I was sitting outside Oasis today, on the curb, talking to a woman and watching some children play. In front of Oasis there is a small, family-owned convenience store (tienda de abarrotes), which is pretty much maintained by sales to the rarámuri from Oasis. A woman who owns another store just down the street, and who is a good friend of mine, had advised me not to become too friendly with the family who owns the store in front of Oasis. She said the two sons, who I had already seen on previous trips to the store, were involved in sketchy affairs. I took her advice with a grain of salt and continued visiting the store once in a while, to buy a drink or lollipops for the Oasis children.
Today, as I was sitting outside Oasis, a van pulled up in front of the store and a man got out. He went inside the store and a few seconds later, the owner of the store, a middle-aged woman, came out behind the man sobbing hysterically. A couple other people followed her out of the store--I don´t know if they were relatives or neighbors--but they were sobbing as well. Soon, other people came out from the side entrance to her house, and before long they were all sobbing as well. Adult men, teenage boys, young women...there was a group of about eight or nine people, all of them sobbing so loudly that it left no doubt in my mind that they had received news of an unexpected death. The mom's hysterical cries were the worst. I saw her grab the shirt of the man who had arrived in the truck and apparently delivered bad news. She pulled on it and he hugged her tightly while she cried into his neck. The rarámuri woman that I was with and I just sat there, watching.
After a couple minutes, we saw a rarámuri man go up to the group to inquire what was wrong. He passed by us after a minute, on his way to Oasis, and told us the woman's son had been shot and killed. I asked if they knew why, and he shrugged and said, "everyone around here knows he was involved with the narcos. He even did a stint in rehab." No one told the rarámuri man officially that the store owner's son had been killed by narcos, but in this state, and knowing this young man's history, there is no doubt about who murdered him. That is how common drug-related murders have become in this state.
I have felt perfectly safe these last four months that I have been in Chihuahua. Apart from taking normal precautions, like not walking alone at night, I have not felt the need to do anything extra special to stay safe. I ride the buses everywhere, I walk during the day with no worries. All this while, I have felt that Chihuahua is nothing like Ciudad Juarez, and that this city has been unfairly labeled as dangerous just because it is four hours from Juarez. I still feel that way, but today I witnessed first-hand as a family received the news that every Chihuahuense fears. It was kind of surreal, a story out of the newspaper. The rarámuri and I just sat there and watched as the family tried to cope with their grief, right in their front yard.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Baby races
The last two days the rarámuri women have been organizing races between two and three-year-old girls. The women have the toddlers run back and forth the enclosed street where Oasis is located. The little girls, loving the attention and bouncing excitedly, carry a stick whittled just for their size and fling the ariweta as hard as they can. Some of the little girls don't understand the concept of racing and try to walk instead, flinging the ariweta and strolling calmly towards it, beaming proudly the entire way. But the women consider these races too serious to let the little girls just be cute and not actually compete; women bet skirts on their favorite three-year-old just as they do on any adult runner. If a little girl doesn't understand that she needs to run fast in order to beat her competitor, her mother or older sister generally joins her and encourages her by chanting "run, run!" The adult woman, along with a troop of elementary-age girls who encourage the toddler just as they see the women encourage adult runners, will start jogging beside them slowly, and the child, catching on, will start toddling faster. The problem every little girl has is picking up the ariweta from the floor--they have a hard time swooping the ring onto the long stick and most of the time they stop running completely to concentrate on picking up the ring (adorable!!!)
During one race, many women had a lot of skirts riding on a three-year-old runner named Abril. Abril adored the attention--she grinned widely and sucked her thumb as she stood in the middle of the street, staring back at all her admiring fans. The problems began when the race got underway and Abril apparently didn't understand that she needed to run in order to beat the other little girl. The other little girl, Vanessa, understood the concept of racing very well, and took off like a shot as soon as the girls were given the signal. Within seconds, Vanessa was half a block ahead of Abril and the women became frantic, shouting "run, run!" to Abril. Her mother, a young woman named Sara, ran up to her daughter and encouraged her in rarámuri, telling her she needed to start running because the other little girl was going to beat her. Abril started jogging behind her mother, carrying her stick with the ring on it, but she wouldn't throw it. Her mother told her, "throw the ring!" and Abril promptly stopped running and started crying. All the women encouraged her kindly to keep going, but she was obviously very overwhelmed and she wouldn't stop crying or continue running. The race was over after less than one lap! The ten or so women who had wagered that Abril would win lost at least 15 skirts less than two minutes into the race!
Watching the three-year-olds learning to race rarámuri-style is adorable. The toddler races have been a big event these last two days, attracting a lot of women who don't normally attend the adult races. Elementary-age girls who are usually shuffled aside when the adults race suddenly feel mature and important as they recognize their task of training a younger generation in the art of racing with an ariweta. They form small crowds around the toddlers, kneeling so that they are eye-level with them, and explain very seriously the concept of the race and how to throw the ariweta, while the child listens wide-eyed. Then, they cheer them on enthusiastically, right along with the mothers.
It is amazing to see the rarámuri women passing on the racing tradition to girls as young as three. It is normal to see girls age 5 or older running around the settlement flinging a ring from their stick, but two is very young! Two-year-olds are barely learning to walk steadily and eat with a spoon--imagine trying to teach them to run while picking up a ring with a stick and flinging it, over and over. Anthropologists have noted that the kind of "playing" with the ariweta, as I often see in Oasis, is very important in the formation of not just excellent runners, but excellent rarámuri runners, who only run with the ariweta. However, I had never read or heard of rarámuri women organizing formal events like this to train rarámuri toddlers how to actually race. I rarely see girls under the age of 10 race on real terms, with women placing serious bets on the outcome of the race. It's awesome to see the traditions being passed down to girls so young. Plus, it's just one of the cutest things I have ever seen, watching these toddlers try to race just like the adults! I'll take pictures next time and post them.
During one race, many women had a lot of skirts riding on a three-year-old runner named Abril. Abril adored the attention--she grinned widely and sucked her thumb as she stood in the middle of the street, staring back at all her admiring fans. The problems began when the race got underway and Abril apparently didn't understand that she needed to run in order to beat the other little girl. The other little girl, Vanessa, understood the concept of racing very well, and took off like a shot as soon as the girls were given the signal. Within seconds, Vanessa was half a block ahead of Abril and the women became frantic, shouting "run, run!" to Abril. Her mother, a young woman named Sara, ran up to her daughter and encouraged her in rarámuri, telling her she needed to start running because the other little girl was going to beat her. Abril started jogging behind her mother, carrying her stick with the ring on it, but she wouldn't throw it. Her mother told her, "throw the ring!" and Abril promptly stopped running and started crying. All the women encouraged her kindly to keep going, but she was obviously very overwhelmed and she wouldn't stop crying or continue running. The race was over after less than one lap! The ten or so women who had wagered that Abril would win lost at least 15 skirts less than two minutes into the race!
Watching the three-year-olds learning to race rarámuri-style is adorable. The toddler races have been a big event these last two days, attracting a lot of women who don't normally attend the adult races. Elementary-age girls who are usually shuffled aside when the adults race suddenly feel mature and important as they recognize their task of training a younger generation in the art of racing with an ariweta. They form small crowds around the toddlers, kneeling so that they are eye-level with them, and explain very seriously the concept of the race and how to throw the ariweta, while the child listens wide-eyed. Then, they cheer them on enthusiastically, right along with the mothers.
It is amazing to see the rarámuri women passing on the racing tradition to girls as young as three. It is normal to see girls age 5 or older running around the settlement flinging a ring from their stick, but two is very young! Two-year-olds are barely learning to walk steadily and eat with a spoon--imagine trying to teach them to run while picking up a ring with a stick and flinging it, over and over. Anthropologists have noted that the kind of "playing" with the ariweta, as I often see in Oasis, is very important in the formation of not just excellent runners, but excellent rarámuri runners, who only run with the ariweta. However, I had never read or heard of rarámuri women organizing formal events like this to train rarámuri toddlers how to actually race. I rarely see girls under the age of 10 race on real terms, with women placing serious bets on the outcome of the race. It's awesome to see the traditions being passed down to girls so young. Plus, it's just one of the cutest things I have ever seen, watching these toddlers try to race just like the adults! I'll take pictures next time and post them.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Food
How do you become friends with someone? This is a question I have asked myself over and over these past few months, as I've tried to carve a place for myself within the rarámuri community of Oasis. I spent my first weeks helping the women to wash hundreds of dishes in the school cafeteria, scrubbing in silence as they talked and laughed in their language, which I am barely becoming conversant in. After two weeks of that, I knew I had to find a more aggressive tactic to become friends with the women. It was clear that no one was going to start taking to me about their lives after having just seen me around the settlement and exchanging a few pleasantries with me. So I became more aggressive, walking right up to women as they were sitting outside their houses sewing or washing clothes, and simply started talking to them.
I was surprised when many women responded with friendliness and even addressed some of the questions I asked back at me. I had learned it was important not to launch directly into formal interview questions after having just met them, so I tried to talk to them as if they were potential friends I had just met in a Northwestern classroom or a gym class. I think this was a good approach, but then I found myself struggling to find common ground with the women.
The easiest things to talk about when you are first getting to know someone are the most obvious: what you do for a living, where you are from, where you live, and about your family. I quickly found that the only one of these topics I felt completely comfortable talking about was my family; everything else lends too many hints about my economic status, and I am uncomfortable revealing this kind of information to the rarámuri women who struggle so much just to feed their families each day. It makes me feel guilty, I guess, that I have so much more, so I avoid those topics.
Talking about my mom, brothers, and sister-in-law is easy enough, but that conversation can only last a few minutes before everything basic about them is shared. The same on the womens' side. So, naturally, the women ask me if I have a husband and kids. I don't, so that closes another potential door in my face, since the women find it strange and funny that I am 24 years old and don't have my own family yet. "Se te está pasando el tren," one of them told me jokingly. The train is passing me by. The rarámuri tend to settle down with a husband very young, sometimes as early as 14 years old, so even when I am talking to a girl of 17 or 18 years old, she more likely than not has a baby in her arms. I think this reality creates distance between myself and the women, because motherhood is a very, very important part of the rarámuri womens' identity and it is not yet an important part of mine. I find it very hard to relate to a teenager who has a baby, and they find it hard to understand a female in her mid-twenties who isn't a mother yet.
Racking my brain for something else to talk about, it occurred to me one day to ask what they most like to cook. My questions about cooking and food were initially aimed to discover how well the rarámuri eat, what their money can buy them, and what they traditionally cook. But the topic also proved to be an excellent conversation starter and bonding point. Happily, I found food to be a topic which helped me relate to all rarámuri women. Even more joyfully, I found food to be a topic which the rarámuri women could discuss enthusiastically for a long time. "What do you like to eat?" has become a standard question I ask a rarámuri woman when I am getting to know her. Usually she smiles and goes off into a list: beans, tortillas, soup, ham, meat, eggs, potatoes...and the list goes on. Then they ask me the same question, and I respond with my own list, which contains many of the items they like. For a while I thought it was strange that food was such a fun topic to discuss with the rarámuri, since I have never in my life talked at such great lengths about what I like to eat with anyone. But I was just grateful that I found a way to bond with them.
Then, one day, I understood something new. I always ask the women why they left their mountain homeland and migrated to the city, and the answer is always the same: there is no food in the mountains. I got to asking them what their diet was like in the best of times in the mountains, and they usually respond with another list: beans, tortilla, potatoes, squash. No meat? I'd ask. Most would shake their heads no, others would say "sometimes."
In the settlement, I often see women going to the store around the corner and coming back with 3 L bottles of coca cola. Living in isolation in the mountains, the rarámuri who still dwell there only drink soda on the rare occassions they travel to a town and have some money to buy it. The Oasis rarámuri are enthusiastic consumers of potato chips, corn on the cob, popsicles, gum, chocolate, etc. Thinking about the lack of food in the Sierra, I realized that many of the adult women who had been raised in the mountains had never experienced having a wide variety of food at their reach until they migrated to the city and lived in Oasis. For the first time in their lives, they don't have to grow or kill everything they eat, and they have the luxury of trying new foods or having cravings. "Antojos," in Spanish.
No wonder we bond over food. It is one of the few things we have in common, our frequent trips to the supermarket and the privilege of choosing what we want to eat that day. Oftentimes, proponents of traditional rarámuri lifestyle lament over the loss of farming traditions. Doctors despair about increasing diabetes and obesity in the urban rarámuri population. I, too, feel a strong desire to see traditional rarámuri farming preserved, and I hate to see Oasis children consuming potato chips on a daily basis. But it was an amazing thing to discover, this excitement about food that I have never encountered in anyone else, let alone an entire population. If you ever get the chance to converse with a rarámuri, ask them what they like to eat. They will probably respond enthusiastically and ask you the same thing.
I was surprised when many women responded with friendliness and even addressed some of the questions I asked back at me. I had learned it was important not to launch directly into formal interview questions after having just met them, so I tried to talk to them as if they were potential friends I had just met in a Northwestern classroom or a gym class. I think this was a good approach, but then I found myself struggling to find common ground with the women.
The easiest things to talk about when you are first getting to know someone are the most obvious: what you do for a living, where you are from, where you live, and about your family. I quickly found that the only one of these topics I felt completely comfortable talking about was my family; everything else lends too many hints about my economic status, and I am uncomfortable revealing this kind of information to the rarámuri women who struggle so much just to feed their families each day. It makes me feel guilty, I guess, that I have so much more, so I avoid those topics.
Talking about my mom, brothers, and sister-in-law is easy enough, but that conversation can only last a few minutes before everything basic about them is shared. The same on the womens' side. So, naturally, the women ask me if I have a husband and kids. I don't, so that closes another potential door in my face, since the women find it strange and funny that I am 24 years old and don't have my own family yet. "Se te está pasando el tren," one of them told me jokingly. The train is passing me by. The rarámuri tend to settle down with a husband very young, sometimes as early as 14 years old, so even when I am talking to a girl of 17 or 18 years old, she more likely than not has a baby in her arms. I think this reality creates distance between myself and the women, because motherhood is a very, very important part of the rarámuri womens' identity and it is not yet an important part of mine. I find it very hard to relate to a teenager who has a baby, and they find it hard to understand a female in her mid-twenties who isn't a mother yet.
Racking my brain for something else to talk about, it occurred to me one day to ask what they most like to cook. My questions about cooking and food were initially aimed to discover how well the rarámuri eat, what their money can buy them, and what they traditionally cook. But the topic also proved to be an excellent conversation starter and bonding point. Happily, I found food to be a topic which helped me relate to all rarámuri women. Even more joyfully, I found food to be a topic which the rarámuri women could discuss enthusiastically for a long time. "What do you like to eat?" has become a standard question I ask a rarámuri woman when I am getting to know her. Usually she smiles and goes off into a list: beans, tortillas, soup, ham, meat, eggs, potatoes...and the list goes on. Then they ask me the same question, and I respond with my own list, which contains many of the items they like. For a while I thought it was strange that food was such a fun topic to discuss with the rarámuri, since I have never in my life talked at such great lengths about what I like to eat with anyone. But I was just grateful that I found a way to bond with them.
Then, one day, I understood something new. I always ask the women why they left their mountain homeland and migrated to the city, and the answer is always the same: there is no food in the mountains. I got to asking them what their diet was like in the best of times in the mountains, and they usually respond with another list: beans, tortilla, potatoes, squash. No meat? I'd ask. Most would shake their heads no, others would say "sometimes."
In the settlement, I often see women going to the store around the corner and coming back with 3 L bottles of coca cola. Living in isolation in the mountains, the rarámuri who still dwell there only drink soda on the rare occassions they travel to a town and have some money to buy it. The Oasis rarámuri are enthusiastic consumers of potato chips, corn on the cob, popsicles, gum, chocolate, etc. Thinking about the lack of food in the Sierra, I realized that many of the adult women who had been raised in the mountains had never experienced having a wide variety of food at their reach until they migrated to the city and lived in Oasis. For the first time in their lives, they don't have to grow or kill everything they eat, and they have the luxury of trying new foods or having cravings. "Antojos," in Spanish.
No wonder we bond over food. It is one of the few things we have in common, our frequent trips to the supermarket and the privilege of choosing what we want to eat that day. Oftentimes, proponents of traditional rarámuri lifestyle lament over the loss of farming traditions. Doctors despair about increasing diabetes and obesity in the urban rarámuri population. I, too, feel a strong desire to see traditional rarámuri farming preserved, and I hate to see Oasis children consuming potato chips on a daily basis. But it was an amazing thing to discover, this excitement about food that I have never encountered in anyone else, let alone an entire population. If you ever get the chance to converse with a rarámuri, ask them what they like to eat. They will probably respond enthusiastically and ask you the same thing.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Another race story
On Thursday, I walked into Oasis and found piles of dresses on the pavement. I have come to recognize piles of dresses as a clear signal of what is going to happen that day: a race. I immediately asked who was going to race, and I was told that it was going to be a 17-year-old girl from Oasis running against another girl of the same age from the colonia Unidad. "uh oh," I thought. The last time Oasis raced against Unidad, there was an injury and a forfeit, a huge fight over who should be declared winner and therefore get to keep the dresses, and a cop intervention. I jokingly asked, "Do you think the police will come this time?" The women smiled and one of them answered, "No, I don't think so."
The day progressed and I spent the early afternoon chatting with women and watching them hurry to finish sewing dresses that they wanted to bet. Women kept asking me if I wanted to place a bet on this race, but I didn't have enough money on me that day, just enough for a snack and the bus ride home. I thought to myself that it was a good thing I wasn't betting anything this time, because the last time they raced against Unidad and fought, someone ended up losing my money and I never got it back!
When the race got underway, in the late afternoon, I was surprised to see 15 pebbles lined up on the curb. The rarámuri women always use this method as a way of keeping track of how many laps the runners have completed; every rock signifies one lap, and as the girls complete them, the woman in charge of keeping track removes a pebble. Each lap equals about one kilometer. Usually, the runners program 10 laps for each race, which is why I was surprised to see that these girls were planning on running 15 laps (15 km!)
It was the most exciting race I have ever seen. The girls were running evenly for about five laps, and then the runner from Unidad began to pull ahead. She was ahead by 3 blocks for the next eight laps. It looked like Oasis was definitely going to lose this one, and some of the women lost hope by lap ten, but then another group of girls and women started running alongside their girl, to encourage her. The girl from Unidad was running basically alone, with just one companion urging her on. She amazed me with her speed--for thirteen laps she ran without stopping, without drinking anything, just maintaining her speed. Then, during the final two laps, the Oasis runner began to catch up to her and the race got interesting again. Oasis women were in a frenzy, cheering on their runner. During the last lap, it looked like the Oasis runner might just overtake the Unidad runner, but as they disappeared over the hill, we couldn't see anymore. We would have to wait until they came back down the hill to see what the outcome of the race was going to be.
Suddenly, one of the girls that was running with the Oasis girl came running back down the hill, yelling "we won, we won!" The Oasis women wasted no time digging into their winnings, choosing who would get to keep what skirt. I thought it was strange that the girl called the race when it was so close. A couple minutes later, four women came down the hill carrying the Unidad runner in their arms. She had fainted. They lay her down on the pavement and it was clear the girl was passed out. We called an ambulance and did what we could for the girl in the meantime.
Meanwhile, a neighbor named Chita came out of her store, which is half a block away from Oasis, to see what was going on. Luckily, the runner came to after a few seconds, and after several more minutes she was able to sit up and drink something. The attention then turned to the outcome of the race. The Oasis women obviously wanted to call the race in their favor, but the Unidad women reminded them that the last time they raced, an Oasis girl had got hurt, and they had called the race a draw. The fight reached such heights that some of the Oasis women were accusing the Unidad runner of having faked passing out, in order to get out of the race.
The neighbor, Chita, is undoubtedly the moral authority of Oasis. How she came to hold such power in Oasis, I will discuss in a later post--she is a fascinating woman. But on this occasion, she exercised her power over the women by scolding them for not having a written contract with the rules of the race. "If you know you fight about the outcome when someone gets injured, why don't you come to me and have me write out a contract with the rules? This is what I told you to do next time you raced." She asked the women if they wanted a police officer to intervene, and some of them said yes, so Chita called the patrol.
This time, only one officer (one of the same ones who intervened in the last race) came to Oasis. It's not worth repeating what he said to the women word-by-word this time. Basically, he backed Chita up, saying that the women should have written contracts before races. But they always underlined this statement by saying that it would be best not to have any races at all. In the end, the women settled that Oasis could keep the dresses (which I don't think was fair! I think it should have been called a draw, like last time). The girl who had fainted was fine and went home with her friend.
It's always uncomfortable for me to watch how outsiders intervene and tell the women what they should and should not do. Invariably, they take on a paternalistic tone and I feel embarrassed for the women when they are subjected to scoldings as if they were children. I understand that those who intervene, especially the neighbors, have the best intentions in mind, but they always advise the women as if they were children, not equals. Clearly, they think their judgement is better than the rarámuri womens'. In Chihuahua, two general attitudes exist toward the rarámuri: either you are openly discriminatory towards them, or you pity them. In the end, I think it amounts to about the same, because in both cases the rarámuri are never viewed as equals in Chihuahuan society. I don't think they should be treated as equals in the sense that Chihuahuan society should ignore the fact that they live under the poverty line or deny them government help. But as it happens with most poor people, discrimination and pity tend to reduce the rarámuri to one single definition: poor. Any opportunity to connect in a meaningful way with the rarámuri becomes lost when outsiders allow these attitudes to overtake them.
Pity and its dangers is a theme I'm exploring in my writing now. Witnessing this last race allowed me to see how well-meaning neighbors who constantly patronize and pity the Oasis rarámuri actually create a rift between themselves and the rarámuri, even though if you talk to these neighbors they will boast about what a close relationship they have with the Oasis rarámuri.
The day progressed and I spent the early afternoon chatting with women and watching them hurry to finish sewing dresses that they wanted to bet. Women kept asking me if I wanted to place a bet on this race, but I didn't have enough money on me that day, just enough for a snack and the bus ride home. I thought to myself that it was a good thing I wasn't betting anything this time, because the last time they raced against Unidad and fought, someone ended up losing my money and I never got it back!
When the race got underway, in the late afternoon, I was surprised to see 15 pebbles lined up on the curb. The rarámuri women always use this method as a way of keeping track of how many laps the runners have completed; every rock signifies one lap, and as the girls complete them, the woman in charge of keeping track removes a pebble. Each lap equals about one kilometer. Usually, the runners program 10 laps for each race, which is why I was surprised to see that these girls were planning on running 15 laps (15 km!)
It was the most exciting race I have ever seen. The girls were running evenly for about five laps, and then the runner from Unidad began to pull ahead. She was ahead by 3 blocks for the next eight laps. It looked like Oasis was definitely going to lose this one, and some of the women lost hope by lap ten, but then another group of girls and women started running alongside their girl, to encourage her. The girl from Unidad was running basically alone, with just one companion urging her on. She amazed me with her speed--for thirteen laps she ran without stopping, without drinking anything, just maintaining her speed. Then, during the final two laps, the Oasis runner began to catch up to her and the race got interesting again. Oasis women were in a frenzy, cheering on their runner. During the last lap, it looked like the Oasis runner might just overtake the Unidad runner, but as they disappeared over the hill, we couldn't see anymore. We would have to wait until they came back down the hill to see what the outcome of the race was going to be.
Suddenly, one of the girls that was running with the Oasis girl came running back down the hill, yelling "we won, we won!" The Oasis women wasted no time digging into their winnings, choosing who would get to keep what skirt. I thought it was strange that the girl called the race when it was so close. A couple minutes later, four women came down the hill carrying the Unidad runner in their arms. She had fainted. They lay her down on the pavement and it was clear the girl was passed out. We called an ambulance and did what we could for the girl in the meantime.
Meanwhile, a neighbor named Chita came out of her store, which is half a block away from Oasis, to see what was going on. Luckily, the runner came to after a few seconds, and after several more minutes she was able to sit up and drink something. The attention then turned to the outcome of the race. The Oasis women obviously wanted to call the race in their favor, but the Unidad women reminded them that the last time they raced, an Oasis girl had got hurt, and they had called the race a draw. The fight reached such heights that some of the Oasis women were accusing the Unidad runner of having faked passing out, in order to get out of the race.
The neighbor, Chita, is undoubtedly the moral authority of Oasis. How she came to hold such power in Oasis, I will discuss in a later post--she is a fascinating woman. But on this occasion, she exercised her power over the women by scolding them for not having a written contract with the rules of the race. "If you know you fight about the outcome when someone gets injured, why don't you come to me and have me write out a contract with the rules? This is what I told you to do next time you raced." She asked the women if they wanted a police officer to intervene, and some of them said yes, so Chita called the patrol.
This time, only one officer (one of the same ones who intervened in the last race) came to Oasis. It's not worth repeating what he said to the women word-by-word this time. Basically, he backed Chita up, saying that the women should have written contracts before races. But they always underlined this statement by saying that it would be best not to have any races at all. In the end, the women settled that Oasis could keep the dresses (which I don't think was fair! I think it should have been called a draw, like last time). The girl who had fainted was fine and went home with her friend.
It's always uncomfortable for me to watch how outsiders intervene and tell the women what they should and should not do. Invariably, they take on a paternalistic tone and I feel embarrassed for the women when they are subjected to scoldings as if they were children. I understand that those who intervene, especially the neighbors, have the best intentions in mind, but they always advise the women as if they were children, not equals. Clearly, they think their judgement is better than the rarámuri womens'. In Chihuahua, two general attitudes exist toward the rarámuri: either you are openly discriminatory towards them, or you pity them. In the end, I think it amounts to about the same, because in both cases the rarámuri are never viewed as equals in Chihuahuan society. I don't think they should be treated as equals in the sense that Chihuahuan society should ignore the fact that they live under the poverty line or deny them government help. But as it happens with most poor people, discrimination and pity tend to reduce the rarámuri to one single definition: poor. Any opportunity to connect in a meaningful way with the rarámuri becomes lost when outsiders allow these attitudes to overtake them.
Pity and its dangers is a theme I'm exploring in my writing now. Witnessing this last race allowed me to see how well-meaning neighbors who constantly patronize and pity the Oasis rarámuri actually create a rift between themselves and the rarámuri, even though if you talk to these neighbors they will boast about what a close relationship they have with the Oasis rarámuri.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Pictures of "rowera," the rarámuri womens' races
At the end of the race, the women who bet on the winning runner get to keep the skirts they bet, plus divide the other teams' skirts amongst themselves. Here, a picture of the women happily dividing their winnings amongst themselves.
These are the two runners for this day. You can see how they pick up the "ariweta," the ring, with a stick as they run.
Rarámuri women typically bet dresses instead of money on their favorite runner. Here, a pile of dresses that is going to be used in a wager in favor of one woman. In the background, a woman hurrying to finish sewing a skirt so she can add it to the pile.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Races: "rowera" or "carreras de ariweta"
One of the most important cultural and economic activities in Oasis are the races, which are known in raramuri as rowera. It's well known that the raramuri in the Sierra are avid runners, sometimes holding races that can last days and cover hundreds of miles of mountain terrain. They are so famous, in fact, that they are invited to compete yearly in international races, such as the Leadville 100 Ultramarathon held in Colorado (here is a link with an interesting description of the race, and the names of the three raramuri men who participated and placed first, second, and fifth! http://www.nativevillage.org/Archives/2009%20Archives/Jan%201%202009%20News/1-1-2009%20/Tarahumara%20Feat%20Inspires%20Awe.htm)
Luckily, the raramuri migrants to the cities continue to practice this tradition. Racing, and betting on the races, is alive and well in Oasis. Here is a brief description of how the races are conducted: races are always comprised of two runners. A team of "co-runners" can accompany each competing runner to make sure there is no cheating during the race (I have heard stories of runners trying to push each other off the track, or more typically, of casting spells so that the other runner will get hurt. The "co-runners" are there to defend their runner, and to serve as witnesses if anything underhanded does occur). In Oasis, just like in the Sierra, these races serve as a social gathering, during which women get together to talk, share news, and eat and drink together. The "economic activity" comes in with the betting. Part of the importance (and definitely the fun) of racing is placing bets in favor of one runner. But the women rarely bet money; they usually bet their dresses, which are colorful and unique. The race is a great opportunity to gain (and lose) clothes, important capital in their society. Additionally, I think the raramuri women have fun winning new clothes; what woman doesn't like to wear something new, after all?
Another aspect that makes raramuri races unique: the women must run with an ariweta, the raramuri word that refers to a special ring used during races. Competitors run with a long stick, which they use to pick up and throw the ring forward. This action is repeated throughout the race. I think it serves as a kind of "technique" to propel the runners forward, especially when they start to get tired. The men run kicking a wooden ball, but I've never seen this in person.
Now, onto a fun story. The women race often--about four times a week, at least--and at the urging of an anthropologist friend, I have become an enthusiastic better in these races. I always bet money, since I don't have any dresses. One day, a group of women from another settlement came to challenge a woman from Oasis. There was a frenzy all day, as women gathered dresses, tied them to each other (so that each woman could keep track of what she bet), and chattered excitedly about the prospect of big winnings. I placed a decent bet, too.
Well, the race got started, and the atmosphere was very festive, with women drinking sodas and buying corn on the cob to enjoy the race. The women were set to run 10 laps around the neighborhood, which amounts to about 10 miles. At the end of the 4th lap, the Oasis runner refused to continue because she said she had hurt her foot. I feel it's important to note that she was about half a block behind the other runner. In case of a forfeit, the other team automatically wins. But when the women from the other settlement came to collect their winnings, the Oasis women began snatching up their dresses and running back to their houses to hide them. There was a lot of arguing, a lot of yelling, and at one point I even thought there was going to be physical fighting. The Oasis women argued that the race wasn't valid, since their runner got injured; the other team countered that it didn't matter if there was an injury, whoever forfeits automatically loses.
The women from the other settlement ended up calling the police to report the Oasis women. The police!!! Talk about extreme measures! When a patrol truck pulled up in front of the settlement and three moustached officers got out, a crowd of about fifty raramuri women and all their children gathered in front of them. I ended up front and center in the crowd. "So what's the problem?" one of the officers asked them. Everyone started talking at once, so of course the policemen became even more confused and annoyed. After a few minutes, a couple women slowly explained the conflict that was occurring, but the police were still confused. Races? Betting? Dresses? They didn't know what was going on.
Once they got the story straight, an officer addressed the crowd of women with the following words: "the problem with your people is that you don't know how to pull yourselves out of poverty. You know you are poor, and yet you continue to engage in vices like drinking and gambling. This is why you stay poor--all you ever do is drink and gamble."
To my surprise, the women stayed silent. The officers went on to "resolve" the conflict by telling the women the race should be a draw, that every woman needed to retrieve what she had bet. At this point, an officer asked if anyone had wagered any money.
"Victoria did," one woman said.
"Who's Victoria?" Several women pointed at me, and the officer looked and me and said, "you?" I nodded and said, "yes, I'm part of the problem." He rolled his eyes and said, "well, make sure Victoria gets her money back."
In the end, a lot of women never got their dresses back. In all the bustle of trying to redistribute hundreds of dresses, some of them got misplaced. I never got my money back--a lot of money had been wagered, and almost all of it mysteriously disappeared. But I didn't care; witnessing this event was worth many wagers! It was upsetting to see the way the police treated the raramuri women, but it also gave me excellent insight into the blatant discrimination that takes place in Chihuahua. I have witnessed more races since, but no more conflicts like this one. I'll be sure to share more race stories in later posts!
Soon I'll post some pictures of women participating in rowera.
Luckily, the raramuri migrants to the cities continue to practice this tradition. Racing, and betting on the races, is alive and well in Oasis. Here is a brief description of how the races are conducted: races are always comprised of two runners. A team of "co-runners" can accompany each competing runner to make sure there is no cheating during the race (I have heard stories of runners trying to push each other off the track, or more typically, of casting spells so that the other runner will get hurt. The "co-runners" are there to defend their runner, and to serve as witnesses if anything underhanded does occur). In Oasis, just like in the Sierra, these races serve as a social gathering, during which women get together to talk, share news, and eat and drink together. The "economic activity" comes in with the betting. Part of the importance (and definitely the fun) of racing is placing bets in favor of one runner. But the women rarely bet money; they usually bet their dresses, which are colorful and unique. The race is a great opportunity to gain (and lose) clothes, important capital in their society. Additionally, I think the raramuri women have fun winning new clothes; what woman doesn't like to wear something new, after all?
Another aspect that makes raramuri races unique: the women must run with an ariweta, the raramuri word that refers to a special ring used during races. Competitors run with a long stick, which they use to pick up and throw the ring forward. This action is repeated throughout the race. I think it serves as a kind of "technique" to propel the runners forward, especially when they start to get tired. The men run kicking a wooden ball, but I've never seen this in person.
Now, onto a fun story. The women race often--about four times a week, at least--and at the urging of an anthropologist friend, I have become an enthusiastic better in these races. I always bet money, since I don't have any dresses. One day, a group of women from another settlement came to challenge a woman from Oasis. There was a frenzy all day, as women gathered dresses, tied them to each other (so that each woman could keep track of what she bet), and chattered excitedly about the prospect of big winnings. I placed a decent bet, too.
Well, the race got started, and the atmosphere was very festive, with women drinking sodas and buying corn on the cob to enjoy the race. The women were set to run 10 laps around the neighborhood, which amounts to about 10 miles. At the end of the 4th lap, the Oasis runner refused to continue because she said she had hurt her foot. I feel it's important to note that she was about half a block behind the other runner. In case of a forfeit, the other team automatically wins. But when the women from the other settlement came to collect their winnings, the Oasis women began snatching up their dresses and running back to their houses to hide them. There was a lot of arguing, a lot of yelling, and at one point I even thought there was going to be physical fighting. The Oasis women argued that the race wasn't valid, since their runner got injured; the other team countered that it didn't matter if there was an injury, whoever forfeits automatically loses.
The women from the other settlement ended up calling the police to report the Oasis women. The police!!! Talk about extreme measures! When a patrol truck pulled up in front of the settlement and three moustached officers got out, a crowd of about fifty raramuri women and all their children gathered in front of them. I ended up front and center in the crowd. "So what's the problem?" one of the officers asked them. Everyone started talking at once, so of course the policemen became even more confused and annoyed. After a few minutes, a couple women slowly explained the conflict that was occurring, but the police were still confused. Races? Betting? Dresses? They didn't know what was going on.
Once they got the story straight, an officer addressed the crowd of women with the following words: "the problem with your people is that you don't know how to pull yourselves out of poverty. You know you are poor, and yet you continue to engage in vices like drinking and gambling. This is why you stay poor--all you ever do is drink and gamble."
To my surprise, the women stayed silent. The officers went on to "resolve" the conflict by telling the women the race should be a draw, that every woman needed to retrieve what she had bet. At this point, an officer asked if anyone had wagered any money.
"Victoria did," one woman said.
"Who's Victoria?" Several women pointed at me, and the officer looked and me and said, "you?" I nodded and said, "yes, I'm part of the problem." He rolled his eyes and said, "well, make sure Victoria gets her money back."
In the end, a lot of women never got their dresses back. In all the bustle of trying to redistribute hundreds of dresses, some of them got misplaced. I never got my money back--a lot of money had been wagered, and almost all of it mysteriously disappeared. But I didn't care; witnessing this event was worth many wagers! It was upsetting to see the way the police treated the raramuri women, but it also gave me excellent insight into the blatant discrimination that takes place in Chihuahua. I have witnessed more races since, but no more conflicts like this one. I'll be sure to share more race stories in later posts!
Soon I'll post some pictures of women participating in rowera.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
My project, how it came to be, and some historical context
At the urging of friends, I´ve decided to start a blog about my Fulbright experiences in Chihuahua City, Mexico. I have been living in Chihuahua for just over three months now, and I feel like I have so many events to catch everyone up on. So I'm going to do my best to describe all the aspects of my Fulbright research goals, the rarámuri culture I am learning about, and my personal thoughts and experiences on the field.
First, to describe what I´m actually doing in Chihuahua. Well, my project is focusing on the rarámuri, an indigenous group native to Chihuahua, a northern Mexican state that borders my hometown of El Paso, Texas. My interest in the rarámuri has been many years in the making. For those of you who have grown up crossing the border (El Paso to Cd. Juarez), you surely noticed rarámuri women and children walking up and down the rows of waiting cars, asking for money or selling crafts and gum. It is such a customary sight to see rarámuri women on the bridge that most people from the area don´t really think twice about it. But the rarámuri always struck me as so strangely out of place in a city context, and even more so when I considered that they were working for pennies while El Paso´s skyscrapers and mansions on the hills loomed in the backdrop. Thousands of people cross the border to and from El Paso and Juarez every day, and for years now the rarámuri have been capitalizing on the bored and impatient border crossers stuck in bridge traffic sometimes for up to three hours.
The idea of rarámuri capitalists is such a paradox, really--a little internet research will explain why. For the last 400 or so years, the rarámuri have made the Sierra Madre mountains in the southwestern portion of the state their home. They have lived in what most people would describe as ´´primitive´´ conditions, constructing small wooden homes or sometimes even living in caves. They have relied on subsistence farming and have had virtually no use for money or store-bought goods. They traditionally produced almost everything they needed, from blankets to baskets, food to shelter.
In the last thirty or so years, a variety of circumstances (which I will go into in a later post) have pushed the rarámuri out of their mountain homes and forced them to travel to nearby cities, where they are obligated to earn money in order to survive. Obviously, life in the Sierra does not equip the rarámuri with skills that are considered valuable for most city jobs, so most (the women mainly) have to resort to making their living in the ´´informal market,´´ usually selling crafts or seeking alms. Adding to this, a shamelessly discriminatory Chihuahuan society makes it difficult for most rarámuri to find decent-paying jobs.
So, my research is focusing on the city-dwelling rarámuri. Whenever I would see rarámri women on the bridge as I waited to cross to El Paso, I always wondered where they lived. I was pretty sure that the money they earned from their work on the bridge was not enough to pay even the cheapest rent. It turns out the state government builds ´´asentamientos,´´ or settlements for the rarámuri to live in. Most charge a very low monthly rent, and many don´t charge rent at all. I am working in the oldest of these settlements in Chihuahua City, called Oasis. I spend my days conducting formal interviews, conversing informally, observing, and sometimes even participating in the rarámuri daily living tasks. There are so many unique rarámuri traditions and customs that I hope to share with you in this blog, and I absolutely welcome all of your reactions and comments to the stories that I plan to share. One other thing: the goal of my project is to write a creative non-fiction narrative based on my work in Oasis. So any input on what aspects of rarámuri culture you think are most fascinating, what ´´characters´´ I mention strike you as interesting, and what stories you think should definitely go into a formal narrative will be very welcome!
Arioshi-ba! (Goodbye!)
First, to describe what I´m actually doing in Chihuahua. Well, my project is focusing on the rarámuri, an indigenous group native to Chihuahua, a northern Mexican state that borders my hometown of El Paso, Texas. My interest in the rarámuri has been many years in the making. For those of you who have grown up crossing the border (El Paso to Cd. Juarez), you surely noticed rarámuri women and children walking up and down the rows of waiting cars, asking for money or selling crafts and gum. It is such a customary sight to see rarámuri women on the bridge that most people from the area don´t really think twice about it. But the rarámuri always struck me as so strangely out of place in a city context, and even more so when I considered that they were working for pennies while El Paso´s skyscrapers and mansions on the hills loomed in the backdrop. Thousands of people cross the border to and from El Paso and Juarez every day, and for years now the rarámuri have been capitalizing on the bored and impatient border crossers stuck in bridge traffic sometimes for up to three hours.
The idea of rarámuri capitalists is such a paradox, really--a little internet research will explain why. For the last 400 or so years, the rarámuri have made the Sierra Madre mountains in the southwestern portion of the state their home. They have lived in what most people would describe as ´´primitive´´ conditions, constructing small wooden homes or sometimes even living in caves. They have relied on subsistence farming and have had virtually no use for money or store-bought goods. They traditionally produced almost everything they needed, from blankets to baskets, food to shelter.
In the last thirty or so years, a variety of circumstances (which I will go into in a later post) have pushed the rarámuri out of their mountain homes and forced them to travel to nearby cities, where they are obligated to earn money in order to survive. Obviously, life in the Sierra does not equip the rarámuri with skills that are considered valuable for most city jobs, so most (the women mainly) have to resort to making their living in the ´´informal market,´´ usually selling crafts or seeking alms. Adding to this, a shamelessly discriminatory Chihuahuan society makes it difficult for most rarámuri to find decent-paying jobs.
So, my research is focusing on the city-dwelling rarámuri. Whenever I would see rarámri women on the bridge as I waited to cross to El Paso, I always wondered where they lived. I was pretty sure that the money they earned from their work on the bridge was not enough to pay even the cheapest rent. It turns out the state government builds ´´asentamientos,´´ or settlements for the rarámuri to live in. Most charge a very low monthly rent, and many don´t charge rent at all. I am working in the oldest of these settlements in Chihuahua City, called Oasis. I spend my days conducting formal interviews, conversing informally, observing, and sometimes even participating in the rarámuri daily living tasks. There are so many unique rarámuri traditions and customs that I hope to share with you in this blog, and I absolutely welcome all of your reactions and comments to the stories that I plan to share. One other thing: the goal of my project is to write a creative non-fiction narrative based on my work in Oasis. So any input on what aspects of rarámuri culture you think are most fascinating, what ´´characters´´ I mention strike you as interesting, and what stories you think should definitely go into a formal narrative will be very welcome!
Arioshi-ba! (Goodbye!)
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