Kindergarten Day at the Pool

The day after the Oasis graduation, the school sponsored a day trip to a water park just outsideof Chihuahua. Only the kindergarten and 6th graders were invited to attend, along with their parents and sponsors; the rest of the classes had smaller parties at places like McDonald's and KFC. Esperanza invited me to attend the day at the water park, and of course I went. Not only was I excited to go on yet another trip with the rarámuri (they are always fantastic bonding experiences, and I learn so much), I was really looking forward to a day at the pool. The average temperature in Chihuahua in the summer, just like El Paso, is about 100 degrees F. So it was a nice break to conduct my "field work" for a day at a pool rather than in the dusty settlement!

There is a small water park just before the Chihuahua city limits, with two large slides and three large swimming pools, including one for children. It is located in the middle of the desert, just off the highway that takes you to Ciudad Juárez. There are a few ranch houses and fields that grow cotton and alfalfa, and chains of mountains line the highway just miles away. It really is a small oasis in the middle of the desert: the pools are large and clean, the water is cool, and the view of mountains and open deserts just beyond the park is spectacular.

Jiovana and I wading in the childrens' pool

We had the park to ourselves. Three rarámuri mothers accompanied the group, along with six teachers. In total, we were about 25 people with the entire park to ourselves. That morning, I wasn't sure if I was going to swim, since I doubted the mothers would get into the pool; and if I did, I knew it would not be in my swimsuit, but in shorts and a t-shirt. The ráramuri are very modest and I would have felt extremely awkward wearing my swimsuit in front of them, even if they are all women. When we got to the pool, the mothers said they were not going to get in, just as I suspected. They stayed by the edge of the pool and watched the children play. I sat with them for a while, but after 15 minutes I couldn't withstand the temptation and I changed into shorts and a t-shirt and got into the pool with all the children. One of the jokes among the women is that I am a "teweke," or little girl, despite my 24 years. I initially earned this teasing nickname because I am 24 years old and and still husband-less and child-less, but over the course of the year I solidified the nickname by my behavior with the children--we run, play with toys, and even play-fight all the time. That day was no exception--I jumped straight into the pool and spent the day playing with the kids and screaming on my way down the water slides. After a while, a few of the teachers joined me, so I wasn't the only adult acting like a kid!

Rosa Angela's little boy had too much sun and fell asleep on the cool deck right before lunch.

It was such a treat to watch the rarámuri kids enjoy the pools. It is very rare that these children get to visit a park like this--most days, the children play in the arroyo behind Oasis, or on the street amidst all kinds of dangers: broken glass, speeding cars, drunks, drug addicts, and once in a while even a woman who comes around offering to buy rarámuri kids.

I think the mothers got a little bored sitting on the edge of the pool for almost eight hours. At one point they wandered to the back of the park and started filling plastic bags with weeds and grass. I knew immediately what they had found: guasoli, the edible herb that I sometimes accompany the women to search for in arroyos throughout the city. Some of the teachers were asking each other what the women were doing, and I was able to explain to them. It was

hilarious--trust the ráramuri to spot edible herbs in the unkept edges of the water park.

We were there until 6 PM, and I returned to my apartment with a glorious sunburn and feeling like a kid. It was a nice break from daily life for everyone who went.

There were three large pools for adults, one childrens' pool with games, and these two fantastic water slides. I must have gone down each of them about 20 times that day!

Esperanza and some of the teachers eating "carne asada" and "discada" for lunch.

The women didn't swim. Instead, they watched the children swim and chatted in the shade.

Jiovana wading in the childrens' pool.

In the afternoon, we returned to Oasis and told Julissa about our day. Her class went to KFC for their party earlier that day. The Kinder and 6th grade were given a bigger party because their graduations were greater milestones.

Oasis Elementary School Graduation

When Oasis became a government-sponsored rarámuri settlement in 1974, one of the government's first projects was to build an elementary school exclusively for rarámuri children within the walls of the settlement. Prior to its inception, rarámuri children attempted to enter the neighborhood elementary school, but discrimination by mestizo teachers and children discouraged rarámuri children and their parents from attending. Building the exclusive school inside the settlement was the government's solution to providing the rarámuri children with education in a safe environment. Moreover, the school is supposed to reinforce rarámuri identity by providing half the education in their native language. Textbooks are in both rarámuri and Spanish, and most of the teachers have rarámuri roots. I have mixed feelings about this system. On the one hand, it's great that the rarámuri are encouraged to learn their language in a formal setting (although most of the schoolday tends to be in Spanish, since all of the teachers are actually only conversant in rarámuri, despite their roots). On the other hand, building separate schools does not solve the original problem of discrimination. So while the Oasis school may reinforce cultural identity, it does little to help rarámuri and mestizo children build relationships.

Despite my misgivings about this system, there is no doubt that the school inside Oasis has a very important impact on the social structure of the community. Several times this year I had the chance to observe the ways in which the Oasis community gathers together for events sponsored by the school. The biggest event, which most Oasis rarámuri regard as equally important to Christmas and Holy Week festivities, is the graduation ceremony which takes place at the end of June each year, when all Mexican elementary and middle schools let out for the summer. When I asked about important events to attend in Oasis back in October, when I was first starting my field work, all the rarámuri I spoke to mentioned the graduation along with all the other festivities.

I marked the graduation in my calendar months ahead and had plans to attend as a guest, but two weeks before the graduation Esperanza asked me to be Jiovana's "madrina," or godmother, for her kindergarten graduation. In Mexico, it is customary for students who are graduating from important grades--such as kindergarten, middle school, and high school--to have a sponsor, which they call a "madrina" or "padrino." The sponsor's responsibilities are to attend the graduation and walk their student up to the podium to receive the diploma. It is also customary to give the student a gift and perhaps some encouragement or advice for the next step in their education. When Esperanza asked me to be Jiovana's sponsor, I was sitting on her front step sewing a skirt that I planned to give Jiovana. She approached me and said, "do you want to be Jiovana's sponsor for her kindergarten graduation? I asked all my sisters, but none of them had enough money." I asked her what she meant about the money, and she explained that the school was asking each sponsor to contribute 100 pesos to help pay for the event. I was thrilled to be asked and immediately agreed to do it.

I arrived the day of the graduation with a gift and a pair of sandals in my bag, since Esperanza had told me she would lend me one of her dresses to wear for the ceremony. For the first time ever, she invited me into the back room of her house, the bedroom, to change (previously I had only been in the kitchen). She gave me three dresses to choose from: a black and white one, a brown one with small colored flowers, and an orange one, which is the one I ended up choosing. She also lent me a traditional belt, and I wore my own sandals. It was very fun wearing a traditional rarámuri dress and the women got a kick out of seeing me in it--they laughed at me, complimented me, and talked to me in rarámuri.

The ceremony itself was very nice, with each class performing a different dance for their parents and government officials that showed up to support the settlement. The kindergarten and 6th grade, being the ones who were ending an entire phase of schooling, danced waltzes. I walked Jiovana up to the podium to receive her kindergarten diploma, then handed her her gift: a Disney princess school kit, two yellow bows for her hair, a headband, and a box of crayons. It was a great moment, I felt like part of the community.

After the ceremony, which took place on the basketball court, the school sponsors a dance. For days, there was a rumor that the party would not take place because of the recent murder, but the teachers got a police officer to agree to be present throughout the entire event and they were able to hold the traditional party until 10 PM. The party is what really draws most people to the event, but unlike the Christmas and Holy Week parties, during which most mothers will put their children to bed, the children were allowed to stay up late to dance, play, and eat alongside the adults.

Participating in the graduation was a fantastic experience, and I hope to see Jiovana continue to graduate for many years to come. A few days later, her sister graduated from a mixed middle school, an impressive accomplishment. I definitely have plans to keep in touch with Esperanza and her family when I leave Chihuahua, which will happen very soon.

The 1st Grade class posing for a picture on the basketball court inside Oasis with their teacher.

Me and several rarámuri girls who were graduating that day. I was asked to be the "madrina," godmother, to Jiovana, the little girl in the red dress. Her mother said all participants would be wearing rarámuri dresses, so she lent me the beautiful orange dress I am wearing.

Posing with several girls graduating from 3rd grade. Julissa is the one in the orange dress with white headband.

Jiovana and I inside her house, and the first time I was invited into the back room. Previously I had only been invited into the first room, which is the kitchen, to eat. Esperanza photographed us.

The Kindergarten Class waiting to receive their diplomas.

Before the ceremony began, every class performed a dance. These are the 3rd grade girls, who performed traditional matachin dances (ritual dances performed during December) along with the boys in their class.

The 3rd grade male matachin dancers.

Rarámuri girls graduating from 6th grade, the final year of "primaria," or elementary school. Next they will be integrated with mestizo children in the neighborhood "secundaria," or middle school. These were my favorite dresses of the night; the design is very elaborate with the repeating triangle patterns. Every year, the girls in each class get to decide what their "uniform" will be for that year; that is, they decide what their class dress will look like, and then their mothers sew them each the same dress.

A tragedy in Oasis

I returned on Monday from a week-long trip to Mexico City to interview for jobs (I ended up getting a position as an Assistant English Teacher at a prestigious British international school). When I returned to the Colonia Martín Lopez, I stopped in with Chita to catch up on the events I missed. The only thing she talked about was the murder of a young rarámuri man, aged about 20 or 21. This is what happened:
Around 12:30 AM on Sunday, a drunk chabochi wandered into the settlement and found a rarámuri girl standing by the entrance. The girl was 12-year-old Mara, the oldest daughter of Rosa Angela. The drunkard was attempting to rape her in front of the church when the young rarámuri man, Lorenzo, husband of Laura and father to two infant girls, walked by and saw the rape taking place. Since most of the rarámuri sleep and wake with the sun, it was unusual that any rarámuri would have walked by in time to stop the rape. Lorenzo interfered and pulled the drunk chabochi off the girl. The drunkard swung at Lorenzo and a fight ensued. At some point, the drunkard pulled out a small knife and stuck Lorenzo several times in the abdomen. He also cut Mara's legs when she tried to interfere. The drunkard took off when Lorenzo stopped defending himself and lay still on the pavement. Mara alerted the closest rarámuri family, who alerted Chita, who immediately called the police and went to the settlement to set matters straight herself. She attempted to help Lorenzo, but he had been stabbed too many times--he needed a hospital. Chita says the police arrived very quickly and were very helpful--within minutes they caught the drunkard and sent for an ambulance, but Lorenzo died before the ambulance arrived.

Chita is of course very distraught and spent a lot of time describing how impotent she felt. One of her life goals is to help the rarámuri of Oasis attain a healthier lifestyle--better education and economic opportunities, better nutrition, and a safe neighborhood for the children to play in.

It turns out Lorenzo was Esperanza's cousin. I returned to Oasis two days after the murder occurred, and I found the rarámuri very serious and quiet. As far as I can tell, daily activities are still continuing: the children go to school, the women sit outside to sew, and they walk up the street to go grocery shopping. Julissa and Jiovana told me about the murder themselves, but they spoke as if they were telling me the plot of a movie; in other words, they don't seem to have been traumatized by the event, although they say that they will never again step out of their houses after dark.

There has been one important change. The races have been suspended indefinitely, since they need to take place at sunset due to the treacherous heat during the day.

A few scattered reflections about rarámuri concept of time vs. Western concept of time

Many months ago, an anthropologist friend mentioned off-hand that the rarámuri have a different way of measuring time, that the entire concept of time as I know it is non-existent in rarámuri culture. That time is an invention, in all the forms that we rely on: seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries. The rarámuri measure time differently; even concepts that I take for granted, such as the idea of "a long time" and "a little while" take on different meaning in rarámuri culture, or perhaps do not exist at all. Once I attended a political meeting with about 15 rarámuri women from Oasis, of all ages. The youngest was 2 years old and the oldest was probably well past her sixties. We all had to fill out registration forms so that the political campaign could have our information to contact us, and of course the forms ask everyone their age. The younger rarámuri women born in the city know how to read and write, but many of the women born and raised in the Sierra do not know how, so campaign volunteers helped them by asking the questions on the forms and filling them out for them. When they asked the women their age, most of them answered "I don't know." I heard one volunteer, a young man dressed in a suit, say to Teresa, grandmother of 19 and great-grandmother of one, "which month do you like? Just choose one." He was smiling at her, teasing her lightly, but I thought it was disrespectful.

Cuka and Esperanza don't know how old they are. Cuka has three children, aged 14, 12 and 9. Esperanza has two children, aged 15 and 6. From looking at them, I figure the women are about 32 or 33 years old, but they could well be younger...or older. Chita, the mestizo neighbor who knows all the happenings in Oasis, says that Cuka arrived to Oasis with her parents and her new husband when she was probably about 14 years old, but there is no way to be sure. Rarámuri mothers who live deep in the Sierra usually don't travel to hospitals or clinics to give birth, so their babies never receive birth certificates. What's more, they are so physically far from Western society and its conventions that they never attend school, which means they never learn to keep track of time with a calendar. When I asked Esperanza how old she was, she answered, "I don't know. My mom never knew what year it was."

With migration to the city, most young rarámuri enter school and become familiar with Western ideas of time, although I think many of them (including Julissa and Jiovanna) find themselves between two cultures, two sets of established norms and ideologies. In traditional rarámuri culture, age is measured by the body's changes. As a female, you are a teweke (girl) until menstruation begins, and then you become an iweke (woman) and it is time to begin activities that iwekes do: find a partner, have children, learn to sew and cook and care for children. The idea of teenage or adolescent years is non-existent, although I can see traces of Western influence in many rarámuri families in Oasis. For example, Esperanza's daughter is 15 and does not have a partner, does not plan to have one anytime soon, and does not know how to cook or sew. Esperanza once said that she wants her daughters to enjoy their youth and not work or take on the responsibilities of marriage and adulthood until they are about 18--a very Western way of measuring time and age. More and more, mothers who do not know their own age are adopting this idea and raising their children by it.

And yet, the women often tease me for being 24 years old and still unmarried and childless. They teasingly call me "teweke" (girl) when most Westerners would consider me a young woman. They often ask me when I am going to settle down and have kids, and are very amused when I say I have no plans in the near future.

My anthropologist friend remarked once that events in Oasis are never scheduled for a specific time, and that "a long while" for us is often considered a short time for the rarámuri. I have observed this in the hours upon hours that the rarámuri spend dancing matachines during December and dancing as fariseos during Holy Week. Dancing often doesn't stop even throughout the night, and physical exhaustion does not seem to be a factor in calculating how long the dances should last. The same with the races: in the Sierra, they can last for days, but even in the city I have witnessed races of distances and length of time that I could never even dream of completing myself, but are a norm within their culture. It is very difficult to articulate and form conclusions about such a theoretical topic, but I really feel that the way the rarámuri measure age and the passage of time is an extremely important marker of cultural identity. Certainly a lot of these thoughts have caused me to question why I measure my life the way I do, and why I possess certain ideas and behaviors--all things to explore in more writing to come.

Eligia

Yesterday I arrived to Oasis and found the settlement empty. In the hall where I have most of my friends, and consequently spend most of my time, all the women and children were gone. Esperanza went shopping with Jiovanna, Cuka had taken Julissa to a park, Susannah and Marcela were gone, and I had run into Marta on the street taking her twin boys out for a stroll. The only woman I found yesterday when I arrived was Eligia, the indigenous governor's wife, washing clothes in a cement sink as four of her eight children played nearby.

When I first arrived to Oasis and presented myself to the governor, Chita warned me to be careful with Eligia because she was known to be jealous. I have never witnessed these episodes of possessiveness and jealousy that Chita has described to me, but I have had an extraordinarily hard time getting close to her. Her children are adorable; as I mentioned, she has eight, six of whom are girls. The oldest, Andrea, is fifteen and was recently sent to a Jesuit boarding school for rarámuris in the Sierra (a typical practice, and a very good one, since it puts young teens in a controlled and disciplined environment and takes them away from the drugs and gangs of the colonias in which they live). After Andrea, the next one is twelve, and the youngest is two. I have great relationships with all of them; they are so sweet, it is impossible not to love them.

It is clear that Eligia struggles and has to work hard every day taking care of so many young children. Maybe that is why she hasn't been so receptive toward me--I wouldn't waste my time with me either if I had so many clothes to wash, diapers to change, and mouths to feed. I think she is about 35 years old, but like so many other rarámuri women, she looks older. She is well-liked in the community and seems to possess a sarcastic sense of humor, which I sense from the tone she often uses when chatting with other women (I usually can't understand her, she speaks fast).

For a few seconds yesterday, I felt at a loss for what to do, since all the women I usually talk with were gone. But then I decided to sit on Eligia's front stoop and work on my new dress, which I am making for Jiovanna. Eligia looked up and smiled at me, the first time ever. Her kids came closer and watched me work for a minute, then went back to play. When Eligia finished the washing, she took out her sewing and sat on the ground a few feet away from me. We mostly sat in silence, but a few times she looked over to see how my sewing was coming along, and made some encouraging remarks. She speaks very little Spanish, which is another reason she has perhaps been hesitant to talk to me.

Without conversation, I got a little lost in my thoughts and started thinking about those things which usually occupy my mind when I'm not with the rarámuri or doing writing about them: graduate school applications, preparing a great writing sample, finding a job for after my Fulbright year is over, what I want to do this weekend, and lately, visiting the beach. I was pretty engrossed in these thoughts when I glanced up and saw that Eligia was stitching without looking at her work because she was watching me work. Her two-year-old daughter, Ines, had her head inside her mother's shirt sucking on a breast. Eligia was working on monitos, which her daughters would sell on the weekend. I thought then that I only have two months left to be with the rarámuri, and then I will move on to something new. I can only guess what goes through Eligia's mind when she is sitting quietly feeding her toddler and making dolls to sell, but I know her thoughts and her reality are a world away from my own. I decided to chat with her, so I started asking her questions about her children, and she answered them, smiling several times. Then she asked me about my family, and we spent the rest of the afternoon talking a little every few minutes as we sewed.

"Monitos"

Every Friday, Julissa tells me not to bother visiting Oasis over the weekend because she won't be there. I love how Julissa and Jiovanna think the purpose of my days in Oasis is to visit just them (but more and more, I feel less like I'm conducting field research and more like I really am just visiting friends). Weekends in Oasis are fairly uneventful, since most of the rarámuri women use Saturday and Sunday for shopping, going out for a stroll or to the park, or for selling crafts and candy at shopping centers, downtown, or at one of the dams, which are popular fishing spots for mestizos. I think I'm not off base in saying that what a rarámuri family does on a weekend is an excellent indicator of their economic status. Jiovanna and her family spend the weekends relaxing, often taking a short trip to a national park outside the city in Jiovanna's father's pick-up truck. But Julissa is one of many children who has to work on weekends. It took many months for her to open up about it, but lately she has been telling me more and more about her experiences selling "monitos," little Tarahumara dolls, at various locations throughout the city.

On Saturdays, Julissa and several other little girls walk up to the Kentucky Fried Chicken just three blocks from Oasis and stand at the drive-thru window selling dolls. I don't always visit Oasis on Saturdays, but when I do, I make sure to stop by the KFC to say hello. At first, the girls were shy about waving at me--they were embarrassed that I saw them working, I think. It felt strange not to have them greet me with huge smiles and run up to me to hug me. It was one of those moments in which I realized that the rarámuri really do live in their own world, despite the fact that they share public spaces with chabochis.

But a couple days ago, Julissa felt like revealing more details about her weekends. I already knew that Saturdays are dedicated to selling at the KFC, and Sundays she and her mother walk to the dam to sell to the fishing crowds. What I learned a couple days ago is that Julissa and the other girls typically arrive to the KFC at 10 AM and stay until 4 PM, or sometimes even until 8 PM, if business has been slow. I ask her if they get to eat, and she said their moms pack them lunches, and sometimes mestizos will buy them chicken or mashed potatoes from KFC. Julissa sells an average of 10 dolls a day. At 10 pesos each (a little less than $1 U.S. dollar), Julissa earns 100 pesos (or less than $10 U.S. dollars) standing in the heat or cold selling dolls for six to ten hours each Saturday.

It's hot in Chihuahua now. All week we were between 95 and 100 degrees, and summer hasn't even started yet. Yesterday I drank 1.5 L of water in two hours and still had a headache from walking in the sun with Cuka and Julissa for half an hour. Julissa is very young and doesn't seem to be terribly affected by the extreme heat, but anyone who has to stand outside for six hours is at risk for dehydration and heat stroke. And all day, every day, there are rarámuri women standing at the most trafficked intersections trying to make a living. The typical Chihuahuense inside an air-conditioned car comments that the rarámuri are too lazy to work and prefer standing on a street corner asking for handouts. One day, a mestizo should try selling dolls for six hours during the summer and then decide if it is laziness that keeps the rarámuri selling little crafts or candy, or even seeking kórima, on the streets.

Julissa was very funny yesterday imitating mestizos who buy dolls from her. She did an imitation of a dialogue for me, complete with voices and facial expressions. This is how a typical dialogue between her and a potential buyer pulling up to the KFC window goes:

Julissa: "compre monito" ("buy a doll")

Mestizo: "A cuánto los vendes?" ("how much do you sell them for?")

Julissa: "diez pesos" ("ten pesos")

Mestizo takes a look at the dolls Julissa holds up to display. "No tienes de vestido morado?" ("do you have one with a purple dress?")

Julissa: "no."

Mestizo: "o de azul? o amarillo? o rojo?" (or blue? or yellow? or red?) Here, Julissa began talking very fast, imitating the mestizos demanding dolls with different colored dresses.

Finally, mestizo stops asking for colors that Julissa doesn't have in her display. Mestizo then starts inspecting the dolls' faces, which are made with brown cloth and have white eyes and red lips stitched with yarn.

Mestizo: "Este tiene muy fea boca...y este también...este sí me gusta" ("This one has an ugly mouth...this one too...I like this one.")

Finally, Julissa makes a sale. I asked her if mestizos ever say anything nice to her, ever compliment her dress or something. "No," she answered shortly, then changed the subject.

The girls at their sale post outside the KFC. They were too embarrassed to turn and look into the camera.

Julissa is the one in the orange dress hiding her face. The one in the pink skirt is Elena, and the one in the green is Erika. All three are in third grade together.

Eligia, Erika's mother, sat on the sidewalk with two of her younger daughters making more "monitos" and keeping an eye on the older girls as they sold. In rarámuri culture, children are expected to help their parents with their work, a practice which in the Sierra means helping tend to the harvest. In the city, this practice often means selling "monitos" which their mothers make.

One of Erika's little sisters peeking through a KFC window at chabochi customers eating.

On a different day, Julissa showing me how she displays the "monitos," as they call the little dolls, to customers at the KFC drive-thru on Saturdays.

Sewing a rarámuri dress...and then betting it on a race

For several months, I was in the habit of sitting down with the women in front of their houses or the little church and watching them sew. Sewing is an enormously important activity for the rarámuri women, both in the Sierra and the desert, and has fascinating anthropological implications. For example, sewing is strictly a womens' activity, and as I have sat for hours chatting with women as they sew, I have observed how this activity brings the women together to not only work, but talk. They share news, watch each other's children, have snacks together, and ultimately form very strong bonds. The "sewing circles" are also important economic activities, since the women are either making dresses which they plan to bet on a race, or they are making little rarámuri dolls ("monitos," they call them) which they sell at intersections for 10 pesos each. The ritual aspect is seen in so many places: in the repetition of the activity on a daily basis, in the colorful materials the women consider most beautiful, in the same dress pattern used over and over again.

For months I observed all of these things, but the actual practice of sewing--what it feels like to hold a needle, to make stitches, to choose and combine patterns and fabrics--did not form part of my experience with the rarámuri. It wasn't until two months ago, when two friends from New Mexico came to visit, that I finally moved from being an observer in the rarámuri sewing circles to a student, and now a (more or less) full-fledged member.

My first sewing lesson took place two months ago, one March afternoon, when my friend Flora bought several meters of blue, yellow, pink, and flower-patterned fabric and came to Oasis with me. That day, there were several sewing circles in progress throughout the settlement, as there usually are. The women generally prefer to sew outside, because the houses are small, dark, and overcrowded; outside, many can gather at one time and there is plenty of sunlight. I decided to approach Marcela and Susannah, two very kind rarámuri women, and announced that Flora and I wanted to make a rarámuri dress. They said "alright," allowed us to sit down with them, and showed us how to tear fabric into long, wide strips that we would piece together to form a skirt. But prior to tearing the fabric and stitching the pieces together, we spent several minutes discussing what colors to use. Flora suggested some combination, I suggested another, and both were rejected by the rarámuri women. This is when I first came to understand that the rarámuri women are very particular about color combinations and patterns, and there is an entire code of fashion (at least within this settlement) to follow. At their suggestion, Flora and I agreed the full skirt would be pink, with a blue piece in the middle, and a yellow hem.

My sewing lessons continued on a regular basis throughout the next six weeks. Normally, it takes a good rarámuri seamstress five to seven days to complete a full dress; I took six weeks to complete just the skirt! It started to get really embarrassing around week four, because every day women would ask me "are you almost finished?" and then laugh when I showed them my progress. But my teachers kept making me undo stitches and start over every time they were badly done, which happened very often (especially when I was doing the hems--that is by far the hardest part).

Marcela and Susannah were not my only teachers during this process. Esperanza showed me many techniques, especially when it came to making the pleats. Chavela helped me perfect the hem, which requires rolling the fabric into a very thin strip and making tiny, almost invisible stitches. Cuka, Carolina, and Maria Rosa also checked up on me frequently and offered their advice. I moved around to different sewing circles throughout the process, heard different news about different families, learned different sewing techniques, and laughed when one rarámuri woman would tell me that another rarámuri woman was teaching me badly.

Throughout Semana Santa, I sat in the basketball court sewing and watching the rarámuri men dance the ritual "fariseo" and "soldado" dances. In the weeks after, as I moved among the different sewing circles, my favorite one came to be Esperanza'a, Cuka's, Teresa's, and Maria Rosa's. I spent many, many days sitting in a shady patch in front of Esperanza's house with these women, learning new words in rarámuri and trying to understand them as they talked to each other in rarámuri.

Of course, Julissa, Jiovanna, and Lorena were with me throughout the entire experience. For one week, Julissa and Jiovanna even decided that they would learn to sew, and that I would teach them. So I, a chabochi, gave two rarámuri girls their first sewing lessons ever! I cut two strips of colored fabric, gave each girl a needle, and had them make rows of stitches using different colored thread. Julissa got pretty good, and even went on to make a little skirt for a doll, under her mother's direction. Jiovanna is barely six, but her mother says she will have to learn in the next two years.

The entire time I was working on the dress, different women and children would ask me what I was planning to do with it when I finished it. "Are you going to wear it?" several people asked me. "I'm going to bet it on a race," I replied, which always provoked a smile. My mestizo friends would tell me, "it's your first dress, you should keep it as a memory. Don't bet it, what if you lose it?" But I always thought it would be even better if I lost it! Carolina told me a few weeks ago that she recently gave up betting her favorite dresses on races, because it was painful to lose them so often. I can imagine how horrible it must feel to lose your favorite article of clothing. Every woman likes to have a lot of pretty clothes, but even when everything in your closet is pretty, there are always two or three articles that you love above all others. I try to imagine what it would be like to lose my favorite dress--a midnight blue stretch satin Calvin Klein with a sweetheart neckline. It would be fabulous to bet it against another beautiful dress and win both in the end, but I know I would cry if I lost it! After losing one very treasured dress in a bet, Carolina tried to buy it back from the woman she lost it to, but the other woman refused to sell it back. Then the woman moved back to the Sierra and took the dress with her, and Carolina never saw it again. After this incident, Carolina decided to tone down the gambling and now only bets dresses she doesn't love. But I wanted to get into the full betting craze and bet my first dress, the most special one I will probably ever make because it's my first.

Still, the moment I finished it, I knew I didn't want to bet it. I wanted to take it home, show it off to my non-rarámuri friends, who had been tracking my progress almost as carefully as the rarámuri. I just wanted to hold onto it for a few days, try it on, take a couple pictures in it, hang it proudly in my closet. As soon as I finished it, I got up and walked around the settlement to show off my accomplishment. Most of the women were at the entrance, gathering skirts to bet for a race. As soon as Susannah saw me hold up the skirt, she said, "Come on, Victoria, time to bet it." I told her I didn't want to, and she made a face at me. "Come on, Victoria," someone else said. I made a face back, but then I thought, "how many people are actually encouraged to participate in rarámuri bets?" I said, "okay," and tossed it on the ground, prepared to engage in my first skirt-betting experience.

Betting dresses on rarámuri races follows the same basic concept as any other kind of betting: two dresses of equal value must be bet against each other. Just like you wouldn't bet $10 for $5, you wouldn't bet a rarámuri dress of less value for one of greater value. Now, deciding the value of a dress is the complicated part, because it is very subjective. There are some criteria for judging the value of a dress: the quality of stitching is taken into account, as is the newness of the dress. You won't bet a brand new dress for an old, faded one; and you won't bet a dress that is falling apart at the seams for one that is tightly and cleanly stitched. But then you have to take into account the aesthetic value of the dress, and that is highly subjective and very personal. This is the part that makes the betting process take three to four hours total every time. Here is a typical scenario: Rarámuri woman from Team A has a dress that is orange and blue flowers against a green backdrop, with a white hem. She has her eye on a blue dress with pink daisies and an orange hem that she sees in Team B's betting pile. With the help of the assigned intermediary, rarámuri woman from Team A proposes betting her dress against the desired one from Team B. But the dress's owner, who we will call rarámuri woman from Team B, doesn't want to agree to the bet because she thinks Team A rarámuri woman's dress is ugly. So she says: "I'll bet you my dress, but not against the one you propose. Instead, pair it with the green-and-white polkadot I know you have in your house." Team A rarámuri woman doesn't want to, but she is willing to bet a yellow one with purple flowers and a red hem. And so the arguing and debating continues, until both women come to some kind of agreement. This conversation occurs at least fifteen times, when the women feel like being difficult (some women will bet anything against anything, just for fun), and this is why the entire betting process takes up so many hours before the race even begins.

I was really looking forward to seeing what dresses would be offered against mine. As I sat with my team, my team's intermediary took my skirt over to the other team to see if there was any interest in it. I was excited to see what options she would come back with for me. About five minutes later, she returned with a bundle of jungle-green fabric. "This is what they propose to bet your skirt for, so that you can make another dress," ("para que te pongas a hacer otra," were the exact words). My entire team broke into laughter, and then I did too. I'm still not sure if they bet material against my skirt just to mess with me, or because they really think the quality of my stitching is so terrible that they can't find a fair match for it. Either way, it was a hilarious event! In the end, I agreed to the proposed bet, but one lap into the race, the girl from the other team got a cramp in her leg and the race was called off. Everyone's bets were returned to them, so I ended up keeping my skirt for a couple days in the end. However, I'm taking it with me to the settlement every day, and I'm sure there will be another race this weekend, so I hope to bet it then!