Coming in for a Landing

The waves rise and curl like walls of green glass then crash on the shore in a million tiny pieces.  

It’s a Jueves – tomorrow will be a week since my touchdown in the prop plane onto the tiny runway of Puerto Escondido airport. And honestly, this is the first moment I’ve stopped to pause, feel the weight down in my spine, feel my feet in the sand, exhale profoundly and stare my eyeballs out at the raucous Pacific.

But I’ve been busy landing, getting situated, finding an apartment, buying provisions like this notebook to write in, a bar of soap to wash with, fruit and bread and coffee for breakfast, a mini-mocajete to crush spices and make salsas in. I have a studio apartment with a balcony overlooking the sea and a little kitchenette – I’m two blocks to the beach – so I’m doing daily sunset runs, trying to rebuild, rejuvenate, recuperate my strength.

And it occurs to me in this moment:  I could stay.  How hard could that be?  Not hard.  I could shoot an email to cousin Matt and see if he wouldn’t mind holding down the Park Road fort for another few months until I’m done, I’m fried, I’m all beached and traveled-out and desperate to re-enter life in the fast-lane.

This is a possibility.

My fish is overcooked and glued to the skewers – this too is always a possibility.  Mealy shrimp and floppy peppers at the El Greko. But the French fires are tasty – French fries are always good – hard to screw-up a fry.

It’s not so easy to transition – shift from the demands of the Sustainability to-do list that seems like you'll never get through it and make it out alive, trudging up heartbreak hill, breaking through the ribbon...then what?  Suddenly there's no one to see, nothing to do, no emails to send or trips to make to the dusty pueblito. Just this space. 

It's what I wanted, what I envisions for myself, just exactly this nothingness.
 

But I'm antsy. The doll house is all setup – and I don’t feel like playing.  Play.  Fall asleep in a lough chair under a palapa to the rhythm of the sea.

The Zama Mamas - Call me Tu

After almost a year working together, monthly trips to the puebito of Zamachihue near the Tamulipas boarder for our sustainable development sessions, the Zama Mamas still call me Usted.

As Angela and Abuela feed chunks of fresh goat cheese through the grinder under the wisachi tree, I muster the courage to ask them why.

Because of my age and education, of course, Abuela responds matter-of-factly. It’s a matter of respect, she adds.

The age part is slightly bothersome, but the education part is heartbreaking. Because I’ve had the privilege of education, and the Zama Mamas are lucky if they been through a few grades of primary school, they have to address me formally?

I make my American equality argument:  But we’re a team, working together on this vivero project, and we are friends now. Honestly, you can call me Tu. 

But even as I’m saying this I feel like I’m breaking a custom.  I notice that Angela, a grown women with children of her own, calls Abuela, her Tia, Usted. 

So I backpedal a bit:  Okay, the women can call me Tu, but Juanito, no.

Angela’s 10-year-old son with the winning smile swings from a branch, observing, listening, bragging in Spanish that he can speak English, and petitioning:  Will you bring more books next time?  Phew, he’s using Usted.

Tiene rason, you are right, Abuela nods as she grinds, still speaking in the Usted.  

It will take time to make the change – and we have only months, three or four more visits, before I vanish. 

The emotional reality of this just hits me, standing there in the backyard, the chickens poking around my feet, the smell of wood smoke in the air.  Up to now it’s been all workshops and plans, calendars and prioritizing – the Head working hard to jam another year of team-building and training into two tiny months.

But this here, under the wisachi tree, is the Heart part.  Abuela Una breaks-off a chunk of the raw goat cheese.  Proba, she says, taste.  It’s creamy and sweet – melts in my mouth - my eyes widen in delight – and the Mamas nod with satisfaction, appreciating that I appreciate their comida Mexicana gifts.

~~~

The Head part is so much harder:  a 3-hour session with the Zama Mama’s to review our progress, our challenges, our next steps.  I start with the progress, to keep their spirits up – asking Angelica to help me we report on our trip to the Municipio to finalize the Registro.

Yes, we did have some logras today:  we wound through the business registration process in the Municipio for four hours in the heat – got past the scare of a $1750-peso registration fee (a 15-page Acta @ 150 pesos per page), and miraculously convinced the office of Finances that we were a government-funded project and didn’t have that kind of money.  We didn’t even have any sales yet – and the only equity the women have had to invest has been their sweat!  We walked out of there with a mere $150 pesito fee, high-fiving each other in the plaza when we were good and out of site.

Of course the process is far from over:  we still have a trip to the capital and an appointment with Hacienda, the Mexican IRS, to secure an official RFC that will allow the women to sell their trees ‘arriba de la mesa.’  Who knows what ‘aspantas’ we might encounter there, says Angelica.

Paso por paso, I tell them, but really I’m trying to remind myself.

The Zama Mama’s applaud our success. And, I add, we can use that leftover money for a fiesta! More applause.

As the meeting proceeds, I try to get a vote on the logotipo – there’s not much interest – the kids are starting to get restless – the mama’s are unfocused – the sun is going down. I notice a cloud the size of a spaceship landing on the hill just behind my Powerpoint presentation – and it’s lit-up like an exploding peach.  I try to stay focused too.

We have to get an agreement on when to plant the next cosecha of trees, even though the others still have not been sold.  We talk about this:  I feel like I’m making excuses:  with the election this year, the number of reforestation projects was down, you know what they say, Ano de Hidalgo, most of the money goes under the table and into someone’s pockets, and unless you know how to play the laundering game…charging five and taking four and giving them the extra pesito for their bolsas…you’re MOL, mierda out of luck.

We close the evening on a high-note:  chocolate-covered macadamia nuts brought back from the USA. The box goes around and everyone chews silently, in delight.  Even the ninos are finally quiet.  

~~~

And back to the Heart, which in Mexico includes the stomach…

We sit down to a late-night cena in Angelica’s kitchen, two abuelas, two hijas, Angelica, her husband and me.  They’re rolling out flour tortillas on the wood table, and they invite me to give it a try. Reminds me of Grandma Lena’s pizza dough – with a makeshift rolling pin narrow as a stickball bat I flatten the dough, turn it over, roll again, not too much pressure, and sprinkle some flour to prevent sticking, flip it and roll again, until they stay listo. Then Abuela takes my amoeba-shaped product and rotates it like a steering wheel in the air, stretching it nice and thin before tossing it on the hot comal.  

It comes out bubbly and light as a fried cloud. Rolled with black beans and goat cheese and a spoonful of spicy salsa, it’s like a bite of heaven. 

Just before bed I watch Abula Una do an energy-cleansing on Juanito. A snake crossed his path in the milpa today, and he can get rid of his fear.  She whacks him with branches of mint and mumbles prayers to the saint of aspantas, grasping his skull in her strong working hands, then releasing and commanding the snake spirits out.  

I retire to Abuela’s room stuffed, exhausted, content. As usual she’s graciously given-up her bed for me, bunking with her granddaughters next door. The soft mattress folds around me like that warm flour tortilla – I’m the carne.

I smell of Nacho’s herbal rub: Abuela smeared it on my neck and back – and Angelica fed me her potion of honey and limon – to clear my sinusitis away. And I do feel better – just to be cared for, when normally any medical treatments are self-administered from my Peace Corps first aid kit.  

I have just enough energy to take-in the campo sounds:  the crickets singing in hills that surround the pueblito; the raucous chorus of dogs and burros making their final refrain; and Angelica’s busy-ness on the patio, the last of the chores before bed, rinsing and soaking the granos of corn for tomorrow’s tortillas.

A Mountain of Time

Sierra Gorda de Queretaro, MX

Oh how I’m fighting time, in both directions – counting the days down to November 5, my now officially declared COS date, and grasping for time to get it all done, smashing activities of work and play, clean-up and celebration, into a calendar of 8 tiny weeks, well-aware that, regardless of planning, things will happen on Mexican time.

And somewhere in between the two extremes is a sense that it’s the right time, perfect timing, just enough time to get done what gets done. 

Can I hold on to that sense of acceptance, meditate on it each day ‘till I turn blue with knowing – or time simply runs out?

And funny, too, how just as you are preparing to go, trying to close doors, others start cracking open. Last night, at a little fiesta de cupleaños for my neighbor Lalo, the Tenedor hamburgesa man, I met Saul. Turns out he’s the son of the carpenter that’s frequently in our office getting permissions to cut down mesquite trees.  Father and son have the same round face, santa cheeks and sparkly eyes.

Saul, I discovered, is one of two Couchsurfers in the pueblo – the other is a Frenchman – I didn’t know there was a Frenchman in Green River.  They open their doors to visitors from all over the world – in attempts to open up their small world here.  

Saul was intrigued with my Peace Corps service.  As we sipped Victorias in the hot, crowded hamburger shop he asked:  What made you do this – leave your business and life in United States for filantropia?  

I was surprised by his question; so few people over my two years have actually asked me what I was doing here, and I’d gotten used to being the mysterious gringa-possibly-spy. What’s more, now that I was on my way out, the question seemed almost irrelevant. 

Still, I was happy to answer, curious whether it was the same story I told when I began my Peace Corps journey two summers ago:  To escape the marble halls of Washington, DC, I replied.  Get my hands dirty – have a chance to work with real people on real problems.  Understand what it means, en verdad, to be sustainable.

Yep, it was the same story, no revisionist history there. And I could say it in Spanish now!  What’s more, all of it had come true.  I’ve been covered in tierra from head to toe working with the Zama Mamas on their sustainable vivero, campo dust in my hair, mouth, eyes – between my toes – bucket baths and latrine toilets with the pig tied up on the other side of the curtain – unsure where the smell was coming from, him or me. 

Saul got it – his sparkly eyes got serious and he said he wished he’d met me sooner – dos meses es muy poco tiempo.  He’s an agricultural engineer and teaches at the tech university in the pueblo and he says he wants to change the world too.

Two months es una montaña de tiempo, I told him, a ton of time.

As I’m letting go, I’m also holding on, telling myself:  Mexico is not China – I don’t have to cross an ocean to return. And as pure luck would have it, I was born on that side of the frontera, not this one.  So I don’t have to swim a river come back.

Sustainability Starts with Me

This week we volunteers of Peace Corps Mexico Class 9 celebrated our 2-year anniversary in Mexico. Out of an initial class of 40, 30 have gotten to and through the official Close of Service (COS) conference; of the 10 that left early, half of them recently departed to start grad school or new jobs.  Not a bad survival record in all, especially given it was the biggest class in PC Mexico’s 8-year history.  And apparently our record will stick:  management has decided to never do that again– never that many vols and never again a combination of tech transfer and environmental specialists in a single class.  So we’ve left our mark.

Now we prepare for the important transition:  from PCVs to distinguished members of the club of Returned Peace Corps Volunteers (RPCVs). It’s feels like just yesterday that I was scrambling to make the transition out of my Park Road rowhouse, flipcharts full of to-dos plastering my dining room walls; AND it seems like a decade ago.

Needless to say, it was a busy week of closure activities in Queretaro, where PC Mexico is headquartered, and where we started our journey as trainees.  We were pricked and needled by doctors, given the complete battery of bodily fluid lab tests. We participated in Webex workshops broadcast from Washington on how to conduct a job search and leverage our new Non-Competitive Eligibility status.  We filled out mountains of paperwork that would transition us off the Government dole and into the ranks of ordinary citizens – paying for our own health insurance.  We drew pictures of ‘what we contributed to Mexico’ – time, funding, energy, ideas, expertise as teachers, scientists, and managers, and lots of friendship and love – and ‘what we got from Mexico’ – topping the list, parasites, patience, friendship and love (you often get what you give), lots of learning, and a bonus:  our gas stoves and dorm fridges that the Peace Corps doesn’t want back! 

We practiced our elevator pitches with a 2-minute time limit so that we don’t bore family and friends to tears with our trials and triumphs.  We took final group photos. And we celebrated at our favorite PCT haunt, the Aleph bar, drinking michaladas in liter mugs, shooting pool, and shooting the crap about where we are all going from here, some with more definitive plans than others.

But for the San Luis Potosi crew of volunteers, YO included, amidst the bittersweetness and goodbyes, it was more drama and adrenaline. The latest incident of cartel violence in the San Luis Potosi capital did not go unnoticed by the US State Department powers that be. The week before the seven of us volunteers still standing in SLP got the bold, underlined email from Director Dan RE:  Situation in San Luis Potosi.  It said:

I had hoped that the situation in SLP would remain calm and allow all of you to complete your service without further problems.  Unfortunately, there was a shooting Thursday, Aug. 9^th, in the city of SLP.   The incident occurred between police/military and criminal elements…

I wasn’t keeping count, but I guessed this was the fourth or fifth time over the two years that we’d gotten such emails. The first big one was came in February 2011, just three months after we’d arrived in our sites.  An INS official had been shot and killed on the highway between the SLP capital and the state of Queretaro.  It was alarming news; and the State Department summarily issued a high-security restrictions in the state, putting us SLP volunteers on stand-fast until they decided what to do.  Week after week we awaited word while the powers that be analyzed the situation – and after a month they finally determined that it was an isolated incident; and while the state was still on high-alert, we PCVs would be allowed to stay.

Several months later two volunteers were pulled from their site in a small pueblo called Gogorron over a kidnapping threat, a relative of one of the volunteer’s host family, in hindsight apparently gossip – but nonetheless the volunteers were transferred to another state.  Several months later two others were temporarily pulled from KM58, for what I cannot remember – then returned after things appeared to be calm again. 

In February of 2012 out of the blue, perhaps in honor of the 1-year anniversary of the incident on the highway, we SLP volunteers received an email from the Director saying the State Department was declaring the entire state off limits to all US government officials:  unless they were transported in armored cars, they could not enter the state. 

Sitting at my desk at my Semarnat regional office, that message left my feet numb. After a year plus in-site, I was finally making some progress – I had a few real friends, a decent apartment, a thriving bucket compost pile, I led an English salon at Amore Cafe and an abs class at the gym. On the work front I’d managed to create a meaningful project, building upon the investments of my Semarnat counterparts to create sustainable community small business. I discovered in the women of Zamachihue my real counterparts. 

But with nine months to go in my service, here I was again on emotional stand-fast, hijacked by the swirl of emails, calls and negotiations with Washington to treat us as an exception, not knowing whether to continue my work heads-down or put it on hold until we all knew more. I postponed my session in Zamachihue. 

When we finally received word that, yes, we could stay, for now, we were considered a grey area, I wasn’t sure whether to rejoice or lament.  The postscript was that there was no guarantee that would continue through the end of our service – at any time, Washington could change its mind, if it had a mind to. 

 

I knew I had to regroup and refocus on my work in the communities. I’d lost a week in the drama; the women of Zamachihue were counting on me. I’d just secured a USAID grant and I had a huge to-do list of capacity building sessions, business planning, and sales activities to help the Zama native plant nursery to become sustainable. Plus the mesquites were growing and almost ready for market!

To add to the pressure, we were advised by our program managers to do our best to accelerate our process and get our projects done – just in case there was another incident. 

Anyone who has worked in development, in Mexico or otherwise, with red-taped up government agencies and marginalized communities knows this much:  the more you try to push the process, the more resistance you get, and the slower the process goes, to spite you.

I knew by now that my own attitude, my own sustainability, was essential here – I had to find a way to ride the emotional roller-coaster without throwing up.  I meditated daily – I tried to keep up my running routine despite the desert heat – something to elevate the endorphins.  One entire wall in my kitchen was gradually filling with inspirational Post-it note mantras that helped me keep my eye on the ball. 

 

And the Pyramid model of sustainability began to emerge in my mind:  sustainability starts with me!  Before I can hope to help the women of Zama, I had to help myself. This pyramid had become the basis for my work in Mexico, integrating my tools and philosophies as an organizational change consultant with the realities of on-the-ground development.

But here I was again, made it to COS unscathed, less than three months to go to closeout my projects in Rioverde and in my communities, complete my paperwork, transition leadership to the Presidenta, speak in two conferences on sustainability, pack-up my stuff, find homes for my plants, my bucket compost, my stove and refri, my beautiful furniture custom-made by Alejandro, go to the Feria San Luis with my friend Rita, say my good-byes, maybe even throw myself a fiesta despedida, knock back some tequila shots with my friends at El Fenix, take a final bike ride to Media Luna…and I might have only a week!?

I had to give myself a serious talking to: I’d gotten good at talking to myself by now. I had to let go, trust the process; but more than anything, I had to trust myself. Whatever happened, things will work out.  One of the mantras on my kitchen wall: Things always worked out in Mexico.

When the Director went around the table to ask each of us: did we want to take the early COS or stay, I said stay.  Four of us said stay, and four, all the young men in rural communities, said go.  They would present this to Washington, make the argument for the four of us, and see what happened.

It did not look good for us. In the final headcount, 14 people were shot and killed in the capital around the corner from the Ipycyt center where two of the vols worked; and on the other end of the state in Matahuala where we had one volunteer, the mayor-elect was assassinated – all in the same week. Rioverde was sandwiched in-between the two.

So I did have to imagine the worse-case scenario, and my Plan B became clear:  if Washington decided it was too dangerous, if they decided it was time for us to go home, with three months left, I could accept that.  I would close my service, in compliance with the guidelines, and return to Rioverde to finish out gracefully, and under my own auspices and with the help of my local counterparts. 

Luckily I did not have to make that decision.  On Thursday, the night before the final day of our closing conference, we got the news.  The four rural volunteers would be sent home – and maybe that helped create space for the other four of us to stay through our COS in November.  After that, the state would be closed to Peace Corps volunteers until further notice.

There was a collective exhale in the conference room. 

While the Uncertainty for us as PCVs has been a constant underlying challenge, eventually we get to leave.  The biggest heart-breaker in all this violence and insecurity is that the Mexicans must endure it.

Now I’m on the late-night bus back to Rioverde, trying to regroup again after the drama.  I’m typing up a to-do list as long and daunting as the Rio Grande – I could use another year to finish it all! And I’m wondering:  why DIDN’T I take the early COS, escape while the gettin’ was good?

Then I remember Abuelita from Zamachihue, with her flip-flopped shuffle and grey braid down her back. She always greeted me with widened eyes and a hug: You’re here! But on my last visit to the community she pulled me aside in the garden, before our session started, and with her blue-eyed penetrating gaze she said: Ana, siempre vienes cuando tu dices, you always come when say so.  It’s a 3-hour trip from Rioverde by bus, through the desert, on some of the worst roads in the state, no AC, windows wide open, billowing dust…she knew it wasn’t easy for me to get there.  And in a rare moment (for a Mexican), she acknowledged it. It was a painful reminder of how seldom the government has lived up to their commitments to these people.

So I have a visit scheduled this week to finalize the business registro with Angelica and the women. And I’m going to be there…because sustainability starts (and ends) with me.

Note:  All the opinions in this post are those of the blogger, and all information provided regarding the safety and security incidents are a matter of public record.

Mexican Improv

This morning I awaken to the sound of trash bells ringing:  the trucks are arriving and telling the residents to get their bags and cans of basura out onto the sidewalk for pickup.  I’m not sure they use this system because the people can’t plan ahead, follow a schedule, and put their bags out the night before like we do in the good ‘ole USA? Or because there are so many stray, hungry dogs that will attack the bags, the residents have no choice but to put them out on the sidewalk at the last second when they hear the bell.

Either way, it speaks to the spontaneous culture I’ve been living in for the last two years. Very little is planned:  things arise in the moment and people react, calmly and efficiently.  They sell natural gas that way, playing a jingle over a loud-speaker that prompts residents to come out to the street and pay the man to refill their tanks. And potable water is bought and sold that way too – an annoying beep-beeeeep-beep-beep.  Even the knife-sharpener has his chime, and the elote man his blasting mariachi.

Although it can be noisy, there’s something beautiful about this practice. You don’t have to keep a calendar. You don’t have to be disappointed or frustrated when an appointment cancels because you don’t track them. You’re just living in the moment.

And there are days when the spontaneous culture drives me absolutely loco! The less time I have, the more I need to get things programmed.  At the beginning of my service in MX this wasn’t a problem:  I had no appointments, and that was uncomfortable for me.  It’s true: a calendar full of activities makes you feel…important. But then I got used to it; I even lost my Blackberry after a few months here (a subconscious adaptation move?), tried replacing it with a Palm, then lost that, finally reverting to the old paper method.

But now, with just four months to go in my service, and some goals (and obligations) to fulfill before I leave, I need people to live up to their commitments – so I can live up to mine.

Last week was a disaster of broken promises.  A lunch date is one thing; but this was a last-minute cancellation by Procuraduria Agraria. We had scheduled a trip the trip to Zamachihue to gather the information needed for the Reglamento and the Acta Constitutiva, documents necessary for the registration of Vivero Esperanza de Zamazhihue as a legitimate native plant business and essential, in turn, to the community’s ability to sell the plants with facturasto the government for their reforestation projects.

What’s worse, it was the third week in the row of cancellations – and the women were waiting.What’s even worse, no one called me to cancel. I had to make calls and send texts to Cualtemoc, all unanswered, and finally send an email to the director to discover that, in fact, the trip was off. I’ve learned this much in Mexico, to confirm the day before; otherwise I end-up waiting out on the corner at the Pemex station at 7 am for a ride that never comes.

At first there’s anger – I feel the steam coming out of my ears and expletives coming out of my mouth.  It's a feeling of disrespect – not just for me but for the women of the community – as though our time is not valuable.  Then there’s the feeling of dejection and protection, ni modo, whatEver – if they don’t care why should I?  

But then, with luck and practice, the Mexican Improv kicks-in. I notice my brain searching for a Plan B, and beneath that my heart pushing to rise above the malaise and stick to MY commitments. Even if it means taking the bumpy throw-up bus 2 and a half hours to Corn City, that’s what I'll do.  

 

Truth was, the ride wasn't all that bad, as long as I kept my eyes closed or focused forward. The temperature at that hour was suffer-able, and the dust wasn't billowing into the windows like last time, thanks to a blessed sprinkling of rain. But best of all, as my bus pulled into the tiny station along the highway, I could see Angelica see me and smile.  She and her senior were waiting on the bench for me, as promised.  I did not have to contemplate a Plan C. They were as committed as me. 

We even took advantage of all being in the capital together to visit the Municipal head of Ecologia to talk about reforestation project in the region, practice our pitch, and try to sell some trees.  

Then it was time to take the one-hour dirt road journey to the community for the meetings with the mujeres to develop the Version 1 of their Reglamento.  More improv: the Ejido Hall was locked and the Comisariado with the key was nowhere to be found. So we gathered on the patio, brought in some chairs, pinned a sheet onto the wall, strung some electricity in on a fat orange cable, and started up my PowerPoint slide show.

Two hours later we had decisions on our Vision, Organization Structure, Leadership Team and Profit-sharing Plan – all the information Cualtemoc needed to get moving, no excuses, on creating the Acta Constitutiva.  I wish my SeeChange clients could be so efficient.

Then we retreated to Angelica’s house to eat her mama's infamous mole rojo with the handmade tortillas morradas, the ones made of the pink corn and so thick they tear like fabric and hold in all the spicy-sweet sauce.  And for desert, cool wet cactus tunas.

Mexican Improv has its rewards.