So this is the truth of the situation, my living situation.
You have seen the snapshots and read the snippets I share on Facebook, and have likely come to your conclusions about what life is like down here.
But while I was reading an email from a cousin of mine, who shared a little bit about the culture of where she's living in Argentina, I realized I haven't really explained anything.
So here it is. The truth:
México is not a poor country. The government is incredibly wealthy...however the majority of that money sits in political pockets, and doesn't find its way to where it belongs. You know. With the people.
So México is not poor. But there are a lot of poor Mexicans. Unfortunately, the further you live away from México City, the poorer it gets. It's very Hunger-Gamesy. Those in the Federal District have more money. Those furthest away have the least.
I am living in the 2nd poorest state in México, a place called Oaxaca (pronounced wah-ha-kah). While there may not be a ton of money flowing through the state (it's so poor the government has special prices on everything. Gym memberships are 1/3rd the cost that they are just 3 hours north in Puebla. Tortillas are 7 pesos for half a kilo so that people can afford them), the area is very rich in culture. There is a heavy indigenous presence here, and this translates into everything. Walking down the street you hear the various dialects of indigenous languages (such as zapoteco or triqui) being spoken. The pueblos where they live are about 30 minutes outside the city, and there you can encounter generational crafters making weaved goods, alebrijes (one of the most amazing things I've ever encountered in my life), and barro verde/negro - which is pottery specific to this region.
These things can also be encountered in the city, but you get a deeper understanding of the process when you get into the villages.
Many people equate poverty with danger. I am here to confirm that Oaxaca is not a dangerous state. Many of you are aware of what is happening in Guerrero, Michoacan, and on the border. These areas do not represent the majority of México. Yes, what is happening there is very dangerous, and very sad. But, just like Detroit and the south side of Chicago, or the east side of Los Angeles do not speak for the majority of the USA, these rogue regions of México do not represent the entire country.
Like in any city in any country in the world, crime does occur here...but it's not very unlike what you experience in your own town. In fact, Oaxaca is a safer place than Minneapolis...and the weather is much more agreeable.
Speaking of weather, etc., let me paint you a picture of a normal day in the city (for me):
I leave my house at 830am, and I am greeted by the sound of metal security doors being released as businesses begin to open for the day. Traffic is just starting to pick up, and there is a faint smell of exhaust in the air. The sun hits me and instantly warms me up; this time of year it's in the 60s at night and near 80 in the afternoons. Layered clothing is a must.
I check 6 ways before I cross the street, as pedestrians do not have the right of way and cars and bikes come flying out of nowhere all the time. As I cross out of the sun over to a shadier part of the street, I have to pick up my pace to bustle my way ahead of 3 people blocking the sidewalk, and walking very, very slowly. As I get to the next street, a taxi slows down to see if I want to get in, but all they do is impede my path and make me yell ''muevete!!" (move it!). I pass a really old lady with a witches voice, begging for food or money.
"Señora" she croaks at me. "Me regalas comiiiiida? Por favor!?"
Her voice is desperate but I carry on ahead. There will be another hungry woman on the next corner, and a family begging on the next. There is nothing I can do to remedy the situation.
I pass a man playing an accordion. His son asks for monedas, and I give him a handful of suckers. They both seem satisfied.
I look up and get a chance to take in my surroundings. The teachers are still on strike in the Zocalo, making it impossible to walk through. Vendors have taken up the remaining space. It's best to avoid that area, despite how much I love it. It's a mess and beginning to smell.
I go north, and smile as I remember for the 100th time how much I love the colors on the buildings, and the way the clouds sit always stuck in the mountains. The elevation isn't that high, but for whatever reason those clouds always hover there. I'm not paying attention and I almost get hit by a taxi. Neither of us gets angry.
I pass a man selling tamale tortas on the corner (at this time of day, there is a tamale cart on every corner). School kids huddle around him. It's an easy and convenient breakfast (but an awful lot of carbs!). I walk half a block further and buy fruit and juice from a lady with a post in the doorway. $2.50 for breakfast. She sells the best stuff in the city.
A block ahead is Santo Domingo. I decide if I want to go straight, and greet the jewelry vendors, or take a right and go around the backside of the botanical garden. Either way I end up walking through the modestly size Conzatti park, where one group is meeting for a bike ride, and another is having bible study. There's also a tai chi group by the fountain. I say hello to the shoe shiners and nod at the doctors eating breakfast in Cafe Arabia.
I pass a school as I get close to the place where I work. Parents say goodbye to their kids. One mom is wearing sweats, a tshirt, and 4 inch stilettos. I have to stifle a laugh, and then I almost trip over the tree stump of the tree with a face painted on it.
By this time, 5 people have called me güerita, 3 people have said something crass, several have exchange with me polite hellos, and 1 or 2 stray dogs have attempted to follow me to my final destination.
I arrive at work to be greeted by a chorus of ''buenos días! muy buenos días!'' and run to the bathroom (by this time I've been walking for 30 minutes). The septic system in Mexico cannot handle waste paper; everything goes into the waste basket. I wonder to myself if I will get confused when I get back to the states....
After work, I decide to take a shower. I heat my gas water heater with a lighter, and wait 15 minutes for the water to heat up. In the shower, I wash my socks and underwear because the laundromat doesn't do it for you. I am no longer careful to avoid getting the water in my mouth. I brush my teeth and rinse my mouth with it. I'm still alive. I have to remember to turn off the water heater. My house smells like camping for a while afterward...
I like it.
The kitchen does not have hot water, but if I wait to wash my dishes until the afternoon, the sun will have been heating the water tanks on the roof, and I will get hot water for the dishes. Tricky.
I open my windows and a burst of hibiscus flowers is just on the other side. I listen to the traffic, and wonder if tomorrow I'll eat a tlayuda (google it) or settle for pasta in my apartment.
There is always more to share. I could keep writing about food (Oaxaca has a lot to offer. It's best that I just take pictures and do a photo essay to explain it), or people to be encountered throughout the city. I could tell you about the independent art museums, or the atmosphere of the city at night.
But there is time for that in the future.
The point is that there is so much to love and appreciate about this city, and not to share as much as I can would be an utter waste and shame.
It really is a beautiful life.
You have seen the snapshots and read the snippets I share on Facebook, and have likely come to your conclusions about what life is like down here.
But while I was reading an email from a cousin of mine, who shared a little bit about the culture of where she's living in Argentina, I realized I haven't really explained anything.
So here it is. The truth:
México is not a poor country. The government is incredibly wealthy...however the majority of that money sits in political pockets, and doesn't find its way to where it belongs. You know. With the people.
So México is not poor. But there are a lot of poor Mexicans. Unfortunately, the further you live away from México City, the poorer it gets. It's very Hunger-Gamesy. Those in the Federal District have more money. Those furthest away have the least.
I am living in the 2nd poorest state in México, a place called Oaxaca (pronounced wah-ha-kah). While there may not be a ton of money flowing through the state (it's so poor the government has special prices on everything. Gym memberships are 1/3rd the cost that they are just 3 hours north in Puebla. Tortillas are 7 pesos for half a kilo so that people can afford them), the area is very rich in culture. There is a heavy indigenous presence here, and this translates into everything. Walking down the street you hear the various dialects of indigenous languages (such as zapoteco or triqui) being spoken. The pueblos where they live are about 30 minutes outside the city, and there you can encounter generational crafters making weaved goods, alebrijes (one of the most amazing things I've ever encountered in my life), and barro verde/negro - which is pottery specific to this region.
These things can also be encountered in the city, but you get a deeper understanding of the process when you get into the villages.
Many people equate poverty with danger. I am here to confirm that Oaxaca is not a dangerous state. Many of you are aware of what is happening in Guerrero, Michoacan, and on the border. These areas do not represent the majority of México. Yes, what is happening there is very dangerous, and very sad. But, just like Detroit and the south side of Chicago, or the east side of Los Angeles do not speak for the majority of the USA, these rogue regions of México do not represent the entire country.
Like in any city in any country in the world, crime does occur here...but it's not very unlike what you experience in your own town. In fact, Oaxaca is a safer place than Minneapolis...and the weather is much more agreeable.
Speaking of weather, etc., let me paint you a picture of a normal day in the city (for me):
I leave my house at 830am, and I am greeted by the sound of metal security doors being released as businesses begin to open for the day. Traffic is just starting to pick up, and there is a faint smell of exhaust in the air. The sun hits me and instantly warms me up; this time of year it's in the 60s at night and near 80 in the afternoons. Layered clothing is a must.
I check 6 ways before I cross the street, as pedestrians do not have the right of way and cars and bikes come flying out of nowhere all the time. As I cross out of the sun over to a shadier part of the street, I have to pick up my pace to bustle my way ahead of 3 people blocking the sidewalk, and walking very, very slowly. As I get to the next street, a taxi slows down to see if I want to get in, but all they do is impede my path and make me yell ''muevete!!" (move it!). I pass a really old lady with a witches voice, begging for food or money.
"Señora" she croaks at me. "Me regalas comiiiiida? Por favor!?"
Her voice is desperate but I carry on ahead. There will be another hungry woman on the next corner, and a family begging on the next. There is nothing I can do to remedy the situation.
I pass a man playing an accordion. His son asks for monedas, and I give him a handful of suckers. They both seem satisfied.
I look up and get a chance to take in my surroundings. The teachers are still on strike in the Zocalo, making it impossible to walk through. Vendors have taken up the remaining space. It's best to avoid that area, despite how much I love it. It's a mess and beginning to smell.
I go north, and smile as I remember for the 100th time how much I love the colors on the buildings, and the way the clouds sit always stuck in the mountains. The elevation isn't that high, but for whatever reason those clouds always hover there. I'm not paying attention and I almost get hit by a taxi. Neither of us gets angry.
I pass a man selling tamale tortas on the corner (at this time of day, there is a tamale cart on every corner). School kids huddle around him. It's an easy and convenient breakfast (but an awful lot of carbs!). I walk half a block further and buy fruit and juice from a lady with a post in the doorway. $2.50 for breakfast. She sells the best stuff in the city.
A block ahead is Santo Domingo. I decide if I want to go straight, and greet the jewelry vendors, or take a right and go around the backside of the botanical garden. Either way I end up walking through the modestly size Conzatti park, where one group is meeting for a bike ride, and another is having bible study. There's also a tai chi group by the fountain. I say hello to the shoe shiners and nod at the doctors eating breakfast in Cafe Arabia.
I pass a school as I get close to the place where I work. Parents say goodbye to their kids. One mom is wearing sweats, a tshirt, and 4 inch stilettos. I have to stifle a laugh, and then I almost trip over the tree stump of the tree with a face painted on it.
By this time, 5 people have called me güerita, 3 people have said something crass, several have exchange with me polite hellos, and 1 or 2 stray dogs have attempted to follow me to my final destination.
I arrive at work to be greeted by a chorus of ''buenos días! muy buenos días!'' and run to the bathroom (by this time I've been walking for 30 minutes). The septic system in Mexico cannot handle waste paper; everything goes into the waste basket. I wonder to myself if I will get confused when I get back to the states....
After work, I decide to take a shower. I heat my gas water heater with a lighter, and wait 15 minutes for the water to heat up. In the shower, I wash my socks and underwear because the laundromat doesn't do it for you. I am no longer careful to avoid getting the water in my mouth. I brush my teeth and rinse my mouth with it. I'm still alive. I have to remember to turn off the water heater. My house smells like camping for a while afterward...
I like it.
The kitchen does not have hot water, but if I wait to wash my dishes until the afternoon, the sun will have been heating the water tanks on the roof, and I will get hot water for the dishes. Tricky.
I open my windows and a burst of hibiscus flowers is just on the other side. I listen to the traffic, and wonder if tomorrow I'll eat a tlayuda (google it) or settle for pasta in my apartment.
There is always more to share. I could keep writing about food (Oaxaca has a lot to offer. It's best that I just take pictures and do a photo essay to explain it), or people to be encountered throughout the city. I could tell you about the independent art museums, or the atmosphere of the city at night.
But there is time for that in the future.
The point is that there is so much to love and appreciate about this city, and not to share as much as I can would be an utter waste and shame.
It really is a beautiful life.
