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.

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.