Month(s) at a Glance

It’s been nearly 4 months since I last posted, and this already feels familiar. I’m thinking of my only other blog venture, when I was writing in El Salvador in 2008, and I went over 2 months of my 4 total without writing once. I’m not totally sure why it happens, but I do know that I’m a person who goes in cycles—with everything. I’ll work out for 2 months and start feeling healthy just in time to quit for a quarter of the year. I’ll read 4 novels in 3 weeks when I’m motivated, and then not pick up a novel for another 6 weeks. I’ll take a whole month to learn as much as I can and then lose the motivation for any and all “joy-learning.” So it is, it would seem, with writing.

My blog-writing was originally interrupted by…writing. I undertook a project writing a novel in a month. The idea was called National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo. The goal was 50,000 words, or approximately 175 pages, in “30 days of literary abandon.” And that’s how I’ll start this update, with a month-by-month glance of what’s happened since I last posted.

November—It was perhaps one of the most productive months that I’ve ever had, as I wrote the novel and read a few books along the way as well. I also finally got ahead in my class-planning and got a good feel for teaching my classes. What’s more, I made a couple of trips to the ocean on the weekends and stayed relatively cool under pressure the entire month. I don’t think that I got stressed throughout all that I was doing, although that may just be my revisionist-historian version.

At the end of the day, I didn’t quite get to 50k. I ended with 38,000 and some loose change, but I wasn’t totally disappointed. Part of the motivation to take on the project was to simply say “I once wrote a novel in a month.” But there was an idea for a book that I’ve had since I lived in Boston, and this was the motivation that I needed to get started. Unfortunately, my plans to return to the book have fared as well as my ability to write in my blog over the last couple months…

December—December was a big month for me. Not only did I get to travel home for some much-needed 1^st-world R and R, I also got to go to the beach multiple times and meet Ada in Oaxaca in time for New Year’s and my birthday. But if I’m going to keep the updates about my time in Mexico, I’ve got to go with the Christmas Posada.

It is apparently a yearly tradition for our university to have a Christmas parade, the goal of which is to raise funds, morale and support for our school. To do this, each department (students and professors alike) dress up and march through the streets throwing candy and leading everyone in town to the center, where there are a few presentations and songs and dances. In a heartwarming display of holiday cheer and festivity, the English department decided to dress up as….pirates. Complete with swords and treasure maps and our very own Mexican spirits (Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of Mezcal) in our plastic water bottles. Oh, and a pirate ship.

My office mate, Josh, and I were excited about the prospect of being in a parade, but neither of us is a big dresser-upper. One day while contemplating a low-effort costume, the idea struck me that perhaps we could be the pirate ship. It would add a new dimension to our department, and it was completely low-effort: a bandana for each of us and a huge, decorated cardboard box and we were in. We decided to put our coworker, Iris, on the design team, which is precisely where low-effort ended.

Iris is a talented and ambitious artist who loves dressing up for things. The results of her seriously awesome work are shown in the picture here. The frame was made out of bamboo, cut and lashed by her. The sides were drawn on the fly and the shape cut with an exacto-knife. What isn’t shown here is our mast, with a legit skull-and-crossbones sail. But it happened.

The rest of the night was awesome, and the parade and our costumes were big hits. We had something like 450 pictures (no exaggeration) taken of us with students that ran up to us after the show was over. When Josh and I ran to the bathroom, we temporarily left our pirate ship in the middle of the auditorium where the “closing ceremonies” took place. When we came back the ship was surrounded by punch-drinking locals, and kids were climbing in and out of it. We stood looking in from the doorway, and I asked Josh what we should do. “We leave it there,” he said, “because we’re rock stars.”

January—Coming back to school in January started with a bang. I went to the center of town on Friday of the first week back to buy tamales, my traditional Friday-morning breakfast. I was running late, and as I hustled to the bus stop in the center of town I realized that the bus had already been by and so I grabbed the next taxi. The taxi stopped in the middle of the street, and as I didn’t want to keep the oft-honking traffic waiting I jumped in the front seat despite the fact that the seat was as far forward as it could go.

With knees up by my chin and my backpack between my legs, I slammed the door shut as I wished the driver a good morning. I stopped short, though, because with the closing of the door I felt a sharp, painful bite on my inner thigh. I swore in alarm and readjusted my bag just enough to see the entire blade of my new steel paring knife sticking out of the bottom of my bag, an inch and a half of which was dripping freely with my blood. Blood was running on the seat and on the floor.

The driver wished me a good morning and asked where we were going. I told him I think we’re going to the hospital. He asked me to repeat myself, just a trace of panic in his voice. He seemed worried, but continued on his way to the clinic that we had a the university. I couldn't show him the wound or my blood because the seat was still jammed forward and I hadn't yet been able to adjust it. It wasn't until we saw Flor, our English Department secretary, that he saw the blood (there was a lot of it). When I showed Flor and told her to call my boss, he saw the blood and shouted what would translate to a 4-letter word. Leaving in a screech of tires, we made it to the university clinic in record time.

Long story short, I lost a fair amount of blood but got sewed up with 4 stitches. The coworkers who came to get me in the waiting room said that I looked pretty pale. When I stood on the scale to get weighed by a young nurse, I asked her how much I weighed in kilograms. 82, with your clothes, she said. Without clothes....mmm... She raised her eyebrows and smiled. The two doctors who had given me the stitches laughed aloud. That, apparently, brought the color back to my face.

February—I watched the Super Bowl at the beach, and until now haven’t been teaching much because the students are off for the semester break. But there’s still half the month to go, so maybe I’ll have more to write in a few days. Here’s hoping.

Snapshot: Market Closing

It was Monday, the day of the week the traveling market stops in Miahuatlán. Night had fallen over an hour before, and the vendors were packing up to leave town.

Rains had not stopped for over 48 hours, and the town was completely saturated. Water dripped or ran freely from the drainpipes of every building, gathering sometimes in potholes or else in the pockets offered by the tarps that hung over the stands. Muddy rivulets trickled here and there on the sidewalks, in and around feet, under the stands that would remain, seeking the main arteries that surged along the curbs and freely into the street to keep the main sloped surfaces awash in a shallow, filthy stream.

Groups of dogs hung cautiously just outside the areas where the vendors packed up—outsiders at a stranger’s campfire—occasionally slinking or limping forward to lick at the piles of soggy refuse produced by a day of market activity. The dogs would keep their wet, matted bodies close to the ground and their wide eyes up; alert, on the defensive. Bicycles passing slowly, slowly, two or three at a time carrying poncho-clad riders. Children under the eaves watching the puddles or the dogs reverently. A blind woman with umbrella and pole gingerly yet steadily navigating the sidewalk.

There was a small taquería with an open-air grill on the sidewalk and brightly colored walls inside. The light from inside filtered through the smoke and steam and landed softly on the soggy street; a pale yellow glow against an unwarmed surface. This was the boundary dividing the wet and the dry, dividing those who worked and those who watched. Observers leaned against the outer wall or peered out from inside; their arms were crossed or tucked behind them on the wall, or else held plates of food or small children. Any number of postures which suggested that they were content as they were and were happy to not be working. The foreigners were a part of this group. The only sounds were a murmur of conversation coming from inside the taquería and the hiss of meat and onions on the grill.

A solitary melodic whistle, emitted from the working side of the boundary, was a third sound, and it was this that drew the attention of the foreigners. “Whistle while you work,” they said, and watched the deliberate and unrushed pace of the vendors. Folding tarps; untying and coiling ropes; packing produce in the back of a pickup; stacking what they owned in the same space. The rain fell steadily all the while. Wet and unfazed, the working side of the boundary continued their routine while the slinking dogs advanced, conquering more unwanted territory.

After a short while the vendors had finished packing and saluted one another in the dark with quick whistles, laughs and smiles, and eager waves. The observant camp, bathed in light and warmth, was austere and unsmiling. They watched the workers drive away slowly out of town, on their way to the next market to sell what they carried. Their tail lights glowed pink in the misty, wet air.

My MVPs

“Living in Mexico will be cheap,” I’ve said to everyone. “My cost of living will be, like, less than a third of what it was in Boston,” I’ve said.

The above statement is easy enough to believe, but I’ll admit that I had my doubts about whether everything would really be as cheap as I thought. A recent trip to Costa Rica, while absolutely perfect in every other way, gave me more of a burn in my wallet than I previously expected. The more painful purchases: 2 separate $26 cab rides, $12 equivalent on a regular-sized bottle of regular-type repellent….and $14 on a small bottle of sunscreen (FOURTEEN!!!). So while “Living in Mexico will be cheap” sounds like a no-brainer, Costa Rica is responsible for my recent lack of faith.

However, the cost of living here has been as advertised. A beer at a bar costs the equivalent of 85 cents. A good-sized plate of food costs $3.50, and you can easily grab some freshly-prepared food (tacos, tortas, soup, tostadas) the size of a meal for 20 pesos, or around $1.70. A cab ride is never more than $2, as long as it does not leave the city.

This is all very good, because I’ve been on a limited budget. The university recently informed us that most of us new teachers will be starting on the first day of classes, Oct. 4^th. Meaning we’ll get paid later on in October. So I’ve been piecing together my new house on a very slim amount of money. Very slim because of a recent airport miscue you may or may not have heard about which cost me $300. You can ask me about it later, because I don’t feel like writing about it now.

I went to the airport on the wrong day. That’s about it.

But on this “very slim” amount of money, I’ve still found ways to buy all that I need. This has motivated me to put together a list of my MVPs (Most Valuable Purchases). I’ve got my cell phone calculator out and ready for conversion rates at 12.7 pesos per dollar, which is why there are some weird prices on the below items. I just want you to know that I’m being very accurate with my pricing.

Fly Swatter, 39 cents: The flyswatter is not on my list because of its cost relative to what I would pay in the states. I know that I could get a functional fly swatter for 50 cents or a dollar. But after a few days of living in my new house, I really needed one. Who would have thought that there were flies in Mexico? Huh. It should also be noted that I made the problem worse by starting a compost bucket right outside my door, one which did not have the right balance of Nitrogen to Carbon and therefore attracted all flies in the area. At my landlord’s request, I started burying all my organic goods in her garden where she has a compost going.

But the fly swatter. I rejoiced at finding one at the “miscellanies” in the area. This rejoicing was nothing compared to what I felt when I christened my new “matamosca” in the blood of my first kill. The fly swatter gives me a form of entertainment when I’m home. There is only one person I know (my Dad) who enjoys nabbing the pests as much as I do. After I got the first one, I turned and gave a fist-pump, holding the pose a lá Michael Jordan in my moment of glory. After another such encounter, I found that I had goosebumps on my arms. Goosebumps, for heaven’s sake. I realized soon after that I needed another hobby.

Bottle Opener, 55 cents: This one is so valuable for two reasons: 1. I’ve never owned one of my own, and 2. I tried to buy one in Costa Rica, but the cheapest one I found was $6 (SIX DOLLARS!!!) for a keyring bottle opener!!! My mom recently bought me a pair of sandals, each of which comes equipped with a bottle opener on the bottom of each foot. Which is tight, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that I had a big moment of hesitation the first time I went to open somebody else’s bottle using the bottom of my already-being-worn-footwear. So at 55 cents, this buy benefits everyone! (Note: When being worn, I vow to always use the bottoms of my sandals to open my own beers. Everyone thinks it’s really cool.)

Large chopping knife, $3.54: It’s large, sharp, and doesn’t bend when I try to cut onions. It’s the best knife I’ve ever owned, and it was a steal!

Coffee Mug, 94 cents: I only have one, and since I love coffee so much, I couldn’t do without it.

Powdered Milk, $1.30: I love cereal almost as much as coffee, but I don’t have a fridge to keep my milk cold. For the first time in my life, I can eat cereal without a fridge! More Nutri Leche, please!

The Real Deal

On the day before Mexico’s Independence Day, I was in search of water.

Drinkable water. 19 liters of it, to be exact. A giant jug that I could place in my home, a giant jug that would put an end to my constant purchase of bottled water.

It was the third time I had made this type of trip, wandering my neighborhood in search of something specific. As luck has it, every 4th or 5th house in Miahuatlán contains a variety corner store (“Miscellanies,” literally translated from Spanish). If I were to walk into one and not find what I was looking for, I could walk another block and likely find it on my next stop. But on this search for water, I wanted to find it as soon as possible.

For one thing, I was thirsty. But the wind was also whipping, and three days without rain meant that I couldn’t keep my eyes open with getting dust in them. I walked into the first “Miscellany” that I found, a weary wind-blown traveler from the road, and thought I had walked into a closed shop. The shelves, 5 or 6 reaching up to the ceiling, were well-organized and fully stocked, but looked like they hadn’t been touched in years. A thick coating of dust covered everything in the shop. What’s more, the light was off and nobody was behind the counter. But I saw 4 19-liter jugs tucked away on the floor to my left, so I offered a tentative hello.

Behind the counter and to the left, through a narrow doorway leading to another room, an old man leaned back and, catching sight of me, smiled and invited me up to the counter. As I got closer I saw that the other room was in fact a bar. I asked if I could buy one of the jugs of water. I hadn’t finished the question when another peeked around the partition, this time from the other side of the bar. A man in his thirties, a round, flushed face. “Where are you from?” he asked me excitedly. The old man put up a silencing hand.
“He’s an American, obviously! Can’t you tell by his accent?” He smiled warmly at me, almost apologetically.
“Aaaah,” the younger man mused. His eyes were glued to me as he breathed laboriously through his nose. He was very drunk.

I asked the old man again if I could buy the jug of water, only to be interrupted. “We’re celebrating 200 years of independence tomorrow!” he said to me, beer raised. A triumphant grin on his face. “Do you want to have a beer with me?”
“Well-”
“Come over here! I’ll buy you one!”
“I’m just going to buy some water-”
“After! You can buy some after!”
The old man chuckled silently and waved me over. “On the street, next door over.”

I don’t know how I could have missed the entrance the first time I walked by: a giant set of swinging doors! Saloon style! I pushed them open and approached the bar. The old man was already opening a Corona and placing it on the old polished wood of the bar. A handful of flies droned lazily overhead, taking refuge from the wind. A truck drove past the double doors, blasting mariachi music. This, I thought, was Mexico. The younger man raised his beer to me and said again, “We’re celebrating 200 years of independence tomorrow!” I touched my bottle to his. We certainly are.

The House

I’m going to commit my first entry to my new house.

It’s small (3 rooms), brightly colored (green, yellow, blue and white), and simple. The front door opens to the kitchen, which came with a small table, two chairs, and a stove! Having a stove—even a small mobile one—is pretty rare. The next room, the biggest and most yellow, is a living room. This is where all of my creative energies and (lack of) interior design skills will be put into practice. I hope to have some “after” pictures of the room by the end of the year, so that I can see how much I’ve improved it!

The bedroom is in the back, with a second exterior door which gives to the small, cement courtyard shared by my house and 3 others. Equipped with a large dresser (which I may or may not paint bright green and orange), the bedroom is otherwise white and has a bed. That’s pretty much it.

I’m only renting the house, so I’m certainly not a homeowner, but I sort of feel like one. I patrol the house once or twice a day, taking in the space and thinking of ways to improve it and make it my own. I also am searching for problems, something that needs fixing. One the first rain I searched high and low for a leak. I had made it almost through all three rooms when suddenly; there!; at the base of the back door leading into my room a small puddle was forming. I “HA!”-ed triumphantly to myself and went about mentally grappling with my first challenge. My first course of action was to move my stuff away from the door. #2 was to cross my arms and watch the puddle. “Not too bad…doesn’t seem to be growing too quickly.” Perhaps a well-placed floor mat? C.o.A. #3 was to write down “buy new floor mat” on my to-do list.

Next day I detected a gas leak coming from the back of my stove. This I tackled by notifying my landlord, who brought her wrenches and daughter over. Once again I played the role of surveyor as the two of them tightened the joints and wrapped them in Teflon, nodding my head approvingly with each turn of the wrench. I was on a roll.

The drip under the sink? Tin can below.
Ants? Crush ‘em when I see ‘em.
Boiler with a bad pilot light? Light it by hand in the morning.

Not bad for a first week in the house. Although I’ll probably be seeking a basic repairs class before I take on real home ownership.