school had her own painful experiences with art, was also surprising herself with her new-found skills.  She did the pomegranates.  I think the difference between having fun and having talent is obvious.

Tomorrow

At any gathering of expats, the conversation will eventually turn to annoying generalizations of Mexico and Mexicans.  Recently, I realized that these conversations are not just a way to feel superior, but may provide a way to accept and cope with reality.  This blog is my attempt at acceptance, and it may be just as annoying.

It is one thing to speak a language, it takes deeper knowledge to understand it.  For example, what does the sentence "I will do it tomorrow.",  mean, when spoken in Spanish?  Many times I experienced that a promise does not turn into action, and if it does, it is usually late.  In either case, no apologies are offered or even implied.  This sentence should therefore be taken as, "I understand that you would like me to do it soon."

Two general characteristics (sorry) may explain the gap in translation.  First, Mexicans do not like to disappoint.  I rarely have been refused here.  The second cause may be a difference in attitude towards time.  D.H. Lawrence, who lived a few months in Oaxaca, and wrote stories about it in his book "Mornings in Mexico", claims that until the arrival of the white man, the local Indians had no concept of time.

One insight led to another.  Whenever I committed myself to do something here, I was repeatedly questioned about it.
'Quit bugging me!'  I would think, while affirming my commitment.
Now  I understand that the repetition is the accepted way of telling me, "Your action is very important.  I hope you do it."

Another example.  After asking for directions, you hear, "It's close.  Go down this street, then turn left.".   What does this sentence mean?  First, ignore the word "close".  Everything is close.  Second, it could mean exactly what it says, or it could mean, "I don't really know."  The ambivalence is due, again, to the inability to disappoint.  "You expect directions, and I am doing my best to please you...."

To resolve the ambiguity, watch the responder carefully before he begins to reply.  If you notice any hesitation, thank him politely, but ignore the answer.  It is crucial not to miss that initial instant of uncertainty, because after verbalization begins, all answers will flow with the same confidence, whether correct or not.


Que le vaya bien.

Nico

When Nico smiles, the missing front teeth make him look like a boy, happy to be playing in the sandbox.  Although a bit older than most of our fellow Danzoneros, he is taller, trimmer, and quick to  smile.  He moves smoothly on the dance floor, guiding Irma, his younger, but not so tall nor trim wife, in elegant dance combinations.   A couple of weeks after the National Danzon convention, he gifted us a DVD of the event, in which Adi and I, alongside Nico and Irma, were featured on the title sequence.  He must have taken pity on our dismal performance, because, very delicately, he offered to make us better dancers.

We accepted his invitation of comida (midday meal), "Irma is a great cook", and a Danzon class.  The four of us sat in the small living room of their rented house in the outskirts of Oaxaca, had a mezcal, and waited for the chicken to be ready.  We chatted about our grandchildren (an icebreaker in any society), the water supply (a crucial topic in Oaxaca), and eventually age (the first topic in a  Korean conversation).  Adi started gently, by asking for the age difference between Niko and Irma.  Thirty six years seemed larger than their apparent age difference, but was still plausible.  We gasped when we learned that Irma is fifty, because that made Niko eighty six.  To us, Nico looked and behaved like a man in his early seventies.  

"A miracle" Adi cried.

The couple laughed.  Nico  enjoyed our compliments, but it was clear he was aware of his gift.  After the excitement subsided, I asked him for the secrets of such a well-maintained life.  He was ready with the answer.

1.  Work.  He worked a truck driver until five years ago.  Till this day, he misses his work.

2.  Exercise.  He used to jog until a couple of years ago.  He stopped after the installation of a heart pacemaker.

3.  Drink.  During his years as a truck driver he would consume a liter of mezcal per day.  He does not drink it now because of the medicines he is taking.

He stopped there.

"What about the young wife?"  I asked.

"Oh yes,"  he agreed, "as we say here in Mexico, You should give an old cat a young mouse."

There is not the slightest hint of a heart condition in his demeanor, and according to him, the secret to drinking without damaging the liver is taking it with plenty of food.

The chile-spiced chicken, wrapped in minty Yerba Santa leaves, was wonderful.  After the comida we acquired several new and elegant Danzon steps.  I also acquired a new role model in addition to Bob Teichner, my ninety-four year 'young' friend.