Circular inspiration

Yesterday we went on our final excursion, an hour and a half drive to the delightfully circular Guachimontones Pyramids in Teuchitlan, Jalisco. The picture here shows the main pyramid, but the area includes several other, smaller ones. They date back to 200 B.C. and 400 A.D.

Excavations have uncovered objects ranging from sculptures depicting religious ceremonies to human skulls left over from sacrificial rituals. After browsing through the site's small museum we got to spend two hours exploring this surreal indigenous sanctuary in the scorching heat of a January afternoon in Mexico. I passed some of my time sitting in the shade under a tree, writing in my handy little notebook:

I'm sitting solitary in a spot of shade at los piramides. The same wind that brushes through my hair carries the pure scent of dry nature alive, and buoys small birds as they flitter unpredicatbly through the static blue sky. Wispy, thin strands of mummified foliage hang draped over and through the leafless branches of the tree ahead of me. I wonder if there's any life in that tree.

Below the hill spreads a small town, a pueblo with two Mexican steeples poking out from the mire, and a lake whose horizon brushes with the imagination.

Every now and then, an electronic voice echoes artificially across the land from somewhere in the village: ''veinte! veinte! veinte pesos!'' What human has the right to singlehandedly fracture the tranquility of nature? Give me only the cooing, the vibrating staccato chirps of the birds above. The sounds of wind gently playing in leaves. The uneven ground crunching beneath my feet. Render me an animal in nature.

Life's a beach?

Yesterday I returned ''home'' to Guadalajara after a three-night getaway to Puerto Vallarta with ten Oberlin friends. Our twenty-five person group had fragmented over the weekend, with the eleven of us going to the renowned party city on the Pacific shore, and eight others going to Barra de Navidad -- a relatively quiet beach town 1/30th the size of Puerto. Our group had put fiesta over siesta, and to a certain extent we got what we'd come for.

The day before we took off, a few friends and I went to a local bookstore to copy down useful information from a guidebook on Puerto Vallarta. Even we were scandalized to read the opening line of the section on Clubs & Nightlife: something to the effect of ''In Puerto Vallerta at night, teenagers and 20-somethings like to get trashed and dance on tables.'' Seriously. It turned out that the reality was not so spectacular -- vacationing's low season sent exports of primarily middle aged American turisticos, partiers past their prime. At a loss for the crowd of international teens so often in season there, our group turned within -- and I think we really bonded.

On Friday we went to Boca de Tomatlan, the beach pictured above (not my picture). ''Boca'' means ''mouth'' in Spanish, and indeed the beach was a picturesque sandbar nestled in the curve of a vast, n-shaped, lush green mountainside. We spent several hours frolicking in the water with a deflated volleyball and lounging in the sun. At some point I saw a trio of young Mexican boys around age ten approach Carey, one of the girls in our group. They handed her what appeared to be a stiff, life-size iguana with a short string tied around it. In awe she turned it around in her hands, as our group of gringos quickly descended upon the spectacle. We soon learned that it was in fact a real iguana, scared shitless into a state of live rigor mortis not long after the boys had found it somewhere in the nearby forest. Soon it came my turn to hold the precious creature, whose ribs and organs I could feel through its finely scaled, majestic skin. After passing it around a bit more, the ringleader of the Mexican niño dropped it callously on the ground and planted a stake in its makeshift leash.

A few minutes later young Dr. Doolittle and his friends approached my friend Jose and me and challenged us to a game of beach fútbol. Now I'm no soccer player but I often find myself a restless reserve of kinetic energy, and this was one of those times. About 45 minutes later I was starting to grow weary of beating up on the little munchkins when goalie Jose split the crotch of his bathing suit going for the ball. The kids collapsed, erupting in laughter. The game was over, and it was about time to head back to the hotel.

More about the Puerto trip later, but events happened today that I have to write about. Today I was fortunate enough to witness a startling, stupendous human moment. After school today I was sitting on a bench in a plaza, resting my legs and catching some shade with my friend Sarah. At some point a haggard, hunched over man approached us. His forehead peeled dried blood, and bits of food peppered the stubble around his mouth. He leaned over us, saying he needed help and just wanted two pesos. Two pesos is a pittance -- no more than fifteen cents -- and yet for some reason I hesitated, then rejected him. I told him we were students and didn't have money. I guess I just wanted him out of my face, and my revulsion at his appearance blocked any charitable impulse I may have felt. Disgustedly, he said ''I don't think I can believe that,'' and hobbled away to the next bench.

Less than an hour later, we were walking back to the bus stop to go home, when we witnessed a scene of human holiness. A homeless man dressed as a street clown, with a dirty face and a set of juggling props strapped to his back, walked past another homeless man who kneeled helplessly in the middle of the sidewalk, his legs folded under his enervated body like two flaccid tentacles. The circus-less clown walked a few steps past the supplicant man, then decisively turned back and bent down, dropping a handful of change into his previously empty tin dish.

That miraculous moment will stick with me for the rest of my life. But will I learn from it? I used to give change to homeless people on the street. When did I become so callous? What right do I have to drop down in a semi-destitute country, eat its delicacies, learn its language and leave a month later without giving something back? Every morning on my bus to school I see an old, toothless man walking inbetween cars at the same red light, peddling cheap packs of gum for five pesos each. How does he survive? How does he wake up before dawn every morning and raise the courage to hobble smiling through rush hour traffic after a full life of labor? Almost every day I see a grungy man or woman selling some piddling product with one or two toddlers in tow, because they have nowhere to leave their youngsters while they scrap for pesos all day. Seeing a five year old with a head full of greasy, disheveled hair and unattainable dreams is one of the most heartbreaking things I've encountered on this earth. But what can I do about it?

Arts, but no craft

Yesterday we went on a day-long group excursion. First we went to the Governor's Palace, where we saw Jose Orozco's breathtaking mural. When I get back to the States I'll upload my pictures of it, but in the meantime this one from the web will have to do. It may not look all that impressive, but at 75-100 feet in height, this section shows no more than a third of the entire mural, which stretched from the floor up across the ceiling and two walls. Off the screen on the right was a caricatured scene which so accurately portrayed the political climate two years before World War II that it seemed to predict the war itself.

Next we went to a town called Tlaquepaque, which our tour guide claimed to be the preeminent crafts center in all of Latin America. Hyperbole, I'm sure, but the marketplace did offer artistic works of all shapes, sizes, colors, and cultural origins. Thanks in part to the peso's forgiving exchange rate, I came away with treasures from the mundane to the dazzling. They included:

• a wooden pig sporting a radiant hide of tiny, colored beads in complementary shades of blue, green, orange, white, and more. It's covered with a perplexing number of Jewish stars -- one for each eye and one beaming rainbow rays across its back. The little boys tending the table where I bought it seemed more indigenous than Jewish....
• a large clay jar molded as a cowboy sitting with his head hunched between his knees. All you can see of his head is his sombrero, which is the lid of the jar. Sounds expensive right? Forty pesos! That's $3.50!
• now for the mundane -- a small, homemade, shoulderstrap bag with Winnie the Pooh on it. It appears to be made of a brownish suede, and I now use it as a convenient camera carrying case. Oh god... alliteration overload.

Later that evening the group bus dropped us off back at the school. From there I got on bus 51A, the one I thought I was supposed to take back home. But as the bus chugged joltingly along, I felt like I didn't recognize many of the landmarks along the way. So I got off the bus and began to walk. Calling my host mom for help and asking random strangers for directions, I arrived back at home at least an hour later after realizing I had been on the right bus after all. My epic journey had been tiring and personally embarrassing, but ultimately edifying, as I now have a slightly better sense of the area's geography.

Later that night I went to a nearby club with American friends Alison and Ray. From the outside the club looks anything but modest; its super-modern style and suave architectural curves cry out ''classy.'' And its all-English name ''Mood: the Next Heaven'' rolls out a proverbial welcome mat for devotees to American pop culture. The ecstatic beat of club chic imported from the north prodded our spirits as we waited outside in the warm night. After a minute I walked up to the line attendant and asked if we could go in. Another employee promptly walked over, noticed our accents, and asked where we were from. ''America!'' Alison proclaimed. The second man smiled knowingly, scribbled on a bit of paper, ripped it off the pad and handed it to me. ''You can enter for free,'' he said, ''enjoy your night.''

Four beers later I'm getting antsy. I want to test the female waters and I want to test my Spanish skills. I see two Mexican chicas sitting at a nearby table. The empty sofa cube next to them silently begs my ass to plop down on it. After twenty minutes of building up my courage (or ''building up fear'') as Ray retorted, I went and sat down with them.

I could converse only with the girl next to me, as the music's near-deafening decibel level banished the second one from our sphere of communication. I spoke and understood pretty decently, though my amateurish Spanish prevented me from saying all that I wanted to. After a few minutes I got up and went back to my group of friends, feeling somewhat accomplished. Soon after, I returned to the girl and asked her for one dance. She ever-so-sweetly rejected my request.

Vowing not to end my night on such a sour note, I danced halfheartedly with my friends in a middle school-style circle, scanning the crowd for another lady-target. Soon I observed a relatively attractive female my age dancing with a female companion -- a common ritual that, when performed in America, signifies an invitation for males to approach. When I asked her to dance, she blushed and turned to giggle at her friend -- also usually a good sign for the male participant. But 'twas not to be. After dancing awkwardly with her side to me for a minute she ran off with her friend. Angered, perplexed and defeated, I too returned to my friends. It was time to go home.

First night out

So I'm about to go out on the town with Alison, perhaps also with Pepe and his friends. I met Pepe at the park today. I had gone to the park on a run, and when I finally reached it I saw a bunch of guys running up and down a basketball court. Of course it turned out they were just playing futbol there for lack of a proper field.

But there was one solitary person shooting a basketball on the next court. At first I was hesitant to approach him, but when I saw he was wearing an ''I ♥ New York'' shirt I knew I couldn't go wrong. We chatted for a bit, me understanding about half of what he said. He seemed to be somewhat of an Americaphile. He had worked and studied in Connecticut and he enjoyed not only basketball, but also football! American football! Anyway to make a long story short, I beat him in a close game of one on one, we chatted a bit more, exchanged phone numbers, and went along our separate ways.

Today we had our first session of class. It was four hours long, with one 15 minute break. Profesor Jesús is affable and challenging, certainly a good combination. At times I feel like I might be too good for this class level, but then I realize I can barely understand conversations with actual Mexicans, and °poof° goes the inflated ego.

Language-learning is exhausting. I almost fell asleep several times at the end of class, and I took a nice long nap when I got home. Now it's time to hit the streets.

First day of school

I'm about to eat breakfast before my first day at escuela. I just had my first shower here, complete with extreme paranoia that a single drop of water would find its way between my lips and down my throat. I pursed my lips tightly but at one point I let out a burp -- not a good sign, perhaps.

I was just remembering some bits of conversation from last night. Mama was amazed that I wasn't cold, sitting in the kitchen in my polo shirt, while she was bundled up in a jacket. Also I asked her what her job was and she responded ''¡aqui, en la casa!''

Claro.

My first night in Mexico

¡I´m in Mexico!

The first thing I noticed as my taxi sped away from the airport was the raw, pervasive smell of fumes. But as we distanced ourselves from there I abruptly came to notice a far better smell, almost like that of pure seaside air.

I hadn´t spoken Spanish for at least two weeks when I jumped in the taxi, and predictably, my conversation with the driver started off pretty poorly. Not only could I barely understand his rapid-fire delivery, but he could hardly understand me! After some time our conversation smoothed, and the awkwardness dissipated.

Of course, throughout the ride I tried to imagine what kind of house my family would have, what that would say about them, and how I should conduct myself upon meeting them. The whole greeting thing turned out to be highly anticlimactic. The son (shit, ¡I already forgot his name!) greeted me at the door and led me inside, where the mom (¡also forgot her name!) happened to be walking up the stairs. We exchanged greetings. In my room, one of the daughters was making my bed.

The mother invited me into the kitchen/dining room for some sushi camarones y cangrejo (shrimp sushi and crab). Both were good, and both were spicy. I foresee a sinfully delicious trend here (my tongue will be happy, but my throat might not be...).

I talked with another sister -- Vedo, I think -- she´s 34 and the oldest of the five siblings in the house (three have already moved out and married). We watched some Wedding Crashers dubbed over in Spanish. I conveniently left right before the scene where Vince Vaughn´s crazy girlfriend gives him a hand job under the dinner table. This is supposedly a conservative area, and I don´t want to cause a stir before I even know anyone. Speaking of that, ¿who´s the man of the house?

¡Big day tomorrow!