Pearly Pits

At 6:00 p.m. Monday afternoon, I got on a bus in Mexico City. Destination: Tapachula, Chiapas. 18 hours later, after enduring dubbed versions of Deadliest Catch, (Ay Caray!), a tremendously horrible Eva Mendes movie, (Russian Roulette) and waking up to Alvin and the Chipmunks, (my personal hell) I finally arrived.

A little background. Tapachula is a border town and is one of the most popular crossing areas for Central American migrants to cross through to Mexico. Therefore, although Tapachula likes to pride itself on being the Pearl of Mexico, I tend to think of it more as the Armpit of Mexico. It's coastal and tropical, which of course means hot and humid. And although I'm enjoying the heat after 5 weeks of dampness and cold in Mexico City, I am not enjoying the daily thunderstorms. These thunderstorms are epic and contribute to two more star qualities of Armpit-land: flash floods and sporadically consistent power outages. I know, it's sounding more and more like New Orleans. However, whereas we have amazing food, culture, architecture and music to save us from being deemed the unsavory, stinky body part of the United States, Tapachula has no such luck. It's droopy and draggy like any other border town you may encounter. Its buildings and public spaces have been ravaged and robbed of any possibilities of beauty that may have existed at some point in the distant past. Apart from the kindness of the people, it's completely charmless.

So, I have returned (yes, I have been here before) to the Black Pearl. I immediately dumped my backpack at the house of a friend (who I had met once-a curious, surferish Japanese Mexican guy who works for the National Comision of Human Rights in Mexico City) of a friend. I quickly brushed my teeth and rushed off to spend the day volunteering at the Albergue Belen, not even bothering to change my clothes.

An albergue is something like a safe house for migrants who are in transit. Mexico's involvement with immigration doesn't just include the Mexican diaspora to the US, Mexico also serves as the gateway to the US for other migrants, mainly Central American. The majority of Central American migration is spurred by either economic or political hardships or destruction caused by natural disasters. Although Guatemala topped the charts in immigration volume in the 80s and early 90s due to an intensely violent civil war, Honduras and El Salvador have now surged forward to claim that number one spot. However, while Hondurans, Salvadorans, Guatemalans, and Nicaraguans enjoy the freedom of movement amongst themselves (as the result of a regional treaty, the CA-4), they do not enjoy such luxuries in Mexico. Therefore, in order to obtain the oh-so-coveted American Dream, they must first pass illegally through Mexico.

Crossing the Mexico-Guatemala border is generally the easy part, as a result of its nearly incomprehensible porosity. It's getting to the Mexico-US border that is hard, even life-threatening. This journey through Mexico is marked by difficulties resulting from a nativist immigration policy in Mexico, widespread corruption at all levels of government, and extreme violence administered by many, but mainly concentrated in the hands of gang members who make a living and a reputation by exploiting and violating passing migrants. It is also complicated by the mode of transportation chosen by migrants to maintain obscurity: riding on the tops of a series of freight trains to the US border, jumping on and off as mandated by necessity and safety. Here, danger comes in the form of preying gang members who have claimed the tops of these trains as their territories, and exhaustion, as many are killed or mutilated as a result of falling off while sleeping.

Therefore, many of these migrants stop in at one of the many albergues, usually run by religious organizations, especially the Catholic church, to rest up before continuing on. They are given food, a bed, donated clothes and medical attention while they spend their allotted three days at the albergue.

This is where I spent my day, listening to stories, preparing dinner and planting trees. One migrant came and introduced himself, making sure I had written his name down to receive dinner. As we talked, I slowly realized what his shirt read:

Down in da Parish we love da Mardi Gras

He was admitedly a litte freaked out by my over-exhuberance as I explained to him that his shirt was from my city. My home. He doesn't really get it, he's never been to New Orleans, but it spurred a conversation about another little thing we all have in common: hurricanes. An older man sitting on a bench next to us told me that he had heard all about Katrina, muy feo, and softly asked if my family and friends had been affected, if it had touched our lives. When I said yes, he offered his condolences and said he understood how it felt. Everyone else nodded silently and we were instantly bonded. They recognized me as a fellow sufferer, although I knew that what they were living, the hardships that were touching them and their families, were above and beyond what I had experienced with Katrina, with anything. It wouldn't have mattered if I had tried to explain the difference to them, their compassion and empathy had already been extended. A gift that can't be given back.

On Efficiency

I am simultaneously the most organized and most unorganized person in the world. My school notes are all color coordinated and carefully preserved under plastic covers. Each different color post-it and highlighter has a very specific meaning and constitutes a complex study/research regime that I have perfected over my entire life (I was just going to put the number of years I've been in school, but quickly realized that number is synonymous with the years I've been on this earth. Ouch.) However, if you look in my closet or under my bed or at my stack of unopened mail, you'll soon realize that I also thrive on chaos. Chaos and procrastination. I'm one of those people that insists I work better under pressure, but that really is just a self-indulgent lie. Knowing this about myself, I try not to throw rocks at the glass house of inefficiency. HOWEVER, researching in Mexico City has quickly changed this hesitation to judge.

Let me tell you about my day.

There's a library here that houses many governmental records, reports, and publications on Mexican immigration policy that I need access to. The majority of these publications are no longer in print and are not available anywhere else. Not online, not in bookstores, not in any other library in the world. Therefore, this valuable information that took several working hours and countless governmental officials to compile is only available Monday through Friday from 10 am until 4 pm. In this one library, in this one building, in Mexico City.

So, I enter this building, the Instituto Nacional de Migracion (INM). This sounds familiar to you because it is also the very same building with the trickster elevator, which just makes the whole process that much better. While still in the lobby, I have to register my laptop, be hosed down by hand sanitizer, pass through a metal detector, submit my purse to be examined, and trade in my ID for a pass to get to the 12th floor. I finally move on to the evil elevator, which I have now mastered. Turns out there's a keypad down the hall and around the corner where you have to enter the floor you are going to. This keypad then indicates which elevator (either A, B, C, or D) will be so kind as to bring you there.

I finally arrive at the 12th floor. Now, before I came to Mexico, I sent an email to the main librarian to make sure that I would have full access to this library. Sure, sure, no problem! Come on down, what's mine is yours! Therefore, I wasn't anticipating any problems.

This is what full access looks like in Mexico:

1. I'm not actually allowed inside the library, I have to wait in another room right outside.
2. The online library catalogue isn't working, so I have to tell the secretary my key search words.
3. The secretary searches through her private catalogue and prints out a list of publications that I might be interested in.
4. Every single book title is cut off, leaving me to guess what the full title might be.
5. Using this information, I put a check mark next to the titles that could possibly be relevant.
6. The secretary passes this list to the librarian .
7. The librarian then searches for the books, many of which have dissapeared.
8. The librarian calls me over to pick up the books.
9. The exchange is made at the threshold of the library, which is secured by one of those half doors where the bottom part is closed and the top part is open. I guess this is to make sure that nobody sneaks through at the point of exchange.
10. The librarian waits for me to look through the books and decide which ones I need.
11. I am only allowed to take four books at a time, but I am allowed to make as many copies as I want.
12. I can't use their copy machine.
13. I give them yet another ID and they give me until closing time (4 pm) to go make copies and bring the books back safely.
14. I make my way back down to the lobby. This is easier said than done, seeing as how the first floor is not the lobby floor and there is no button on the keypad for lobby, or planta baja in Spanish. The elevator delights in my confusion and spits me out at the basement, leaving me to turn around and take the stairs. I find the parking lot and floor 2 before I find the planta baja.
15. I turn in my visitor pass, get back my ID, pass back through the metal detector, and sign out my laptop.
16. I walk several blocks down to the nearest commercial center.
17. Copy place #1 can have it done in 48 hours. No sooner.
18. Copy place #2 has a broken copy machine.
19. Copy place #3 is out of paper.
20. Copy place #4 obliges and says they will be ready at 3:50. Cutting it close.
21. I go to Pinkberry.
22. I pick up my books and copies and walk back to the INM. In the rain.
23. I shower in hand sanitizer, cross through the metal detector, re-register my laptop, and wait in line for a visitor's pass.
24. I safely return the books and recover my ID.
25. I get to do it all again tomorrow.

I've decided to hold a nation-wide conference on efficiency, with mandatory attendence for all librarians and governmental officials. I will simply explain to them that there really is a much better way to do things and show them how to do it. I figure that this is the kindest form of American imperialism and that, in the end, it will be much appreciated.

That's Life

Seeing as how I'm currently living in Mexico, residing in a beautiful neighborhood, and doing a job that truly doesn't feel like work, I decided I needed a vacation this weekend. So I hightailed it out of the city and headed to Acapulco for some fun in the sun.

It was an abbreviated trip, from Friday afternoon until Sunday morning, which is just enough time to see some friends, get some sun and get the hell out of there. Acapulco for me is kind of like Vegas for most people. I know I'm in trouble if I spend too much time there, so I ration myself.

It's a short bus ride, only 5 hours, which may not sound short but is nothing compared to the 13-20 hours I'll be clocking in my trip next week. Sidenote: I know 13-20 hours seems like a large spread of time for a single bus trip, but Mexican bus companies don't really like to promise that they're going to get you where you need to be at the time you need to be there, so they give you a guesstimate. So, I settled in for the dubbed version of The Proposal (Ryan Reynolds is delicious in both Spanish and English, in case you were wondering), and made my way to Acapulco.

Life in Acapulco is like a fantasy, and since my time there is always necessarily fleeting, I do my best to soak it all in. Of course, since my first trip at the age of 19, many things have changed. Now I enjoy jamming out to Waka Waka with my incredibly spunky Mexican niece just as much as I revel in the brilliant nightlife. There was a lot of both.

We spent the day Saturday at a beach birthday party and ended up jet skiing through Acapulco Bay, due to the exhortations of my niece. The splash of the waves and the exhilerated screams of la Princesa made those few minutes the highlight of the weekend. It also made me laugh at how life changes. I met my friend, Ana, seven years ago when we lived together in Argentina and spent hours talking about our future. The plan was to marry our boyfriends, get matching black labs, go shopping every day, and live the Argentine dream. Silly girls, we couldn't have been more wrong. Yet I look at her now, a caring, wonderful, and able mother, and I know that everything is as it should be. It always ends up that way. La Princesa, on the other hand, wasn't so easily contented when our time ran out and we had to drag her kicking and screaming away from the jet ski. The only way to get her into the car was to promise her a pink one of her very own. She wore herself out and dozed off murmering, moto rosa, moto rosa...

The beach party easily transitioned into a night out on the town, which went by in a blink of an eye that strangely felt like an eternity. I'm not sure if it's because I ended up with the only Mexicans I have ever met with a strong passion for Jager bombs or because I was sporting some serious heels, compliments of Ana who took one look at my backpack and forbade me to wear anything I might have stashed in there. Regardless, I thoroughly enjoyed the night, especially the security escort that magically appeared with his flashlight every time I made my way to the bathroom. VIP is definitely the way to go. Too bad my stinky backpack and run down Converse dictate a drastically different destiny for me here in Mexico.

Reality came crashing in along with the sunlight that greeted us when we left Baby'O, a legendary cave-like club, giving me an immediate and extremely vivid flashback of Grits and F&M's. I somehow managed to throw everything (I think, still haven't checked) into my backpack and get to the bus station on time, where I resumed my life as a backpacking, bus-taking, broke graduate student....and everything is once again just as it should be.

On Top of the World

This past week has contained many wonders, including a plethora of cathartic experiences. The free online Merriam-Webster Dictionary attributes the following three definitions to catharsis.

1. Elimination of a complex by bringing it to consciousness and affording it expression.
2. Purification or purgation of emotions (such as pity and fear) primarily through art.
3. Purification or purgation that brings about spiritual renewal or relase from tension.

Number 1 was revealed to me through the mysticism of Tango. For those of you who don't know, I spent a blissful year of my undergraduate studies in Argentina. This is where I fell in love with many things, including empanadas, choripanes, Quilmes, a variety of men (but one in particular), and Tango. Argentina is the birthplace of Tango. Not the ballroom Tango, the street Tango. The kind of Tango that disregards societal niceties and puts you in a trance. When you watch a couple dance Tango on the streets of San Telmo, you feel like you're watching an intimate moment that isn't meant to be shared. The universe shrinks and the passion between this man and this woman is the only thing that exists and, really, the only thing that matters.

So, when my therapist BFF told me that a famous Argentine dancer was staying at the Treehouse and taking everyone to a local Milonga, I didn't think twice about inviting myself and jumping on the Tango bandwagon. Completely unphased by the fact that I was the youngest of the group by a solid 30 years, I had a blast. You can't go wrong with tequila and Tango. I entered my Tango trance and happily stayed there for the rest of the night.

Tango is kind of like a foreign language. When you don't know it, it's just a swirl of beautiful sounds and sights that inundate you without the nuissance of automatic interpretation and internal processing. It just is. It's complexity is daunting; however, once you begin to unravel its meanings and secrets, this familiarity is even more revealing and fulfilling. I never learned how to dance Tango in Argentina, but here in Mexico City I got my own personal lesson in the foyer of my B&B.

Number 2 arrived with a bang at a Mexico City gay club. I do realize that art is subjective. So when I declare that art (cathartic art at that) can be found in a pair of thongs and platform shoes on a stage in the middle of a gay club dancing to techno, I know that many people won't agree with me. Let me paint a picture. Of course, there were the obligatory (skantily-clad) male dancers on various platforms throughout the club. They were slathered with glitter and wore various costumes ranging from cheerleaders to Aztec warriors (mind you, these costumes generally consisted of enough material to construct a loincloth), with the common denominator being a pair of insanely high, clear platform shoes. And then there were the club-goers who hadn't really consolidated their look, such as the hot mess wearing a lime green apron as a top and either a very poorly constructed wig or a really bad weave which had inadvertently become dreaded due to his/her manic dancing.

But I found my catharsis in the young guy who bravely climbed onto one of the platforms in the middle of the crowd while the real dancers took a break. He was wearing a pair of skinny jeans, white suspenders, white sunglasses, and a K&B purple shirt from American Apparel, with Legalize Gay written on it in white. He danced his little heart out. His happiness and sass reached me all the way across the club in the DJ booth and put an extra shimmy in my shake.

I know I should probably explain how I ended up in the DJ booth of a gay club in Mexico City, but I don't really find it necessary.

I had to travel to Teotihuacan to find number 3. Teotihuacan is an ancient city of ruins that houses the Pyramid of the Sun, which is amazingly the third largest pyramid in the world. I have been here once before, as a young sorority girl of 18, before I considered multicultural sensitivity a virtue. It was here that I lived my most sterotypical American tourist moment. Upon hearing a language I didn't recognize that sounded quite ugly, I snidely asked my fellow classmate, What the hell language is THAT? (Except I didn't say hell, use your imagination) The perpetrator of this hideous language turned calmly, looked me square in the eye, and informed me that it was German. In perfect English. I have never been so embarassed and ashamed of my arrogance and ignorance.

I figured it was about time I returned to the scene of the crime to ask the pyramid for forgiveness, so my therapist friend and I took the metro to the Northern bus terminal and got a ticket to Teotihuacan. First class, 3 dollars, no AC. I finally made it to the top of the pyramid, found a spot overlooking the neighboring Pyramid of the Moon, and made amends. We sat up there for a few hours, watching the legions of tourists come and go and enjoying the few moments of solitude between tours. My friend breathed a sigh of contentment and remarked that it felt like we were sitting on top of the world.

The week before I left for Mexico, in the midst of chaos, stress, and extreme anxiety, I had cracked open a fortune cookie and read, Soon you will be sitting on top of the world. In that moment, that kind of serenity and peace didn't seem possible, but I'm a sucker for the impossible, so I brought it with me for good luck...along with my Maw Maw's rosary and a multi-colored bouncy ball (For some reason, I have deemed bouncy balls an omen of good luck. I almost always have one on me).

Three weeks later, it seems my Chinese fortune has come true.

The Final Frontier

Although you may not believe it, I am here for a legitimate purpose other than to watch the World Cup (I'm absolutely heartbroken over the elimination of Argentina) and to eat tacos (I'm totally digging anything al pastor), although I do take these activities very seriously. I am here in this lovely country to research my dissertation topic, which is Mexican immigration policy. I want to figure out exactly how the Mexican government is dealing with Central American migration. This means that, in addition to my aimless walks and road trips to Guadalajara, I have also been conducting interviews with various officials and accumulating a lot of new books. Very exciting stuff.

I have found that Mexicans are fantastic to interview. They are incredibly accomodating and love to talk. Therefore, the interview is the easy part. However, the logistics of getting there and finding the right person is another story completely.

My first interview was with the Instituto Nacional de Migracion (INM), which is the governmental institution charged with the application and direction of Mexican immigration policy. Due to the fact that this is my fifth time in Mexico City and I had yet to enjoy the delights of underground public transportation, I decided it was about time to take the plunge. Armed with my hand sanitizer, I descended into the abyss and emerged 25 blocks off target. After going North instead of South and East instead of West (my internal GPS is awesome), I finally pointed myself in the right direction and found the INM without asking directions. This stubborness and refusal to ask for help is not something to be proud of, but flares up often...especially when I'm lost.

I successfully and uneventfully passed through a metal detector and purse scan and then was essentially bathed in even more hand sanitizer by a very nice, and excessively armed, policeman. I haven't seen this quantity of hand sanitizer anywhere, not even in the United States, and find it interesting that I came across it in Immigration headquarters in Mexico City. I quickly signed in, trading my passport for a visitor's pass, and rushed into the elevator with at least a dozen other people. This is when I realized that there were no buttons to push to indicate the floor you want to go to. Nobody else seemed to notice or care. Randomly the doors would open and someone would exit the elevator, having magically, and without buttons, been delivered to their floor. Scared that I would be deposited on the roof if I didn't do something quickly, I finally asked where the damn buttons were and how to get to the 12th floor. The answer was to get out at the next stop and take the stairs. It's still a mystery to me. The good news is that I finally arrived and was greeted warmly by my interviewee with the question every professional woman wants to hear. Oh, so you're a girl? I couldn't even make that up.

My second interview was with a man who wishes to remain nameless and wanted to rendezvous outside the office to maintain discretion. Although I had my doubts, I agreed to meet him in a bakery downtown and was supplied with a complete description of his attire so I could easily find him. I considered bringing a rose and a copy of Pride and Prejudice, but I didn't think he would appreciate the shout out to You've Got Mail. Once again, getting there was challenging due to yet another demonstration that shut down traffic and the fact that I forgot my map. I finally found the bakery smelling like marijuana thanks to the young gentleman who decided to walk right next to me for 5 city blocks while casually smoking a joint. I just couldn't shake him.

I was greeted by Mr. grey shirt and blue tie and we proceeded to have a nice conversation over freshly squeezed orange juice. He kindly ignored the aroma of weed and I politely refrained from staring in amazement at his Elvisish hairdo. His poof had serious height, which made it difficult for him to hide as he kept ducking under the table so his colleagues wouldn't see him (the bakery he chose was literally adjacent to his office building). Needless to say, not much was achieved during this interview due to his incessant ducking and my slight buzz from the pot, but it was still highly entertaining.

Perhaps my favorite logistical adventure was when I was leaving an interview at the Colegio de Mexico. Even though the college is in Mexico City, it is still over an hour away from my neighborhood. I have found that the immense size of Mexico City often results in cabdrivers who are completely unfamiliar with large parts of the city. I have had to climb into the front seat on more than one occasion and direct my drivers, equipped with virtually no knowledge of the city and a poorly drawn map spanning 8 pages in Lonely Planet.

I finally flagged down a taxi, jumped in, and stated my destination. The cabdriver didn't even bother to turn around or take the green lollipop out of his mouth as he told me that it would probably be best if I got out and found a better informed driver. He's never even heard of the Condesa. My inner GPS immediately took offense and gave a rousing speech about embracing adventure and conquering new frontiers, completely disregarding the fact that I was once again map-less. He bravely agreed and we were off. As he pulled onto the highway, our conversation went something like this:

Taxista: Just so you know, I'm an expert in losing people

Me: You do realize you're a cabdriver, right?

Taxista: At least I'm an honest one.

Me: Amen, brother.

Hipster Heaven

On an afternoon stroll in La Condesa...

Life has improved drastically in the last week. I have gone back to my tried and true tactic of living beyond my means and have relocated to a Bed and Breakfast in a part of town called La Condesa. La Condesa is considered the hipster-bohemian capital of Mexico City. I figure that if I belong anywhere, it's certainly with the hipsters, right?? La Condesa is a magical place filled with dogs, bistros, parks, and Argentine men. Life is good.

In fact, now that the streets are lined with leafy trees and balloon vendors instead of graffiti-ed buildings and pee-stained kiosks, I have been able to take up running once again. However, due to the altitude, (some 7, 200 feet) this hasn't been as enjoyable, or as easy, as I had hoped. The whole neighborhood seems quite concerned. One nice, elderly man stopped me at a red light and gently asked if that contraption strapped to my arm was a heart moniter. I'm pretty sure he knew it was an iPod and that he was really just politely trying to make my physical limitations as clear to me as they were to him and everyone else. I wouldn't be surprised if they have a petition going to stop the white girl from weezing by every morning and ruining an otherwise delightful day. And if it weren't for all the corn tortillas and beans, I would probably oblige.

My new home, The Red Tree House, is equally fantastic. Rated as one of the top Bed and Breakfasts in the country, I'm continuously amazed that my shower shoes are no longer needed and that I have a dresser to put my clothes in. I also love the fact that I don't cringe every time I get under the covers and am continuously (and pleasantly) surprised every time I come home to find a neatly made bed and restocked towels. It's pure bliss.

The other guests are also highly entertaining, especially the eccentric therapist from Oregan who has a propensity for Mezcal (Tequila's evil cousin) and has travelled to Mexico for two weeks of dental work. Why anyone would come to Mexico for a root canal completely perplexes me. And then there's the overly exuberant technology professor from Chicago who I now owe a bottle of whiskey to because I was on the losing end of a bet made in yet another fit of smack talk. I should probably consult the Mezcal-guzzling therapist about this problem. Her questionable judgement could make things interesting.

All in all, the place is perfect except for the young Concierge who gets a little too excited when I come down in my running shorts and who definitely violated the rules (both mine and the hotel's)when he knocked on my door and asked me to dinner. Personal space, my friend.