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.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
"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.
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.Friday, May 21, 2010
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!
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!
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Resistance
Mónica sent me an article about two indigenous women who decided to go shopping in Antara, an upscale mall in Mexico City. I have never been there, but I often see the mall featured in magazines, advertising designer clothes by Prada, Versace and the like. One day last week, two indigenous women from Chiapas were touring the ritzy district of Polanco, where Antara is located, and came across the mall. They decided to go inside and take a look around. The story is in Spanish and worth the read if you understand the language: (http://hazmeelchingadofavor.com/index.php/2010/05/13/no-tienes-que-ir-a-arizona-para-ser-discriminado-en-antara-polanco-te-tratan-igual/, http://www.eluniversal.com.mx/sociedad/5791.html). But for those of you who don't read Spanish, here is a summary of events: the women walk into the mall dressed in their traditional skirts and blouses. Naturally, they draw stares--two indigenous women shopping in the ritziest mall in all of Mexico? Apparently security guards were notified and told to keep an eye on the women. They were prohibited from taking a picture in front of a fountain. Later, at a restaurant, waiters made fun of the women a few feet from the table and served them with exaggerated politeness.
The article reminded me of a story Carolina told me the day we went shopping downtown. At one point, we walked by the historic Hotel San Francisco and the adjacent restaurant, Degás. My mom and I stayed in this hotel when we first arrived in Chihuahua and ate at this restaurant several times. There is a Degás in Juárez (or was...who knows if it's still open with all the extortions that are occurring in Juárez these days!), and we used to go every once in a while. It is a very nice restaurant, in a classy old Mexican style: polished wooden tables and booths, cream-colored walls with framed paintings, waiters in bow-ties and black vests over crisp white shirts. Degás is renowned for serving classic norteño dishes, such as enchiladas, flautas, and dressed-up burritos. I really like this restaurant, both in Juárez and in Chihuahua.
As we walked by it that one day, Carolina mentioned that a priest who used to give Mass in Oasis invited a group of students to eat there once, about seven years ago. Carolina was among this group. When they got to the restaurant, the priest held the door open and the rarámuri students walked into the restaurant. I didn't ask Carolina, but I assume the girls were wearing their traditional dresses and blouses. Carolina says that as soon as they walked in, a man in a suit standing by the cash register--I assume it was a manager--said to the group, "no, no, you can't come in here. You have to leave." Then, the priest came to the front of the group and said, "no, they're with me and we're going to eat." Only then did the manager seat the group and serve them.
After she told me this story, Carolina asked me, "why did they treat us like that?" "I don't know," I answered, then added "it's really terrible that they treated you that way, it should never have happened."
What is most shocking about the story is that the manager asked the group to leave the restaurant as soon as they walked in, without asking what they wanted. In Chihuahua, as in many other cities in Mexico and throughout the world, poor children often visit elegant restaurants and approach customers to ask for change or extra food. In Chihuahua, these people are always rarámuri. One of the most awkward experiences I have had in Chihuahua occurred when I visited a Starbucks near my apartment, and as I was sitting at a table drinking coffee and reading a book, a rarámuri mother I know from Oasis and her daughter came in and started making their rounds inside the restaurant, saying "kórima" to every customer seated or ordering coffee at the counter. When they got to me, I smiled and said hi, she smiled and said hi, and didn't say "kórima" to me. We didn't say more; she moved on after saying hi. It is so common to see rarámuri in places like Starbucks and Degás, and I have never seen a manager ask them to leave, but I am sure it happens pretty often. It has to be bad for business, because what customer doesn't feel uncomfortable having a dirty child in tattered clothes approach the table with a serious face and an extended hand? Naturally, restaurant owners and managers try to keep their establishments free of any elements that might discourage customers from coming in, and they view the kórima-seeking rarámuri as one of those elements. It is very, very rare to see a rarámuri enter places that mestizos go for entertainment: restaurants, cafés, shopping malls, movie theaters. For the most part, the rarámuri can't afford to visit these kinds of places, but there's more to it than that. Not every rarámuri in Oasis is extremely poor, and I see some families treat themselves on a pretty regular basis. But there are places that are clearly designated as "mestizo only," and no rarámuri, no matter what their economic status, will enter. The rules are unspoken--segregation is against the law--but racial tensions run deep enough in Chihuahua to create separate spaces for mestizos and rarámuri.
Carolina is not inclined to participate in mestizo politics, and she is not impassioned by the pan-indigenous political movement that started in the South and is trying to reach the North; but she is hurt by stereotypes and unjust treatment like she received in Degás. I like the rarámuri for not being so politically outspoken--they are not a group that typically stages demonstrations or are likely to reach such heights of political passion that they will rebel in a sensational, attention-drawing way (in contrast to other indigenous groups in the South). The rarámuri have often been labeled as passive, lazy, even stupid for their apparent acceptance of bad treatment. But Carolina, like other rarámuri, has her methods for maintaining her dignity as a rarámuri.
She told me she sat at a table with her fellow students and the priest that afternoon and had a lemonade and enchiladas. She had a good time, despite the manager's initial bad treatment. If the waiters were rude, as they were to the indigenous women who visited a restaurant in Polanco, Carolina didn't mention it to me. In the story about the women in Polanco, the indigenous women also seemed to be unaware of the waiter's smirks and exaggerated treatment. The report says they had ice cream, then went into another store to browse. There, a saleswoman asked them if they needed any help as they were looking at a $2,000 purse. "No, thank you; I think it's ugly," the indigenous woman told the saleswoman.
The article reminded me of a story Carolina told me the day we went shopping downtown. At one point, we walked by the historic Hotel San Francisco and the adjacent restaurant, Degás. My mom and I stayed in this hotel when we first arrived in Chihuahua and ate at this restaurant several times. There is a Degás in Juárez (or was...who knows if it's still open with all the extortions that are occurring in Juárez these days!), and we used to go every once in a while. It is a very nice restaurant, in a classy old Mexican style: polished wooden tables and booths, cream-colored walls with framed paintings, waiters in bow-ties and black vests over crisp white shirts. Degás is renowned for serving classic norteño dishes, such as enchiladas, flautas, and dressed-up burritos. I really like this restaurant, both in Juárez and in Chihuahua.
As we walked by it that one day, Carolina mentioned that a priest who used to give Mass in Oasis invited a group of students to eat there once, about seven years ago. Carolina was among this group. When they got to the restaurant, the priest held the door open and the rarámuri students walked into the restaurant. I didn't ask Carolina, but I assume the girls were wearing their traditional dresses and blouses. Carolina says that as soon as they walked in, a man in a suit standing by the cash register--I assume it was a manager--said to the group, "no, no, you can't come in here. You have to leave." Then, the priest came to the front of the group and said, "no, they're with me and we're going to eat." Only then did the manager seat the group and serve them.
After she told me this story, Carolina asked me, "why did they treat us like that?" "I don't know," I answered, then added "it's really terrible that they treated you that way, it should never have happened."
What is most shocking about the story is that the manager asked the group to leave the restaurant as soon as they walked in, without asking what they wanted. In Chihuahua, as in many other cities in Mexico and throughout the world, poor children often visit elegant restaurants and approach customers to ask for change or extra food. In Chihuahua, these people are always rarámuri. One of the most awkward experiences I have had in Chihuahua occurred when I visited a Starbucks near my apartment, and as I was sitting at a table drinking coffee and reading a book, a rarámuri mother I know from Oasis and her daughter came in and started making their rounds inside the restaurant, saying "kórima" to every customer seated or ordering coffee at the counter. When they got to me, I smiled and said hi, she smiled and said hi, and didn't say "kórima" to me. We didn't say more; she moved on after saying hi. It is so common to see rarámuri in places like Starbucks and Degás, and I have never seen a manager ask them to leave, but I am sure it happens pretty often. It has to be bad for business, because what customer doesn't feel uncomfortable having a dirty child in tattered clothes approach the table with a serious face and an extended hand? Naturally, restaurant owners and managers try to keep their establishments free of any elements that might discourage customers from coming in, and they view the kórima-seeking rarámuri as one of those elements. It is very, very rare to see a rarámuri enter places that mestizos go for entertainment: restaurants, cafés, shopping malls, movie theaters. For the most part, the rarámuri can't afford to visit these kinds of places, but there's more to it than that. Not every rarámuri in Oasis is extremely poor, and I see some families treat themselves on a pretty regular basis. But there are places that are clearly designated as "mestizo only," and no rarámuri, no matter what their economic status, will enter. The rules are unspoken--segregation is against the law--but racial tensions run deep enough in Chihuahua to create separate spaces for mestizos and rarámuri.
Carolina is not inclined to participate in mestizo politics, and she is not impassioned by the pan-indigenous political movement that started in the South and is trying to reach the North; but she is hurt by stereotypes and unjust treatment like she received in Degás. I like the rarámuri for not being so politically outspoken--they are not a group that typically stages demonstrations or are likely to reach such heights of political passion that they will rebel in a sensational, attention-drawing way (in contrast to other indigenous groups in the South). The rarámuri have often been labeled as passive, lazy, even stupid for their apparent acceptance of bad treatment. But Carolina, like other rarámuri, has her methods for maintaining her dignity as a rarámuri.
She told me she sat at a table with her fellow students and the priest that afternoon and had a lemonade and enchiladas. She had a good time, despite the manager's initial bad treatment. If the waiters were rude, as they were to the indigenous women who visited a restaurant in Polanco, Carolina didn't mention it to me. In the story about the women in Polanco, the indigenous women also seemed to be unaware of the waiter's smirks and exaggerated treatment. The report says they had ice cream, then went into another store to browse. There, a saleswoman asked them if they needed any help as they were looking at a $2,000 purse. "No, thank you; I think it's ugly," the indigenous woman told the saleswoman.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Naming a rarámuri baby
Against my better judgment, I recently adopted two kittens from Oasis. About three weeks ago, I found a little gray kitten left to die outside by a rarámuri family. They said its mother had abandoned it, so they decided to adopt it; but when the kitten got an eye infection, the rarámuri mother refused to have it in the house and ordered it out, she didn't care where. I brought the kitten and began nursing him back to health, feeding him with an eye dropper every three hours since he was only about four weeks old when I found him. He began looking good after just a few feedings and has been stronger ever since.
One week later I ran across a similar situation with a black kitten. Abandoned by his mother, unwanted by any rarámuri family, I figured it was no skin off my back to take him home, nurse him back to health, and find a happy home for him. Of course, after only two days with him I began thinking of him as mine, so now I am keeping both.
I have been struggling to come up with names for these kittens. Friends have tried to help me, but I don't like anything that has been suggested so far. Several people have suggested I give them rarámuri names, but most of the rarámuri use names in Spanish--no rarámuri has been able to give me a name in their language. Finally, I gave Julissa the task of naming the gray one, so that I would only have half the work. "So I'm going to be the godmother?" she asked ("madrina" is godmother in Spanish). I laughed, understanding exactly what she was referring to. In rarámuri culture, parents typically do not name their own babies. They choose godparents, and one of the godparents' responsibilities is to choose a name for their godchild. However, rarámuri babies are not named until they are baptized, which usually occurs (based on what I have seen in Oasis, not what I have read) between months 7 and 12. So it is completely normal for a baby to be carried around for an entire year and not have a name.
Jiovanna has agreed to be the godmother for the black kitten. They have told their mothers, friends, and friends' mothers about our deal, and of course the women think it's odd and hilarious. It has been three weeks and the kittens still do not have names--Julissa and Jiovanna are considering their options very carefully and taking their time to make a decision. The rarámuri mothers are slightly exasperated that the kittens don't have names yet, but I just respond "they can't be named until they have been baptized," to which they laugh. I have heard many chabochis comment on how exasperating it is to meet a baby almost a year old that has not yet been named. Julissa, Jiovanna and I are not at all hurried to name the kittens. It could be weeks before they have names, but that's okay. Another responsibility that godparents have is to give their godchildren gifts, so several times I have teasingly asked the girls what they are going to gift my kittens. They tell me they are making toys for them, which they will give to me in a bunch when they are done.
The kittens
The godmothers
One week later I ran across a similar situation with a black kitten. Abandoned by his mother, unwanted by any rarámuri family, I figured it was no skin off my back to take him home, nurse him back to health, and find a happy home for him. Of course, after only two days with him I began thinking of him as mine, so now I am keeping both.
I have been struggling to come up with names for these kittens. Friends have tried to help me, but I don't like anything that has been suggested so far. Several people have suggested I give them rarámuri names, but most of the rarámuri use names in Spanish--no rarámuri has been able to give me a name in their language. Finally, I gave Julissa the task of naming the gray one, so that I would only have half the work. "So I'm going to be the godmother?" she asked ("madrina" is godmother in Spanish). I laughed, understanding exactly what she was referring to. In rarámuri culture, parents typically do not name their own babies. They choose godparents, and one of the godparents' responsibilities is to choose a name for their godchild. However, rarámuri babies are not named until they are baptized, which usually occurs (based on what I have seen in Oasis, not what I have read) between months 7 and 12. So it is completely normal for a baby to be carried around for an entire year and not have a name.
Jiovanna has agreed to be the godmother for the black kitten. They have told their mothers, friends, and friends' mothers about our deal, and of course the women think it's odd and hilarious. It has been three weeks and the kittens still do not have names--Julissa and Jiovanna are considering their options very carefully and taking their time to make a decision. The rarámuri mothers are slightly exasperated that the kittens don't have names yet, but I just respond "they can't be named until they have been baptized," to which they laugh. I have heard many chabochis comment on how exasperating it is to meet a baby almost a year old that has not yet been named. Julissa, Jiovanna and I are not at all hurried to name the kittens. It could be weeks before they have names, but that's okay. Another responsibility that godparents have is to give their godchildren gifts, so several times I have teasingly asked the girls what they are going to gift my kittens. They tell me they are making toys for them, which they will give to me in a bunch when they are done.
The kittens
The godmothersDía del Niño
Día del Niño, or Childrens' Day, falls on April 30th of each year in Mexico. Every year, the Coordinadora Estatal de la Tarahumara and the teachers at the settlement's small elementary school decide on a treat for the rarámuri children. This year, the Coordinadora funded a bus to take the rarámuri children and a few mothers to Aldama, a town thirty minutes away famous for its public swimming pools, a zoo which hosts three tigers and a black panther, and drug traffickers. The teachers contributed 100 pesos each (a little less than $10) to buy meat, potatoes, chile, and tortillas to make a "discada," Chihuahua's version of a cookout using a large iron disk over an open fire rather than a grill to cook the meat. In my eyes, it was a generous gift for each teacher to contribute any amount of money to their students, considering that they are not very well paid and have children of their own to take care of. The school's director was also kind enough to let me come along, so on April 30th I showed at Oasis at 7:30 AM to catch the bus with about 60 schoolchildren and 5 mothers to Aldama.
The bus was crammed with children sitting four to a seat (I carried one in my lap), but the energy was very high. For most of these children, this would be their first trip to a zoo. The Coordinadora and the teachers provided the bus and the food, and they subsidized the zoo entrance tickets, giving them to the rarámuri for 30 pesos (a little less than $3) rather than 65 pesos. Still, only half the rarámuri children had been given money by their parents to enter the zoo. While most people would agree that 30 pesos is an excellent price for a day at the zoo, most of the rarámuri cannot afford to spend even this amount on luxuries. 12 pesos is a bag of beans that feeds a family of about five one meal. Tortillas for the day are another 6 to 12 pesos (which is why most women opt to make them by hand each morning--it saves money). Cheese, meat, and anything which must be refrigerated are rare treats, since these items usually cost more and most of the rarámuri do not own refrigerators. Most rarámuri families earn just enough to give their children the most basic food, and paying 30 pesos on a zoo excursion would have been an irresponsible decision.
When we arrived to Aldama, those children who had paid lined up to go into the zoo. Several rarámuri women asked me if I was going to go, and I decided not to go into the zoo when I learned none of the women were going in. Julissa was very excited to go to the zoo; Jiovanna's mother did not give her money. I felt a strong desire to give Jiovanna 30 pesos to go into the zoo, but I held back because I didn't want to show such obvious favoritism in front of the other kids and mothers. Those of us who didn't enter the zoo were bussed to a forested area with a natural stream. The kids were told that the water was clean and that they could swim if they wanted. Disappointment about not entering the zoo was soon forgotten climbing trees and wading in the stream. Some women and I gathered sticks to make a fire while two others settled down to slice potatoes and onions for the discada.
Once the meat--a combination of chorizo, hot dog, and ground beef--was frying, I decided to accompany one of the teachers to buy tortillas and sodas. We drove through the town looking for a tortillería and along the way I got to see the town. The plaza in the main square with a few trees and the old, small church. The spring wind creating a tornado of dust in the plaza, and pollen drifting through the air. On a windy day in spring you can feel dust in your teeth all day long throughout the Chihuahuan desert. The gray mountains, part of the Sierra Madre Occidental line that turns into the Rockies in the United States, forming a protective wall around the town. The mountains throughout the Chihuahuan desert keep tornadoes from devastating the towns and cities throughout this region. They break up the landscape, adding irregularities that rise too high for any tornado to pass over them. Millions of years ago, these mountains were underwater, part of a vast ocean. If you go hiking today in these mountains or in the open desert between Ciudad Juárez and Chihuahua City or between Chihuahua City and Aldama, you can find fossils of seashells that at a glance look like ordinary desert rocks. I used to find them in the desert around my house when I was a little girl, before housing developments filled in the desert, once the ocean, with one and two-story stucco homes with refrigerated air.
Planting and cattle-raising are the main economic activities of the town of Aldama today. Mining caused the town to boom over fifty years ago, until most of the precious metals were extracted from the land and the town's inhabitants had to look for other ways to live. Today, Aldama is infamous throughout the state of Chihuahua for being home to drug traffickers, but only the stereotypical ones: the ones with cowboy boots and hats, and ostentatious silver belt buckles and pick-up trucks. In the capital of the state, they say the richest drug lords dress with more class, buying their polo shirts and Versace sunglasses in the United States. They arrive to the nicest clubs and sometimes close them down for the night to host a private party, but if not, they satisfy themselves with spending at least $1,000 in bottles of liquor. But Aldama is still a traditional farming town, an unsophisticated pueblito. The teacher found a small tortillería in the center of the town, and afterwards, we walked over to a family-owned convenience store to buy several 3L bottles of soda.
When we returned, the children were eagerly awaiting the tortillas so they could eat. There was plenty of food, and the teachers invited me to as many tacos as I wanted. I had two. The combination of meats, potatoes and chile is delicious, but very oily. After we had finished eating, the bus arrived with the second bath of hungry kids just coming from the zoo. They finished off the meat while they told those who had not entered about the two tiger cubs who wrestled in their cage, the peacocks and the way they extend their feathers like beautiful Chinese fans, the playful monkeys and getting sprayed with water while on a kiddie train. Julissa was thrilled with the trip and told her mother all about the animals in rarámuri, stopping every few sentences to make sure I understood and to translate what I didn't understand.
We returned to Oasis by 3 PM, exhausted, full and happy. The Coordinadora had donated several piñatas for the kids, but the teachers decided to break them the next day during recess. Overall, the event was a huge success, although it is still hard to think that half the kids did not get to enjoy the zoo for only 30 pesos.
The traditional discada
Girls enjoying their lunch after a visit to the zoo
The 5th grade class at Oasis Escuela Primaria posing with their teacher on Día del Niño
Children playing in the forested area, crossing a log that lies across a stream
Shy Elena laughing at something her sister said
The bus was crammed with children sitting four to a seat (I carried one in my lap), but the energy was very high. For most of these children, this would be their first trip to a zoo. The Coordinadora and the teachers provided the bus and the food, and they subsidized the zoo entrance tickets, giving them to the rarámuri for 30 pesos (a little less than $3) rather than 65 pesos. Still, only half the rarámuri children had been given money by their parents to enter the zoo. While most people would agree that 30 pesos is an excellent price for a day at the zoo, most of the rarámuri cannot afford to spend even this amount on luxuries. 12 pesos is a bag of beans that feeds a family of about five one meal. Tortillas for the day are another 6 to 12 pesos (which is why most women opt to make them by hand each morning--it saves money). Cheese, meat, and anything which must be refrigerated are rare treats, since these items usually cost more and most of the rarámuri do not own refrigerators. Most rarámuri families earn just enough to give their children the most basic food, and paying 30 pesos on a zoo excursion would have been an irresponsible decision.
When we arrived to Aldama, those children who had paid lined up to go into the zoo. Several rarámuri women asked me if I was going to go, and I decided not to go into the zoo when I learned none of the women were going in. Julissa was very excited to go to the zoo; Jiovanna's mother did not give her money. I felt a strong desire to give Jiovanna 30 pesos to go into the zoo, but I held back because I didn't want to show such obvious favoritism in front of the other kids and mothers. Those of us who didn't enter the zoo were bussed to a forested area with a natural stream. The kids were told that the water was clean and that they could swim if they wanted. Disappointment about not entering the zoo was soon forgotten climbing trees and wading in the stream. Some women and I gathered sticks to make a fire while two others settled down to slice potatoes and onions for the discada.
Once the meat--a combination of chorizo, hot dog, and ground beef--was frying, I decided to accompany one of the teachers to buy tortillas and sodas. We drove through the town looking for a tortillería and along the way I got to see the town. The plaza in the main square with a few trees and the old, small church. The spring wind creating a tornado of dust in the plaza, and pollen drifting through the air. On a windy day in spring you can feel dust in your teeth all day long throughout the Chihuahuan desert. The gray mountains, part of the Sierra Madre Occidental line that turns into the Rockies in the United States, forming a protective wall around the town. The mountains throughout the Chihuahuan desert keep tornadoes from devastating the towns and cities throughout this region. They break up the landscape, adding irregularities that rise too high for any tornado to pass over them. Millions of years ago, these mountains were underwater, part of a vast ocean. If you go hiking today in these mountains or in the open desert between Ciudad Juárez and Chihuahua City or between Chihuahua City and Aldama, you can find fossils of seashells that at a glance look like ordinary desert rocks. I used to find them in the desert around my house when I was a little girl, before housing developments filled in the desert, once the ocean, with one and two-story stucco homes with refrigerated air.
Planting and cattle-raising are the main economic activities of the town of Aldama today. Mining caused the town to boom over fifty years ago, until most of the precious metals were extracted from the land and the town's inhabitants had to look for other ways to live. Today, Aldama is infamous throughout the state of Chihuahua for being home to drug traffickers, but only the stereotypical ones: the ones with cowboy boots and hats, and ostentatious silver belt buckles and pick-up trucks. In the capital of the state, they say the richest drug lords dress with more class, buying their polo shirts and Versace sunglasses in the United States. They arrive to the nicest clubs and sometimes close them down for the night to host a private party, but if not, they satisfy themselves with spending at least $1,000 in bottles of liquor. But Aldama is still a traditional farming town, an unsophisticated pueblito. The teacher found a small tortillería in the center of the town, and afterwards, we walked over to a family-owned convenience store to buy several 3L bottles of soda.
When we returned, the children were eagerly awaiting the tortillas so they could eat. There was plenty of food, and the teachers invited me to as many tacos as I wanted. I had two. The combination of meats, potatoes and chile is delicious, but very oily. After we had finished eating, the bus arrived with the second bath of hungry kids just coming from the zoo. They finished off the meat while they told those who had not entered about the two tiger cubs who wrestled in their cage, the peacocks and the way they extend their feathers like beautiful Chinese fans, the playful monkeys and getting sprayed with water while on a kiddie train. Julissa was thrilled with the trip and told her mother all about the animals in rarámuri, stopping every few sentences to make sure I understood and to translate what I didn't understand.
We returned to Oasis by 3 PM, exhausted, full and happy. The Coordinadora had donated several piñatas for the kids, but the teachers decided to break them the next day during recess. Overall, the event was a huge success, although it is still hard to think that half the kids did not get to enjoy the zoo for only 30 pesos.
The traditional discada
Girls enjoying their lunch after a visit to the zoo
The 5th grade class at Oasis Escuela Primaria posing with their teacher on Día del Niño
Children playing in the forested area, crossing a log that lies across a stream
Shy Elena laughing at something her sister said
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