La Fiesta del Chivo

In 2000, Mario Vargas Llosa wrote a novel by the same title that narrates an account of the 1961 CIA plot to overthrow Trujillo, the dictator of the Dominican Republic from 1930-1961. I highly recommend the book as a fictional account of the US involvement in that Caribbean island. While I am not on an island and have no political intrigues or assassinations to report, I repeated that title in my thoughts several times during our celebration dinner at the community of El Planchado on Friday afternoon.

The MCC Guerrero team was invited by the community of El Planchado for lunch in celebration of the three tinacos (cisterns) that the community built with the financial and technical support of MCC. It is common at the end of a project for communities to host a dinner for the team and the participants in the project.

At 1:30 the six of us (Martin and Liz Dyrst and their two boys, Manuel Vazquez and myself) packed into the red truck and began our drive through the mountains of Guerrero. The two hour drive included beautiful vistas as we climbed the curvy roads. We passed fields of corn, sorghum and chiles. In what looked like large red flags dotting the hillsides, the harvest of chiles, set out on tarps and roofs, were drying in preparation for sale. We drove through Titicic and Tlquilcingo, the communities that I have visited, as El Planchado is one of the remotest communities where we have worked.

When I say that the drive was two hours, I mean that for the first 30 minutes we had the luxury of a paved road and for the last hour and a half we bumped along a dirt road filled with holes, rocks and periodic stick and wire fences that we had to open and close as we entered communities nestled along the mountainside. It also included being in close quarters with the Dyrst boys, who are, I think the appropriate word would be, “active.” Needless to say, after being human popcorn in the second seat of the truck cab, when we finally arrived at 3:30 I was more than ready to meet the community and to eat the food that the community had been cooking all day.

El Planchado is the end of the road. Planchado means flat, but it certainly does not describe the geography which is rocky, hilly and difficult to farm. There are three houses in the community and they are all family. The Doña, mother of the family who looks to be in her late 70s, lives with her one daughter, Carmen. Luis, another son in his 50s has a house, and the third house belongs to his son, Pepe, and three daughters, the only children in the community. I was impressed that despite the size of the community there was a small adobe one-room school and church.

As we drove up to the first house, one of the girls was arranging the table and chairs in the patio area. We talked for a ten to fifteen minutes, before we were told that the food was prepared, but we were awaiting the Cokes. From my experience in communities, sharing Coke with guests is a highly valued custom. As this was to be a special meal, the two men waited for the last moment possible to buy the Cokes, a half hour drive from the community, so that the drinks would be cold for the guests. I should mention that during the wait, Carmen invited us to her house after we finished eating so that we could eat with her as well. We joked that it was going to be a contest of who had the best meal.

Once the drinks arrived, we gathered around the table. Bundles of fresh tortillas were stacked on the table beside the bowls of salsa verde, fresh cut limes and salt. Then one by one we each had a plate of meat in front of us. As a vegetarian, I am used to having limited options, but with only one option, plate of goat marinated in chile, today I was going to be eating goat with everyone else and voicing high praise for the food.

Using the tortilla as my fork, I tore off a chunk of the stringy meat, dipped it in the salsa verde and began my meal con gusto. I really have no idea what part of the chivo I was eating; however, it was abundantly clear what part of the goat Luis was eating. The jaw line and teeth indentations were hard to disguise no matter the amount of chile marinade. Sitting beside him, I asked if there was any meat on the head. “Of course, it’s some of the best. Want to try some?” I declined the invitation feeling like I had more than I could handle on my plate. He happily added bones big and small to a pile beside his plate. With Modelo beer, plenty of salsa verde and too many tortillas for one person my size, I made a strong showing with the chivo.

I spent much of the meal concentrating on my approach and wiping my nose from the affects of the intense picante that I was consuming along with my goat. The others were better at maintaining the conversation. The young son lived in Florida for three years and enjoyed practicing some of the phrases that he had learned and was curious about how to say other phrases or words. Periodically, muffled voices would shout through the CB radio attached to the father’s belt. The Dyrst boys used the styrofoam cups to play tic-tac-toe deftly avoiding the food altogether.

Nearing 5:00 and relaxing in the sun after eating more meat than I have in the last year, Carmen reiterated her invitation to eat at her house as she also prepared a meal for us. I really did think that she was joking. In a small community where everyone is family, it seems logical that they would have coordinated plans for one meal, and the meal we just finished was certainly generous. However, I do recognize that each family dearly wanted to show their appreciation. While we were not lacking for more food, we did want to visit her house and the Doña of the community.

As we ducked into the shade of her house, I saw that the stacks of tortillas were on the table along with a bowl of salsa verde, a bowl of refried beans and a huge pitcher of fresh jamaica juice. I poured everyone a glass of juice as I was parched from all the food. As I took my first refreshing sip, she began to pass around the plates of chivo. At this point, we really did have to decline the food for obvious reasons as well as the fact that I had to be on the 8:00pm bus to Mexico City, the 8:00 bus from Olinalá, two bumpy and mountainous hours from the table where we were being served chivo – round two.

Carmen seemed so surprised that we were not going to eat that I ate a tortilla with refried beans and drank a second glass of juice to show her how much I appreciated her gesture of hospitality. She insisted that we take the food home for dinner and proceeded to find containers for the goat, beans and chiles.

At 5:30 we began to say our goodbyes. Weighed down by the meal that we ate and the bags of food we didn’t eat, we said our thanks and began our two hour return journey. The vistas were still beautiful and the road still almost impassable, but with the chivo as an extra passenger I was reminded that la fiesta del chivo is one small example of the generous and thankful spirit of the people who MCC works with in the mountains of Guerrero.

One Month Impressions

Just like in Pittsburgh, it is difficult to wake up and start the day when the sun is still hiding at 7:15am, even though the roosters are crowing to remind me to begin my day. By 8 or 8:30 as I walk the few blocks to the MCC Olinalá office two streets away, the women and the shop owners are about finished sweeping the narrow sidewalk and street in front of their house or store. If it hasn’t rained during the night, they spray water using a small bowl on the ground to help with the dust.

On my usual route I pass the elementary students in their uniforms of white shirts and navy blue pants walking or running into the Catholic school. Across the street from the school I say hello to the policeman guarding the Municipality entrance with a large rifle type weapon slung across his shoulder. I stroll by the zócalo (town square) as the fruit and vegetable vendors are arranging their stalls for the day. In small town tradition, I greet everyone I pass with a friendly buenos días. I’ve learned that if you know someone as you pass them, you say adios is a singsong voice.

When it’s time for comida (lunch) at 3 or 4pm, I retrace my steps home. By this time in the day, I fall in line with the other women and children on the shady side of the street to avoid the direct heat. I sometimes buy some fresh tortillas at one of the three tortillerias that I pass on the way home. For one peso I can buy 5-6 fresh tortillas, which is more than enough for me. The seller looks skeptical at my quantity because most people buy by the kilo as tortillas are the edible silverware of Mexico. They are best fresh, so I only buy what I can eat that day.

Throughout the day I listen to the soundtrack of Olinalá life. The car alarm noise coming from the trucks that circle town sell large jugs of drinking water for about 10 pesos/jug. The trucks that blare loud music with incomprehensible voices sell tanks of gas. The most elusive is the trash truck that rings a bell. The growing pile of plastic bags at the foot of my stairs shows that I am never home when they drive down my street.

Living simply is easy when I’m not surrounded by the distractions of restaurants, movie theaters and other entertainment venues. While there are numerous artesian shops selling beautiful lacquer boxes and trays, I indulge in two cheap treats: 1. atole and 2. paletas. On the rare mornings when there is a slight chill in the air, I buy a cup of atole (a milk based hot drink with rice) for 5 pesos from the woman pushing the wheelbarrow through the streets. And when the sun is unrelenting in the afternoons, I walk the 2-3 blocks from the office to the Paletaría with the largest variety to buy a paleta (popsicles that come in a variety of fruit flavors). It’s the best use of 2 pesos on a hot afternoon.

The town quiets in the evenings, and I enjoy reading on the back porch that has an obstructed view of the zócalo. Most of the town activity centers on the zócalo so I always hear the heartbeat of the town. On the weekends, the women’s basketball league holds their games under the lights. Thankfully, I have thus far avoided having to display my nonexistent skills.

Water

I just finished one of my weekly activities – filling my Rotoplas that sits on the top of my roof. The Rotoplas is a large black plastic cistern that holds 1100 liters of water. I use the water for all of my household water needs like showering, brushing my teeth and washing dishes. Since the water is not safe to drink, for drinking and cooking purposes, I buy jugs of water for 11 pesos from the water pick up trucks that circle the streets. I know they are coming when I hear the noise of a car alarm and a young man hanging off the back shouting ¡agua!

I have a pila (a cement holding area for water) on the ground behind my house. Since my apartment is part of the town water system, once or twice a week, the water is turned on to fill the pila. The downstairs neighbors are always kind enough to turn off the faucet when the pila is full so as not to flood the backyard. Those who are not on the water system buy water to fill their cisterns. To fill the Rotoplas, I turn on the pump that carries the water from the pila up to the roof via a black hose. This is the tricky part as it usually takes several frustrating tries to get the pump to actually work and pull the water. Once I hear the water raining off the roof, I know that the Rotoplas is full and quickly run down the stairs to turn off the pump. It’s a feeling of success to know that I will not have to worry about running out of water mid week.

As water is a scarce resource in the area, as in many other parts of the world, there are various ways to conserve water. Every small action helps so that I am not constantly filling the Rotoplas. First, I limit the number showers I take in week as well as the length of my showers. I’m now used to turning off the water as I shampoo my hair. I shower standing in a large container that collects the soapy shower water. After each shower, I pour the used water into a bucket beside the toilet. I also have a collection container in the sink to collect the water when I brush my teeth or wash my hands. All of the extra water that is collected in the bucket is used to flush the toilet.

I am reminded daily how much I take for granted the access to and the abundance of water in the States. In the short amount of time that I have been here, these simple actions to conserve water have become routine. As I travel to the States for two weeks at the end of October, I hope that I continue to be aware of my water use and to conserve water in whatever small ways that I can.

The Lingering Fiesta

Sleep is optional during fiesta days. Early Sunday morning after the all night dance, the town square was a bustle of activity. The vendors arranged their wares for a day of sales, and the church welcomed everyone to mass at 9. Music and processions continued throughout the day. In the evening there was another castillo set afire and yet another dance. I didn’t make to the dance, which was held in the auditorium behind my apartment, but had the pleasure of listening to the music until it finally died down around 4 in the morning. Unlike most of Olinalá and the surrounding communities, I had only enough energy to shop at the market for some fruits and vegetables and then retire for a day of relaxation and reading at the apartment.

On Monday, there were fewer vendors on the streets. Store owners swept away the plastic bottles, styrofoam plates and other trash that remained from the festivities. While the vendors closed earlier in the evening then during the weekend and there were less people wondering the zócalo, the fiesta was not quite over. Tuesday was the last night of bull riding near the soccer field that had been going on each evening for at least the last 4-5 days. Throughout the week the vendors began to disappear one by one and the town began to quiet. Mid week felt like only the determined vendors came out as if grasping for the last breaths of fiesta. By Thursday evening traffic around the zócalo returned to normal, and on Friday only the fair rides still set up in the zócalo gave any hint of the fiesta that had passed through the town.

Day in Tlapa

The Freisen-Pankratz oldest two children and their good friend Miguel from Zacango tried to sleep in the back of the truck for much of the 1 ½ hour trip to Tlapa through the mountainous and curvy roads. At one point Zam, the oldest (8 years old) and most prone to motion sickness, leaned over the side of the truck to get rid of his morning breakfast. Bruce maneuvered through the large holes in the roads and the periodic speed bumps as Jaime held Ziko, their youngest (3 years old), in the front seat of the truck. Ziko’s stomach and breakfast did not appreciate drive either.

By the time the road had straightened out, we were stopped at an intersection for a car check by the military patrol. We all filed out of the grey Nissan truck as they checked Bruce’s ID and completed a superficial search of the truck. No drugs or illicit items found. The rest of the trip to Tlapa was uneventful except for the near head-on crash with a van that we narrowly escaped with nothing more than increased heart rates and relieved laughter.

Our first visit was to a biologist who manages an aquaculture program. Her compound has ten or more pools each with fish at various levels of maturity. We talked with her about the process and possibilities to begin fish farming in Zacango. She was extremely knowledgeable about ways to use the resources and expertise already in the community.

Super Che, a large Wal Mart type store, was our next destination in order to buy a printer for the office. I was immediately struck by the amount of different items available and the variety of options. I felt like a kid in a candy store, overwhelmed by the amount of choices. After living in Olinalá for less than a month, I have become accustomed to having limited selection and simply not having access to a variety of cheeses, breads or specialty items that I take for granted in Pittsburgh. I began to appreciate how overwhelmed people would feel walking into a US store if they had never had these kinds of opportunities previously.

My last meeting was with Tlachinollan, a human rights organization that began in the mid 90s with the encouragement and accompaniment of MCC workers. Their founding corresponds to the beginning of MCC’s work in the state of Guerrero. It is exciting to see the strength and value of this organization in the region, with at least ten lawyers and staff working in the areas of education, migration and communication. While MCC has had placements with the organization in the past, currently there are no short or long term placements with the organization. www.tlachinollan.org

Leaving the dusty city behind, we drove through Tlapa rush hour and through the windy roads to return to Olinalá and Zacango. We arrived soon after 6 to Zacango just in time for Jaime and me to lead the women’s literacy class.

Fiestas Patronales

Loud startling booms and cracks could be heard throughout the week at all hours of the day and night. One night I looked at the clock that read 5:30 and wondered if people ever slept. The firecrackers are deceiving in that you jump at the noise but are not rewarded with any beautiful color falling from the sky. Walking the streets offers you the privilege of hearing bands of all sorts playing in the streets. On Tuesday, the zócalo began to fill with amusement rides of all sorts - carousel, spinning seats... at 9pm and later los chamacos (young people) from the schools are pairing up to experience the thrill of a ride. By Thursday evening traffic was rerouted and the streets surrounding the zócalo were closed to allow every type of vender imaginable to set up shop. The churrería sells all things fried like churros, bananas, french fries. One man sits behind a small table covered in slabs of meat. Roast beef is my best guess. The zócalo air is steaming with the smell of tacos and chalupas from the stands that have popped up on corners and side streets. I could buy decorative pottery and earthenware to cowboy hats to kitchen pots and pans to all variety of clothing.

Friday festivities finished with the burning of el castillo which we watched rooftop from the Dyrst home as a finale to our team welcome dinner for me. El castillo is a tall metal construction in the middle of the zócalo that is filled with sparklers and fireworks. They light the lower level ones which spin and twirl raining sparks on the crowd only a few feet from the structure. Spark by spark the burning climbs el castillo until the grand finale at the top along with the familiar fireworks that we associate with the 4^th of July.

All of the week’s activities and preparations culminated in the Saturday events. The streets were packed with vendors, tourists, and extended family returning for the weekend. Outside of the church, the ground was covered with cempasúchitl and peticon, gold flowers sold to decorate the church to make necklaces that would adorn St. Francis. Behind the church, the floats of flowers began to be constructed for the afternoon’s parade.

The last of the community processions to bring their offering of flowers to the church passed the apartment close to noon. The Zacango community members, having walked more than an hour from the community, carried large poll structures intricately covered in the gold flowers which would be offered to the church. The community is very proud of their work and procession which is known to be one of the best. On Thursday, Bruce, a MCC worker living in Zacango, woke up at 4am to accompany the men of the community to pick the needed amount of flowers for the decorations. Returning by noon, each family had their stock of flowers that they would use for their offering. Bruce’s wife Jaime wanted to learn how to weave the flowers into the decorations, but reluctantly the kids told her that this was usually the man’s job.

As the weekend is a celebration of Olinalá, there was an exhibition on Saturday of the artesian work that is nationally known. The lacquer work features detailed painting and craftsmanship using linaloe wood from native trees that are unfortunately becoming scarce in the area. Almost everyone in town is somehow connected with the artesian process be it as a craftsman or a vender. For the exhibition, the artisans entered their best piece or pieces for judging. The entries included large hope chests, tables, and trays to the traditional and more common boxes. While I haven’t spent enough time here to distinguish the various levels of quality in the work, the designs and colors of the highlighted work was impressive.

By 4 pm people were sitting on the curbs of the streets and venders were moving to the sides in preparation for the big procession. Despite the descriptions that I had heard previously, nothing could have prepared me for the bizarre blend of Halloween and scared pilgrimage that I was about to witness. The parade began at the church and followed a large loop around the town gaining strength and people along the way finishing at the church two hours later.

Anyone is allowed to participate in the procession and allowed to join at any point along the walk, but basically three types of groups participate. First are the costumed in varying degrees of appropriateness. Many of the children who choose to participate are dressed as tigers, the traditional costume. I have asked various people why it is a tradition to dress as tigers. The standard answer is, “I don't know. It's just tradition.” I have also heard that before the conquistadores there was trading with the Philippines or parts of Asia and that is the origin.

Those in costumes are almost exclusively boys and men. So along with the tigers there are those wearing scary monster masks or what is supposed to be a woman’s face. It’s difficult to understand how this became a tradition, but the men, mostly youth, dress up as women scantly clad and the more inappropriate the better, so I’ll let you use your imagination. In something out of a Girls Gone Wild video, the monsters and women dance in the streets making lewd gestures trying to shock spectators. As they all have masks on, there is no recourse for their actions, and as these are festival days, many have been drinking since morning and have continued throughout the parade.

The groups danced the streets to the music of the various oompa bands in the parade that I probably have been hearing throughout the week. There were two organized groups of boys dressed as swordsmen and kings mixed in among the madness, which seemed almost out of place in there innocence.

The religious part of the procession followed the Halloween at its worst contingent as if in absolution for what preceded. Incense and flowers welcomed the altar for Saint Francis that was surrounded by decorations made of chiles and gold flowers. I had to wonder what St Francis would think of this celebration for him in what seemed to be a disturbing mix of scared and obscene.

By this time, many people and spectators had joined the procession to the church where St. Francis entered the church and the merry makers continued to dance in the zócalo. As the excitement of the procession receded, people anticipated the evening’s burning of el castillo that was even larger and more spectacular than the evening before.

From the apartment I watched the fireworks and particularly enjoyed the end that included sparklers depicting a helicopter that spun around and shot in the air eventually falling to the ground of what remained. With the end of the castillo, the town could finally prepare for the much anticipated baile, that I had heard about since I came, at the soccer field which include three bands all playing either banda, cumbia or duranguense.

We arrived at midnight after a short drive standing 15 thick in the back of a pickup. The crowd included the young, the drunk, the dancers and the old all eager for one of the biggest events of the year. The $21 entrance fee gave me hours for learning the necessary shuffle step, listening to a 1-2 beat of the bands on two stages and watching pairs bounce to the beat. By 3:30am my dusty feet would have been ready to shuffle home, but the 20 somethings I was with would have found it disappointing as none of the hundreds had left or were even considering that the evening might be over. We left at 5:30 shortly after an interesting dance contest on stage, with the music and dancing still in high gear. I woke this morning to more booms and cracks of firecrackers. The fiesta continues.

Literacy Group

Maria used to live in an isolated community where school was often cancelled upon arriving to the one room primaria (elementary), still a common occurrence in outlying communities. Her dad wanted her to go to school, but with all the work to be done like farming the milpa (corn field), cooking, collecting water, she stopped attending in fourth grade as did many of her siblings.

Maria now lives in Zacango, about a 15-20 minute drive outside of Olinalá where MCC has been involved in the community in a variety of ways for the last ten years. She loves to talk and laughter bubbles up quickly. While she doesn’t have a high opinion about her intelligence or her ability to learn, she has an insatiable curiosity. A few years ago she was part of the sewing group with eight or so other women in the community that MCC supported. Maria enjoyed learning to embroider with ribbon and a variety of needle work that Gladys, a former MCC worker, taught the group. Maria took pride in her work and became disillusioned that the others didn’t take more time and effort in their labors.

As we eat the cupcakes that Jaime made, Maria tells us about the cooking and baking classes that she attended, also given by past MCC workers. She laughs that even if she can’t remember anything, she always wanted to be a part of the class. She comments to Jaime that she might have a better chance of learning how to bake the delicious cupcakes than her letters.

A group of five women sit in a circle at Jaime’s house talking about their school experience. The house is full of activity with community children running in and out followed by the two dogs that belong to the house. The chickens peck and squawk just outside the door and every so often the rabbits and guinea pigs are brought in for show. This is the second meeting of the women’s literacy group that Jaime initiated after hearing the needs of the community women.

The women have a variety of education levels and experiences. At one point Maria memorized the letters of her name, but she gets them confused and can’t remember in what order to write them. Veronica knows how to write her letters but would like to learn how to read. Valentina grew up speaking an indigenous language, learning Spanish as a second language. She knows how to write, but never knows where to put the commas or periods. Her husband is the elementary teacher for the community, but she’s so embarrassed that he doesn’t have time to teach her how to properly write a paragraph.

This week we talked, got to know each other and learned about why these women want to be part of the literacy group. Many of the women have not completed elementary school. Only a few have finished la secundaria (7^th-9^th grades), and still fewer la prepa (high school). As Jaime is just learning Spanish, she invited me to work with the higher level students. I look forward to Wednesday evenings when I can build relationships with this group of women in Zacango. I pray through our time together we can learn together building on our strengths.