Known only as 'Mexico' to all who live here, Mexico City is indeed the essence, and antithesis, of all that is Mexican. The megacropolis stands proudly, yet has an ashamedly dangerous reputation. The people walk confidently down the crowded streets, but glance nervously around them as they enter all but the most well-trodden routes. It is a fresh, vibrant city with a simmering, dark edge to it.
Not that the physical edge is ascertainable; as my bus left behind the cactus-lined hillsides and approached the sprawling city in a six-lane ant trail of honking vehicles, I was taken aback by the oversized green signposts, high rise glass-walled blocks and scurrying scores of people littering the landscape. After the cultured quiet of Oaxaca, I had almost forgotten the way a real city makes your heart race along with the buzz of its streets, like a living breathing creature. Mexico is a city brimming with life, and simmering under the surface is a tension like the coiled force in the legs of an animal ready to attack.
At the bus station, I was instanty pounced on by an 'official', bewilderingly flashing name badges and stamped licences at me and leading me by my heavy bag strap towards his taxi. I was glad of my Spanish as we approached the completely unmarked, dented saloon, being able to explain that I was sorry, but I had been told only to use the City's official red and yellow taxis, backing away assuredly. Whilst I am always wary of tourist 'scare stories' the one about abductions of tourists in taxis in Mexico seemed real enough to be worth the effort of paying extra at a special taxi stand, where an official escorts you to the overly-labelled and licensed car having taken all the details of your life, and every turning you plan to make on the short journey to your destination. Sometimes it is better to be safe than sorry.
With just one afternoon in which to take in the atmosphere of this, the world's third largest urban area, I set off on a speed walking tour of the maelstrom of sights nearest to the central Zocalo, taking in a myriad mosaic of scenes, all completely different yet seamlessly apposed with each other. One moment I was standing in the shadow of grand architecture of the 1800s, the next being captivated by the sweeping colours in a modern art museum, the next in the historic midst of ancient stones of the two and a half thousand year old Templo Mayor and then caught up in the throes of a noisy march for students' rights. All in all, it was a wonderfully welcoming world, sights and sounds and smells bombarding you from all sides and leaving you feeling exhilirated and exhausted, in that happy-tired way. The ever friendly Mexicans pointed me in the right direction, invited me to try the food they were cooking up street-side, offered titbits of information on their favourite subject, the city they live in and are so immensely proud of. A uniting sight was the green, white and red of the Mexican flag waving in the warm city breeze, hanging off buildings whether ancient or modern, shiny new or tumbledown. The expanse of flags was probably exacerbated by the Mexico vs USA football match taking place that afternoon, blaring out of radios at newspaper stands and even outcompeting the reggaeton usually played loudly from stores.
Mexico City revels in its strange juxtapositions, and seems to have grasped with both hands the opportunity to clean up both crime and pollution, neither of which bothered me in my, albeit short, day here. However, as dusk fell, and my weary feet began to lead me toward bed, there was a palpable sense of those whispered dangers: the streets cleared as people hurried by, not looking up from their homeward path, piles of steaming rubbish from the days activities were left behind where vendors' carts had stood, and groups of young men prowled around in the flickering glow of the recently installed street lighting like street cats marking their territory.
As for me, I slept as peacefully as a cat that got the cream, a weary but content smile curling my lips as I dreamed of my amazing weeks exploring both Mexico and Guatemala. Of the colours, the vibrant greens and reds of chillis, the exuberantly painted shopfronts, the beautifully embroidered huiles and shawls. Of the landscape, both natural cactus studded rocks and gushing waterfalls, the exquisite architectural masterpieces in all the cities, especially the churches, and the ancient colossal ruins. Of the food, the spicy, fresh concoctions, the ubiquitous combination of lime, chilli and salt. The music, even the reggaeton and Mexican pop screeching out of shops growing on me. And mostly, of the people - so welcoming and friendly, and keen to share with you these things, the essences of 'their country'.
The everyday kindness of the local people more than makes up for the acts of greed in the headlines.
Charles Kuralt
Thursday, 13 August 2009
Tuesday, 11 August 2009
Public health pandemic and the importance of handwashing
Considering the title of this blog, I should comment on what I have seen in Mexico relating to the H1N1 influenza pandemic.
As the first country to report cases of swine flu, Mexico was instantly scandalised in the media and all non-essential travel to the country was advised against by international foreign offices. And it was presumed that they would not control or monitor the disease progression effectively (as well as we would?). But the government suspended schools and non-essential activities and started a public health education campaign within days.
On the surface, as a visitor to the country, I have been impressed. On entry and exit, we all had to complete a simple health survey and report if we had any of the symptoms described on one of the many clear and accurate posters displayed at all border crossings. Walking around the towns and cities, daily I came across more posters and leaflets in multiple languages, public health stands under impromptu gazebos offering information and advice to members of the public, and signs displaying telephone numbers and addresses for where to get more information. Even in more remote villages and locations the local shop would have a little pile of flyers. In busier places, mobile clinics have been set up where both local and international doctors administer Tamiflu, other necessary medications and advice to those presenting with symptoms. In between the irritating beeping Reggaeton music blaring out of the radios, public health notices are read out.
Yet there is no feeling of panic, no undue overrreaction or fear. Whilst non-essential activities have reduced, transport, supermarkets, trash collection, clinics and pharmacies have remained functioning, and were even at the height of the initial outbreak. Some people wear face masks, though not many, most of these just for show, such as waiters inviting you in to their restaurants or those manning the public health stands. Some people carry hand gel and some flinch on the buses when someone sneezes in their direction, but in the main the Mexicans are just getting on with their daily lives. This is in contrast to the overreaction in other countries such as the USA's dramatic over-response to the threat, where I have heard from other travellers how in some airports they were made to wait in a quarantined area for hours whilst they were grilled on their movements, in Cuba, where one woman told me how her daughter was feeling a little woozy after a long day in the sun but was spotted by an official who rushed her to a hospital where they were incarcerated for four days whilst 'tests' were carried out, and the Philllipines, who banned all visitors from entering their country within days of the outbreak being publicised. Sometimes it is too tempting to make a pigfarm out of a pigsty.
The level of hygiene in Mexico is certainly not piggish and has been impressive in itself; whether this has been heightened by the increased public health awareness afforded by the outbreak I'm not sure but much seems to have been instilled in the public mind already. Children answering our surveys at the Centro de Esperanza, even those who are very poor and underprivileged, know the importance of washing hands properly with soap and proudly announce to us that they know 'microbios' are spread by dirty hands and not covering your mouth when you cough and sneeze. When I buy food from street stalls, even with just their little cart as equipment, the vendors wash their hands between customers with bottled water and soap stowed under the cart, and will not touch the money you pay them with their hands, instead using a plastic bag to take the dirty, grimy coins.
Still, the situation is not perfect. Of those who do catch the illness, their prognosis is less good than in other regions, the mortality running at approximately 1% in the Americas compared with 0.1% in Europe. People overmedicate themselves, as here you can go to a pharmacy for a 'consultation' with a pharmacist, who does not require any formal medical training, and buy all sorts of concoctions of antibiotics, cough medicines and painkillers without prohibition. Schoolchildren have suffered as teachers take advantage of the extra holiday and extend school shutting time. Swine flu has affected Mexico's tourism, an important source of revenue for the country.
"In Cancun, we live from the tourism. It's like a chain: If there's no tourists, there's no work, there's no food, there's no nothing. And such a beautiful place. Paradise."
Jody Gaynor, 53, a researcher at Procter and Gamble from Cincinnati who was lounging in a beach chair outside the Grand Oasis Cancun, said: "I feel really bad for the people, because nobody's going to come back. First they had the scare on the gangs . . . and then this."
Gaynor has taken precautions and decided against a bus tour to the Mayan ruins because she wanted to avoid the crowds. But she said it is silly to panic. Her nephew's family in Cincinnati, by contrast, won't pick her up at the airport as usual, she said. "They don't want us to be exposed to their baby."
On the beach nearby, Alison Krupczak, a nursing student at Northeastern University in Boston, said she has noticed fewer Americans than she expected in Cancun.
"Canadians are the only ones crazy enough to come here," said her friend, Northeastern student Jon Grimm. "We brought a thermometer to take our temperatures."
"We're not really going out of the hotel," Krupczak said. "We thought that would be best."
Washington Post April 2009
The situation is slowly improving, and I have certainly seen plenty of others taking advantage of the empty beaches and less-crowded than usual tourist sites. The biggest irony is that I have heard more reports of people catching swine flu from home, and received more warnings of risk from my university in England, than any real risk I have encountered here. We need to remember that just by being a developed country we are not immune - we seem to have a presumption that because we have flash, fancy healthcare, we can forget about simple health measures. The Mexicans are definitely better at washing their hands than most people I encounter at home; when do you ever wash your hands after handling money, after playing with your pets or sneezing into your palms? The recent push in our hospitals to wash our hands more is well-founded.
As the first country to report cases of swine flu, Mexico was instantly scandalised in the media and all non-essential travel to the country was advised against by international foreign offices. And it was presumed that they would not control or monitor the disease progression effectively (as well as we would?). But the government suspended schools and non-essential activities and started a public health education campaign within days.
On the surface, as a visitor to the country, I have been impressed. On entry and exit, we all had to complete a simple health survey and report if we had any of the symptoms described on one of the many clear and accurate posters displayed at all border crossings. Walking around the towns and cities, daily I came across more posters and leaflets in multiple languages, public health stands under impromptu gazebos offering information and advice to members of the public, and signs displaying telephone numbers and addresses for where to get more information. Even in more remote villages and locations the local shop would have a little pile of flyers. In busier places, mobile clinics have been set up where both local and international doctors administer Tamiflu, other necessary medications and advice to those presenting with symptoms. In between the irritating beeping Reggaeton music blaring out of the radios, public health notices are read out.
Yet there is no feeling of panic, no undue overrreaction or fear. Whilst non-essential activities have reduced, transport, supermarkets, trash collection, clinics and pharmacies have remained functioning, and were even at the height of the initial outbreak. Some people wear face masks, though not many, most of these just for show, such as waiters inviting you in to their restaurants or those manning the public health stands. Some people carry hand gel and some flinch on the buses when someone sneezes in their direction, but in the main the Mexicans are just getting on with their daily lives. This is in contrast to the overreaction in other countries such as the USA's dramatic over-response to the threat, where I have heard from other travellers how in some airports they were made to wait in a quarantined area for hours whilst they were grilled on their movements, in Cuba, where one woman told me how her daughter was feeling a little woozy after a long day in the sun but was spotted by an official who rushed her to a hospital where they were incarcerated for four days whilst 'tests' were carried out, and the Philllipines, who banned all visitors from entering their country within days of the outbreak being publicised. Sometimes it is too tempting to make a pigfarm out of a pigsty.
The level of hygiene in Mexico is certainly not piggish and has been impressive in itself; whether this has been heightened by the increased public health awareness afforded by the outbreak I'm not sure but much seems to have been instilled in the public mind already. Children answering our surveys at the Centro de Esperanza, even those who are very poor and underprivileged, know the importance of washing hands properly with soap and proudly announce to us that they know 'microbios' are spread by dirty hands and not covering your mouth when you cough and sneeze. When I buy food from street stalls, even with just their little cart as equipment, the vendors wash their hands between customers with bottled water and soap stowed under the cart, and will not touch the money you pay them with their hands, instead using a plastic bag to take the dirty, grimy coins.
Still, the situation is not perfect. Of those who do catch the illness, their prognosis is less good than in other regions, the mortality running at approximately 1% in the Americas compared with 0.1% in Europe. People overmedicate themselves, as here you can go to a pharmacy for a 'consultation' with a pharmacist, who does not require any formal medical training, and buy all sorts of concoctions of antibiotics, cough medicines and painkillers without prohibition. Schoolchildren have suffered as teachers take advantage of the extra holiday and extend school shutting time. Swine flu has affected Mexico's tourism, an important source of revenue for the country.
"In Cancun, we live from the tourism. It's like a chain: If there's no tourists, there's no work, there's no food, there's no nothing. And such a beautiful place. Paradise."
Jody Gaynor, 53, a researcher at Procter and Gamble from Cincinnati who was lounging in a beach chair outside the Grand Oasis Cancun, said: "I feel really bad for the people, because nobody's going to come back. First they had the scare on the gangs . . . and then this."
Gaynor has taken precautions and decided against a bus tour to the Mayan ruins because she wanted to avoid the crowds. But she said it is silly to panic. Her nephew's family in Cincinnati, by contrast, won't pick her up at the airport as usual, she said. "They don't want us to be exposed to their baby."
On the beach nearby, Alison Krupczak, a nursing student at Northeastern University in Boston, said she has noticed fewer Americans than she expected in Cancun.
"Canadians are the only ones crazy enough to come here," said her friend, Northeastern student Jon Grimm. "We brought a thermometer to take our temperatures."
"We're not really going out of the hotel," Krupczak said. "We thought that would be best."
Washington Post April 2009
The situation is slowly improving, and I have certainly seen plenty of others taking advantage of the empty beaches and less-crowded than usual tourist sites. The biggest irony is that I have heard more reports of people catching swine flu from home, and received more warnings of risk from my university in England, than any real risk I have encountered here. We need to remember that just by being a developed country we are not immune - we seem to have a presumption that because we have flash, fancy healthcare, we can forget about simple health measures. The Mexicans are definitely better at washing their hands than most people I encounter at home; when do you ever wash your hands after handling money, after playing with your pets or sneezing into your palms? The recent push in our hospitals to wash our hands more is well-founded.
Monday, 10 August 2009
Freedom of speech and the power of words
On my last night at the coast, I met a Mexican 'philosopher' over dinner of fish steamed with tropical fruits, who was, as many who like to philosophise are, intriguing for five minutes, vaguely interesting for fifteen more, then as self-obsessed in his ideas about life, and telling you about what he thinks, and about himself, as the American girls I had met earlier in the day who had insisted on me knowing everything about their 'free' life back home. This got me thinking about what it means to be free as a person (uhoh, philosophising myself coming on here...) - and to me, it certainly wasn't what the Americans were portraying, of having money and things and what they called 'opportunities'. Freedom is about opportunity and education, which is linked to wealth, but not just through money or objects. Mexicans are not free, because they are suppressed by corruption in their government; but Americans are not really free, because the way they think is suppressed by their educational insularism and sometimes narrow-mindedness (this is a huge generalisation, and not true for all, of course). I asked the Mexican what he thought about the political problems here, and he said the people knew they were cheated, that money was the key to the power at the top, but the peoples' voices were the key to overthrowing that power.
And they are vocal here. Oaxaca itself is a hotbed of political unrest, sometimes violent. Whilst I have been here, the city has been a tranquil, relaxed place, people peacefully promenading about the clean, litter-free streets. Yet locals have told me it is not always this way. Because I arrived at the time of the Guelaguetza, a time when the eyes of the nation are on Oaxaca, the local government had clamped down on any protesters (I'm not sure by what means...) and had put money into cleaning up the place, wiping out any graffitied evidence of complaint which apparently usually brightly covers the buildings, even the historical churches and museums. I can't help thinking this city has such a voice because it is a centre of education (the main protests in 2006 were headed by teachers and students): it is full of museums and art galleries and theatres and music concerts. These things are what we call 'cultured', signifying education and the middle classes. But sometimes words and pictures don't seem enough, power ultimately coming down to fighting with our bare hands, whatever our level of 'culture' or 'class' or 'education'. Violence is most vocal unfortunately.
Still, the more Spanish words I learn, the more I have the power to express myself and to understand others. And this is the greatest personal power of all.
And they are vocal here. Oaxaca itself is a hotbed of political unrest, sometimes violent. Whilst I have been here, the city has been a tranquil, relaxed place, people peacefully promenading about the clean, litter-free streets. Yet locals have told me it is not always this way. Because I arrived at the time of the Guelaguetza, a time when the eyes of the nation are on Oaxaca, the local government had clamped down on any protesters (I'm not sure by what means...) and had put money into cleaning up the place, wiping out any graffitied evidence of complaint which apparently usually brightly covers the buildings, even the historical churches and museums. I can't help thinking this city has such a voice because it is a centre of education (the main protests in 2006 were headed by teachers and students): it is full of museums and art galleries and theatres and music concerts. These things are what we call 'cultured', signifying education and the middle classes. But sometimes words and pictures don't seem enough, power ultimately coming down to fighting with our bare hands, whatever our level of 'culture' or 'class' or 'education'. Violence is most vocal unfortunately.
Still, the more Spanish words I learn, the more I have the power to express myself and to understand others. And this is the greatest personal power of all.
Sunday, 9 August 2009
Beach Bum
Time for a holiday... I decided to spend my last weekend here at the beach, soaking up the sun and relaxed atmosphere before heading back to the real world.
Fluidly meandering round bends like oxbow lakes in a minibus, the soothing scent of pine and fir forests blasting through the windows in the sticky, warm night air, I did start to feel that holiday feeling of emptying your mind (as much as possible when being thrown from side to side in a dizzying bus ride). We arrived late at night, no sight of the sea, not a speck of sand or grain of salt on the skin, but definitely beach temperature at 20 degrees at 10pm. We were thankful of the pool for a midnight swim.
I slept like a baby, despite or perhaps because of the gentle hum of the fan as it blew slighter cooler air around my bare feet. Flinging the balcony door open, I was suffused in the seaside: bright sunbeams reflecting off giant curling waves glimsed between the palm-thatched huts on the surfers' beach of Puerto Escondido, keen guys already out trying to catch the waves. The town itself a strip of the usual suspects: bar, postcard seller, restaurant, beach ball shop, surf shop, bar, tourist tat, bar. Mikey and I set off in a peeling paint fishing boat, the proud captain prodigiously protruding his tanned, rounded belly as we bounced and ricocheted over the jostling, choppy waves on the hunt for turtles. Not a real hunt, which was banned here only recently, an interesting Centro Mexicana de Tortuga in Mazunte extenuating their cause.
You can't swim at the beach here as the undertow is deadly, ripping your feet from under you as the tide pulls back into the vast powerful ocean, so I sunbathed before washing off the sand then enjoying barbequed dorada (with chilli, of course) on the beach as a golden fireball moon rose steadily over the rocky outcrop edging the bay, casting a weird red light over the ink black sea like a swathe of oil bursting into flame. We spent the night on the beach with Margaritas, fire dances and midnight snacks of fresh fish tacos.
The next morning I needed a swim, so headed off on my own whilst the others surfed to find a quiet, secluded bay nestled into the jagged coastline like an azure jewel hiding in the rocks and glittering in the midday sun. I swam, snorkelled, people watched from behind my sunglasses. Even though sunbathing is a solitary pursuit, I did start to feel lonely - in big crowds, single people blend in, assimilate themselves, don't feel so isolated, but on this tiny beach with scattered families and groups of friends I wanted to be swimming like the shoals of fish, with others. As the sun cooled in the late afternoon haze, I wandered back towards Escondido, stopping off at another beach crowded densely with holidaying Mexicans (avoiding the gringos). They know how to do a beach - huge groups splashed about in the water, refreshing themselves at one of the many plastic-chaired cafes shaded along the beach, every speck of sand taken up with 'Sol' emblazoned umbrellas and picknicking people.
Hitching a lift in a camioneta further down the coast on Sunday, I got soaked as the skies opened in an ear-splitting thunderous outpour. Hair clinging to my face, I steamed dry as I looked around for a place to stay in the tiny, undeveloped town of Zipolite, finding a beautifully simple cabana with a low bed covered by flimsy mosquito net with a hammock swinging outside right on the beach. The sand swathed around the bay for miles, craggy rock formations providing the backdrop. I sat listening to the roar of the frothing waves crashing onto the rocks and the wind blasting off the salty sea in to my air-dried tangled hair. The skies clouded and darkened in the atmospheric evening, the half-hidden moon making the waves seem even more fearsome and powerful. The explosive storm kept me awake half the night, the sky ripped open by streaks of lightning, a gaping hole through which great lion roars of thunder and bulbous, leaden drops of rain pelted through, shaking my little cabana. It was so loud it blocked out the hum of the fan rapidly rotating above my head, even muffled the sound of the waves crashing on the sand metres down the beach. I lay in the dark, hoping I would weather the storm...
I did, and I got up to pick my way through the puddles to visit a local organisation for rural indigenous people with severe disabilities. Pina Palmera has existed here, almost in the middle of nowhere, for 20 years, caring for people who would not have a chance otherwise. A friendly man with severly bowed legs gave me a tour of the centre, starting at the kitchen where volunteers were patiently helping semi-paralysed children to have their breakfast. There was a physiotherapy room, a speech therapy centre, an arts and crafts room, a doctors' office, a social area and a small ward for the four permanent residents. I was amazed at the service they were providing, giving a way of life and stimulation for disabled people and their families that would simply not be possible in their own isolated rural villages, both at the centre and on home visits. It made me realise that it is possible to provide medical and social care and attention anywhere, with a little hard work and ingenuity. Ok, they did not have lifting equipment or manual handling training, and moved the paralysed children about wrapped up in white sheets, they did not have specialised wheelchairs and bumped over the sandy paths in salt-rusted devices, they didn't have life-changing expensive medications but had carers and volunteers that were committed and hard-working in the face of any difficulties. As a completely paralysed young man stared up at me, arms and legs contorted with spasticity, his only movement a flicker of the eyes, I wondered what he must be thinking as I tried to think of something to say to him in my faltering Spanish.
To be trapped inside ourselves is surely a fear of everyone in this world, no matter where, something that no special equipment or no words or actions can reconcile. And this can happen when we are perfectly healthy physically, regressing into our own minds, mentally isolated. Loneliness is not about being physically alone; we may be surrounded by others and feel alone in this world (as I did on the beach of families); if we cannot communicate what we feel, cannot reconcile what we are thinking with others or ourselves, we are lonely. The human spirit is healed by sharing, helping us to weather any storm hurled our way.
Fluidly meandering round bends like oxbow lakes in a minibus, the soothing scent of pine and fir forests blasting through the windows in the sticky, warm night air, I did start to feel that holiday feeling of emptying your mind (as much as possible when being thrown from side to side in a dizzying bus ride). We arrived late at night, no sight of the sea, not a speck of sand or grain of salt on the skin, but definitely beach temperature at 20 degrees at 10pm. We were thankful of the pool for a midnight swim.
I slept like a baby, despite or perhaps because of the gentle hum of the fan as it blew slighter cooler air around my bare feet. Flinging the balcony door open, I was suffused in the seaside: bright sunbeams reflecting off giant curling waves glimsed between the palm-thatched huts on the surfers' beach of Puerto Escondido, keen guys already out trying to catch the waves. The town itself a strip of the usual suspects: bar, postcard seller, restaurant, beach ball shop, surf shop, bar, tourist tat, bar. Mikey and I set off in a peeling paint fishing boat, the proud captain prodigiously protruding his tanned, rounded belly as we bounced and ricocheted over the jostling, choppy waves on the hunt for turtles. Not a real hunt, which was banned here only recently, an interesting Centro Mexicana de Tortuga in Mazunte extenuating their cause.
You can't swim at the beach here as the undertow is deadly, ripping your feet from under you as the tide pulls back into the vast powerful ocean, so I sunbathed before washing off the sand then enjoying barbequed dorada (with chilli, of course) on the beach as a golden fireball moon rose steadily over the rocky outcrop edging the bay, casting a weird red light over the ink black sea like a swathe of oil bursting into flame. We spent the night on the beach with Margaritas, fire dances and midnight snacks of fresh fish tacos.
The next morning I needed a swim, so headed off on my own whilst the others surfed to find a quiet, secluded bay nestled into the jagged coastline like an azure jewel hiding in the rocks and glittering in the midday sun. I swam, snorkelled, people watched from behind my sunglasses. Even though sunbathing is a solitary pursuit, I did start to feel lonely - in big crowds, single people blend in, assimilate themselves, don't feel so isolated, but on this tiny beach with scattered families and groups of friends I wanted to be swimming like the shoals of fish, with others. As the sun cooled in the late afternoon haze, I wandered back towards Escondido, stopping off at another beach crowded densely with holidaying Mexicans (avoiding the gringos). They know how to do a beach - huge groups splashed about in the water, refreshing themselves at one of the many plastic-chaired cafes shaded along the beach, every speck of sand taken up with 'Sol' emblazoned umbrellas and picknicking people.
Hitching a lift in a camioneta further down the coast on Sunday, I got soaked as the skies opened in an ear-splitting thunderous outpour. Hair clinging to my face, I steamed dry as I looked around for a place to stay in the tiny, undeveloped town of Zipolite, finding a beautifully simple cabana with a low bed covered by flimsy mosquito net with a hammock swinging outside right on the beach. The sand swathed around the bay for miles, craggy rock formations providing the backdrop. I sat listening to the roar of the frothing waves crashing onto the rocks and the wind blasting off the salty sea in to my air-dried tangled hair. The skies clouded and darkened in the atmospheric evening, the half-hidden moon making the waves seem even more fearsome and powerful. The explosive storm kept me awake half the night, the sky ripped open by streaks of lightning, a gaping hole through which great lion roars of thunder and bulbous, leaden drops of rain pelted through, shaking my little cabana. It was so loud it blocked out the hum of the fan rapidly rotating above my head, even muffled the sound of the waves crashing on the sand metres down the beach. I lay in the dark, hoping I would weather the storm...
I did, and I got up to pick my way through the puddles to visit a local organisation for rural indigenous people with severe disabilities. Pina Palmera has existed here, almost in the middle of nowhere, for 20 years, caring for people who would not have a chance otherwise. A friendly man with severly bowed legs gave me a tour of the centre, starting at the kitchen where volunteers were patiently helping semi-paralysed children to have their breakfast. There was a physiotherapy room, a speech therapy centre, an arts and crafts room, a doctors' office, a social area and a small ward for the four permanent residents. I was amazed at the service they were providing, giving a way of life and stimulation for disabled people and their families that would simply not be possible in their own isolated rural villages, both at the centre and on home visits. It made me realise that it is possible to provide medical and social care and attention anywhere, with a little hard work and ingenuity. Ok, they did not have lifting equipment or manual handling training, and moved the paralysed children about wrapped up in white sheets, they did not have specialised wheelchairs and bumped over the sandy paths in salt-rusted devices, they didn't have life-changing expensive medications but had carers and volunteers that were committed and hard-working in the face of any difficulties. As a completely paralysed young man stared up at me, arms and legs contorted with spasticity, his only movement a flicker of the eyes, I wondered what he must be thinking as I tried to think of something to say to him in my faltering Spanish.
To be trapped inside ourselves is surely a fear of everyone in this world, no matter where, something that no special equipment or no words or actions can reconcile. And this can happen when we are perfectly healthy physically, regressing into our own minds, mentally isolated. Loneliness is not about being physically alone; we may be surrounded by others and feel alone in this world (as I did on the beach of families); if we cannot communicate what we feel, cannot reconcile what we are thinking with others or ourselves, we are lonely. The human spirit is healed by sharing, helping us to weather any storm hurled our way.
Thursday, 6 August 2009
Please sir, Can I have some more... Corn?
As part of our research at the Centro de Esperanza, we have been weighing and measuring the children, using cranky old scales kindly donated by the Kellogg Foundation, and asking about their diets.
Most of them do not appear undernourished or thin per se. In fact, especially the older ones, walking with packet of greasy papas or ketchup-slathered hotdog in hand, are rather overweight. Walking along the road, you would never believe that many of these children do not get the nutrients they need to grow.
But when you work out their height for age, they are small.
Now this may just be because Mexicans are short people. However, the charts we use to work out their ideal height and weight are averaged for this population. So it must be their diet and lifestyle. I began to ask myself, and those at the centro, why this is so.
Some of the poorest families really do not get enough food to eat. I blushed ashamedly when I asked one small boy what he had yesterday, and he replied ´frijolitos´(beans). I pressed, what else, what did you have for lunch and dinner, looking enquiringly at his anxious looking mother fidgeting her her seat. ¨Frijoles´ she replied for her small son.
Others get enough calories, but of the wrong sort. The traditional diet is high in carbohydrates and fats: tortillas, tacos, quesadillos, rice, covered with cheese and beans and often fried for good luck, eggs eggs eggs every day, corn chips, corn on the cob coated in more cheese, cornmeal puddings, and now, cornflakes.
So the poor get protein and carbs, but hardly any fruit and vegetables, or good meat. The markets are full of produce but the problem is twofold: firstly, antojitos (snacks from roadside stalls) are cheaper than fresh produce, and easier when you have a large family to feed and not necessarily a home or kitchen of your own in which to prepare it; and secondly, the poor want to eat ´rich mans food´ as it follows that this food is good for you (not so, as we all well know) and they see this as the American burgers, chips and Coca Cola.
But actually, the cuisine of the better off in Oaxaca (plus the tourists) is rich, delicious and healthy. Chiles rellonos, peppers stuffed with chicken or nuts or the delicious fresh Oaxacan cheese (a cross between mozarella and goats cheese), mole, an intoxicating belend of chocolate, chile and spices used as a sauce for meats and vegetables, caldos, flavoursome stews full of tomotoes and herbs, sopas of cactus and squash, and empanadas stuffed with a multitude of different moreish mushrooms and courgette flowers, and wonderful fresh sweet fruit cocktails. It shames and disgusts me that I walk around being able to buy these delicious treats for what seems like pennies (I can get a three course lunch for $5, including drinks) whilst there are local children who have never even tried some of the cuisines of their city. I have given to handing over whatever snack I have bought to the children working selling trinkets; I would rather do this than buy tat I don´t really need from them, and whilst it is nowhere near enough, the happy smile of a seven year old I have just given a bag of mango, pineapple and papaya to at least allows me to carry on by without feeling sick to the knees.
The other interesting thing about corn is its trade. As a nation of corn lovers and prolific corn growers, you would expect that they are rather self sufficient in it. Not so.
Most of Mexico´s corn is shuttled north to the USA, where it is not enjoyed straight off the cob, turned into flour, made into spirits or used usefully. It is converted into ´high-fructose corn syrup´, used to sweeten the nation´s soft drinks and just about every processed edible thing in the vast supermakets - on average, an American consumes sixty-two pounds of the stuff each year. They use corn syrup (fructose) instead of sugar (sucrose) because it is cheaper. Sounds perfect. Also not so. In the human body, fructose acts more like fat than sugar does, so could be implicated in the rising epidemic of obesity and type II diabetes, both in America and in Mexico, as they copy their neighbours´diets.
The issue is not only health, either. Many of the Mexicans trying to cross into the US are doing so because, since the North American Free Trade Agreement, their country has been flooded with subsidised American corn, a disaster that the Mexican government estimates has cost two million farmers and agricultural workers here their livelihoods.
All this makes processed foods much cheaper than fresh, which means the poor eat it and feed it to their children. It used to be that the poor had gaunt and spavined bodies. Now obesity seems to be as sure a sign of poverty as thinness used to be. Instead of nourishing the poor, they are filled up with carbohydrates and fat. And instead of keeping independent and subsistence farmers on the land, it keeps the food processing industry in healthy profit.
Enough to make your stomach turn with the cob raosting over the fire.
Most of them do not appear undernourished or thin per se. In fact, especially the older ones, walking with packet of greasy papas or ketchup-slathered hotdog in hand, are rather overweight. Walking along the road, you would never believe that many of these children do not get the nutrients they need to grow.
But when you work out their height for age, they are small.
Now this may just be because Mexicans are short people. However, the charts we use to work out their ideal height and weight are averaged for this population. So it must be their diet and lifestyle. I began to ask myself, and those at the centro, why this is so.
Some of the poorest families really do not get enough food to eat. I blushed ashamedly when I asked one small boy what he had yesterday, and he replied ´frijolitos´(beans). I pressed, what else, what did you have for lunch and dinner, looking enquiringly at his anxious looking mother fidgeting her her seat. ¨Frijoles´ she replied for her small son.
Others get enough calories, but of the wrong sort. The traditional diet is high in carbohydrates and fats: tortillas, tacos, quesadillos, rice, covered with cheese and beans and often fried for good luck, eggs eggs eggs every day, corn chips, corn on the cob coated in more cheese, cornmeal puddings, and now, cornflakes.
So the poor get protein and carbs, but hardly any fruit and vegetables, or good meat. The markets are full of produce but the problem is twofold: firstly, antojitos (snacks from roadside stalls) are cheaper than fresh produce, and easier when you have a large family to feed and not necessarily a home or kitchen of your own in which to prepare it; and secondly, the poor want to eat ´rich mans food´ as it follows that this food is good for you (not so, as we all well know) and they see this as the American burgers, chips and Coca Cola.
But actually, the cuisine of the better off in Oaxaca (plus the tourists) is rich, delicious and healthy. Chiles rellonos, peppers stuffed with chicken or nuts or the delicious fresh Oaxacan cheese (a cross between mozarella and goats cheese), mole, an intoxicating belend of chocolate, chile and spices used as a sauce for meats and vegetables, caldos, flavoursome stews full of tomotoes and herbs, sopas of cactus and squash, and empanadas stuffed with a multitude of different moreish mushrooms and courgette flowers, and wonderful fresh sweet fruit cocktails. It shames and disgusts me that I walk around being able to buy these delicious treats for what seems like pennies (I can get a three course lunch for $5, including drinks) whilst there are local children who have never even tried some of the cuisines of their city. I have given to handing over whatever snack I have bought to the children working selling trinkets; I would rather do this than buy tat I don´t really need from them, and whilst it is nowhere near enough, the happy smile of a seven year old I have just given a bag of mango, pineapple and papaya to at least allows me to carry on by without feeling sick to the knees.
The other interesting thing about corn is its trade. As a nation of corn lovers and prolific corn growers, you would expect that they are rather self sufficient in it. Not so.
Most of Mexico´s corn is shuttled north to the USA, where it is not enjoyed straight off the cob, turned into flour, made into spirits or used usefully. It is converted into ´high-fructose corn syrup´, used to sweeten the nation´s soft drinks and just about every processed edible thing in the vast supermakets - on average, an American consumes sixty-two pounds of the stuff each year. They use corn syrup (fructose) instead of sugar (sucrose) because it is cheaper. Sounds perfect. Also not so. In the human body, fructose acts more like fat than sugar does, so could be implicated in the rising epidemic of obesity and type II diabetes, both in America and in Mexico, as they copy their neighbours´diets.
The issue is not only health, either. Many of the Mexicans trying to cross into the US are doing so because, since the North American Free Trade Agreement, their country has been flooded with subsidised American corn, a disaster that the Mexican government estimates has cost two million farmers and agricultural workers here their livelihoods.
All this makes processed foods much cheaper than fresh, which means the poor eat it and feed it to their children. It used to be that the poor had gaunt and spavined bodies. Now obesity seems to be as sure a sign of poverty as thinness used to be. Instead of nourishing the poor, they are filled up with carbohydrates and fat. And instead of keeping independent and subsistence farmers on the land, it keeps the food processing industry in healthy profit.
Enough to make your stomach turn with the cob raosting over the fire.
Monday, 3 August 2009
Cleansing in Capulalpam
Today I went to do a little research of my own, into indegenous medicine practices in this region. Another hot, jam-packed bus ride, this time so full I ended up sitting in the dusty aisle, mich to the bemusement of those already seated, but I know my terrible sense of balance well enough to know it would not withstand standing as the cranky bus lurched and leaned around u-bends in the pine-forested highlands. After two uncomfortable hours, I stepped with relief into the cool mountain drizzle; though I nearly chased after the rapidly disappearing lights of the old aluminium bus as it wound down the deserted road, suddenly feeling very alone in the deserted village of Capulalpam. I asked directions in the drizzle, and began to relax as I worked my way up the steep village track towards the medical centre, damp mountain air smelling sweetly of sap and fresh leaves refreshing me. Though it was tainted by something more acrid - the smell of huge bugs, which had descended, writhing helplessly on theirt backs, twig like legs kicking the air futilely until they were crushed by some unforgiving footstep, releasing their pungent aroma.
Entering the newly-built, crystal white building that housed the indigenous medical centre, I thought the sign must be wrong and wasn´t sure what to expect. After a flurried welcome, the practices of ´limpias´ (cleansings) and temascal baths (a little like a healing sauna) were explained to me, and before I knew what was happening I had agreed to undergo a limpia myself. Slightly warily entering a dim, tile-clad room, a short, intensely-staring lady ushered me to sit, taking a deep, powerful breath with her eyes closed. There is something frightening aout the magic of medicine, about the mysteries of healing and powers of healers. I began to understand how this may be how patients feel at home, not really knowing or understanding what is happening to them, or what is going to be done to them: the feral fear of the unknown.
With a sharp release of that empowering breath, the healer began. An egg (thankfully, whole) was rolled all over my body, a quiet incantation repeated in the woman´s deep tones. Then the egg was cracked ceremoniuosly into a glass of water, the delicate wispy fronds of albumin rising up and unfurling like smoke on a dusky evening, revealing secrets - apparently evil spirits leaving my body, and telling the healer I had stomach troubles and neck ache apparently (strange, as I had spent the night before last vomiting ungraciously, and had a neckache from the cramped busride). Then I was briushed all over with bunches of raw herbs, still damp and smelling of the warm earth, pure and sweet. The whole process was deeply relaxing, if nothing else. My skepticism as to her diagnoses (what white person travelling here wouldn´t have a bit of a stomach upset and headache?) and as to whether I could possibly be ´healed´ by the process felt rather irrelevant: it was much like a gypsy reading palms or intricate patterns of tea leaves at a fair: we smirk and do not believe, yet for some obscure reason are drawn to the intrigue and mystery of what they can tell, paying good money to see what nature or spirits can tell us.
On leaving, I happened to bump into a doctor from the Seguro Popular clinic opposite in the foyer - interesting how the two takes on medicine interweave here - and was given an impromptu guided tour of the brand spanking new clinic, complete with spotless shining stirrups in a delivery room, a tiny minor trauma room, plush leather and mahogany-filledconsultation rooms and a pharmacy full of donated American drugs. Quite incongruous in the tiny, rural village, and quite empty - I wondered who had funded such a clinic, and whether the show on the outside was replicated in the care they provided for the community here.
Whatever their needs, I can see the benefit of combining modern and traditional medicine techniques, of respecting their heritage and embracing it, whilst providing modern care where possible.
My stomach problems have resolved, and I slept like a baby.
Entering the newly-built, crystal white building that housed the indigenous medical centre, I thought the sign must be wrong and wasn´t sure what to expect. After a flurried welcome, the practices of ´limpias´ (cleansings) and temascal baths (a little like a healing sauna) were explained to me, and before I knew what was happening I had agreed to undergo a limpia myself. Slightly warily entering a dim, tile-clad room, a short, intensely-staring lady ushered me to sit, taking a deep, powerful breath with her eyes closed. There is something frightening aout the magic of medicine, about the mysteries of healing and powers of healers. I began to understand how this may be how patients feel at home, not really knowing or understanding what is happening to them, or what is going to be done to them: the feral fear of the unknown.
With a sharp release of that empowering breath, the healer began. An egg (thankfully, whole) was rolled all over my body, a quiet incantation repeated in the woman´s deep tones. Then the egg was cracked ceremoniuosly into a glass of water, the delicate wispy fronds of albumin rising up and unfurling like smoke on a dusky evening, revealing secrets - apparently evil spirits leaving my body, and telling the healer I had stomach troubles and neck ache apparently (strange, as I had spent the night before last vomiting ungraciously, and had a neckache from the cramped busride). Then I was briushed all over with bunches of raw herbs, still damp and smelling of the warm earth, pure and sweet. The whole process was deeply relaxing, if nothing else. My skepticism as to her diagnoses (what white person travelling here wouldn´t have a bit of a stomach upset and headache?) and as to whether I could possibly be ´healed´ by the process felt rather irrelevant: it was much like a gypsy reading palms or intricate patterns of tea leaves at a fair: we smirk and do not believe, yet for some obscure reason are drawn to the intrigue and mystery of what they can tell, paying good money to see what nature or spirits can tell us.
On leaving, I happened to bump into a doctor from the Seguro Popular clinic opposite in the foyer - interesting how the two takes on medicine interweave here - and was given an impromptu guided tour of the brand spanking new clinic, complete with spotless shining stirrups in a delivery room, a tiny minor trauma room, plush leather and mahogany-filledconsultation rooms and a pharmacy full of donated American drugs. Quite incongruous in the tiny, rural village, and quite empty - I wondered who had funded such a clinic, and whether the show on the outside was replicated in the care they provided for the community here.
Whatever their needs, I can see the benefit of combining modern and traditional medicine techniques, of respecting their heritage and embracing it, whilst providing modern care where possible.
My stomach problems have resolved, and I slept like a baby.
Sunday, 2 August 2009
Mayan Mysteries - Monte Alban and Mitla
The state of Oaxaca is rich in Mixtec and Zapotec culture (http://www.whatoaxaca.com/pre-colombian-oaxaca.html), both ancient Mayan settlements dotting the hillsides and modern day descendants still practising generations-old beliefs and rituals.
First I visited the hilltop site of Monte Alban, winding up from Oaxaca to an unbelievable 360 degree view of the surrounding landscape in the early afternoon sun: with a vantage point like this, it was easy to see why the solid stone stepped ´talud tablero´ structures of the ancient Zapote capital grew up here 500BC. It is a magical place, the solidarity of the warmed stones under me reminding me of the perseverance and desire to settle, of the human race. Then on to Mitla, a strange town with countless Mezcal factories, catering for the first-class coachloads of toursists dumped on the edge of town to see the famous ruins. But arriving in the late afternoon, I managed to miss most of these, being left in near-peace (except for the hundreds of artesan pottery, jewellery and tunic stalls set up along the road) to stare astonished at the detailed carvings in the rocks and tombs. The heiroglyph-like, geometric carvings were exquisitley precise and incredibly well preserved, hinting at the mysteries of a long-forgotten language and culture.
Though in fact, the Valles Centrales in Oaxaca are home to at least 16 different indigenous languages, from Triqui and Zapoteca to Mixteca, Nahuatl and Chinanteco. It is because of the difficult topography and rural isolation of communities in the Valles that so many different ethnic groups have been maintained. Whilst this makes for an exciting and interesting cultural diversity, it poses problems; in some families, Spanish is hardly spoken at all, making it difficult for the children to go to school, and for the families to access services such as healthcare.
At home, we are always trying to encourage diversity; we even have specially designed communication skills sessions at University exactly to practice awareness and understanding of others´ cultural needs and expectations. Yet here, where the culture is so diverse, individual needs are so easily neglected. The ancient Zapotecans and Mixtecans built communities on solidarity and brothergood, and we should not forget them, as their structures still stand solidly today.
First I visited the hilltop site of Monte Alban, winding up from Oaxaca to an unbelievable 360 degree view of the surrounding landscape in the early afternoon sun: with a vantage point like this, it was easy to see why the solid stone stepped ´talud tablero´ structures of the ancient Zapote capital grew up here 500BC. It is a magical place, the solidarity of the warmed stones under me reminding me of the perseverance and desire to settle, of the human race. Then on to Mitla, a strange town with countless Mezcal factories, catering for the first-class coachloads of toursists dumped on the edge of town to see the famous ruins. But arriving in the late afternoon, I managed to miss most of these, being left in near-peace (except for the hundreds of artesan pottery, jewellery and tunic stalls set up along the road) to stare astonished at the detailed carvings in the rocks and tombs. The heiroglyph-like, geometric carvings were exquisitley precise and incredibly well preserved, hinting at the mysteries of a long-forgotten language and culture.
Though in fact, the Valles Centrales in Oaxaca are home to at least 16 different indigenous languages, from Triqui and Zapoteca to Mixteca, Nahuatl and Chinanteco. It is because of the difficult topography and rural isolation of communities in the Valles that so many different ethnic groups have been maintained. Whilst this makes for an exciting and interesting cultural diversity, it poses problems; in some families, Spanish is hardly spoken at all, making it difficult for the children to go to school, and for the families to access services such as healthcare.
At home, we are always trying to encourage diversity; we even have specially designed communication skills sessions at University exactly to practice awareness and understanding of others´ cultural needs and expectations. Yet here, where the culture is so diverse, individual needs are so easily neglected. The ancient Zapotecans and Mixtecans built communities on solidarity and brothergood, and we should not forget them, as their structures still stand solidly today.
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