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Title: Trip to Oaxaca Author: Sandy Young Date: 2003 Language: en Topics: Oaxaca, indigenous anarchism Source: https://web.archive.org/web/20050511193837fw_/http://www.utopianmag.com/PDFs/oaxaca.pdf Notes: Published in The Utopian, Volume 4.
Introduction: I have been to Oaxaca a number of times as a tourist. It
was there, through the Guelaguetza festival (which brings dance troupes
from all over Oaxaca to a beautiful outdoor festival celebrating the
many different indigenous cultures and languages of Oaxaca) that my
interest in the lives of these people began ten years ago.My own
background as a labor organizer and social justice advocate drew me to
appreciate the difficult lives of the thou-sands of Mixtec immigrants
arriving in Oxnard,California,where I live,to work in the agricultural
fields.My work as a Family Nurse Practitioner in a rural county clinic
brought me into direct and intimate contact with Mixtec families.
The Mixtec are the third largest indigenous group in Mexico today,
numbering some 383,000 people. Mixtec culture has existed for 2,800
years, the height of its power achieved in around 500 AD. Before the
Spanish Conquest, Mixtec were known for their fine metalworking, pottery
and the extensive and important codical manuscripts, which provide
extensive pictographic representation of every aspect of the Mixtec
culture. The extensive Spanish conquest in the 1500s wiped out 90
percent of the Mixtec population. The portion that survived was pushed
to the mountainous regions of western Oaxaca,Guerrero,and Puebla.
In January 2001, we formed the Mixteco/Indigena Community Organizing
Project, to aid and empower the Oaxacan immigrant community in our area,
which is overwhelmingly Mixtec in origin. In the past three years, over
1,000 Oaxacan immigrants have participated in community meetings,
literacy classes, health fairs, our annual Christmas party, and other
activities. Many Oaxacan immigrants are taking leadership roles on the
Project’s Board of Directors and in the various programs. This year, I
decided that I needed to see the Mixteca region for myself. I needed to
understand why so many people would travel 3,000 miles to a completely
alien culture where they would live in extreme poverty and be exploited
not only by Anglo society but by Mexican-born foremen, landlords, and
shopkeepers as well. So I badgered my friend and Mixteco interpreter
Catalina Navarrete until she agreed to accompany me on a one-week trip,
which would include the town of San MartĂn Peras, from which many of our
members come.
We tried to do some advance groundwork with the local municipal
administration. Getting through by phone was difficult, but we did send
a fax stating when and why we were coming. We also started encouraging
people in our community meetings to write or dictate letters and get
their pictures taken so that we could make contacts with their families
there. We got a few names and requests, but not as many as I expected. I
later realized this was because no one believed we were actually going
to their village.About a week before we were to leave, a groundswell of
families started showing up at the clinic to get their pictures
taken,request documents, send messages, etc.
It was also difficult to get information about the area. One example
gives the picture. After many Google searches, I finally found a
website, Juxtlahuaca.com (the district seat)which had a listing of the
municipalities. One of these was San MartĂn Peras with a “click on the
municipality desired” button. Other municipalities brought up lots of
good information, but clicking on San MartĂn Peras brought a blank.This
experience was repeated in countless little ways when planning for the
trip. It was as if the area has just been forgotten, or perhaps never
existed. The people of San MartĂn Peras seemed to be just as hidden in
Oaxaca as they were in Oxnard. So we set out with very limited
expectations, but an eagerness to try. The following are my informal
notes from the trip.
My heart races as we finally approach San MartĂn Peras, home of the
“Cloud People.” This is a place few “Americans” can even visualize, much
less visit. It took two airplanes and most of the day to reach Oaxaca
City (a place I once found exotic), and where I was first thrilled by
visiting the surrounding indigenous artisan villages.
From Oaxaca City, we located a local bus company, and rode five hours
through first good, then terrible roads to Juxtlahuaca. Juxtlahuaca is a
vibrant city of 20,000, a central market where twenty types of dried
chile, hundreds of varieties of local vegetables, along with a hefty
dose of sandals and audiotapes go on sale twice every week in a massive
out-door market which serves the entire district. The smells, the tastes
of the locally prepared foods, the huipiles and rebozoson sale at prices
far below those in Oaxaca City, the chilena music, the cuechetes
(firecrackers, announcing mass) enticed us to stay for hours.
I am the only guerra (or Anglo) in sight. It’s a fascinating experience,
to be at 5’5” one of the tallest people in town,and clearly an outsider.
But everyone smiles, as I am walking and talking with my Oaxacan friend
and companion Catalina, who clearly is “one of them.” Cata buys a huge
bag of dried chiles, which we will carry on our backs for the next week.
“Don’t they sell chiles in Oxnard?” I ask. My friend patiently explains
that these are “costeñas,” having an entirely different flavor which is
unobtainable in California.
Finally, we find a driver willing to make the drive over questionable
roads to San MartĂn Peras, home of the several thousand Mixteco
immigrants now working and trying to survive in Oxnard, California.
Their village is situated on a steep hillside at 9,000 feet. The area is
extremely beautiful,but soil erosion is evident everywhere. The UN has
classified the Mixteca as one of the most severely eroded places on
earth.This has been going on for centuries, begun when the Spanish
conquest introduced hooved animals destroying the delicate hillside
balance, and hastened by the marginalization of the population to an
ever smaller area and the deforestation of the area by lumber companies
in the 20^(th) century.
The roads are terrible, curving, muddy. The driver charges us only $20
(even though the trip has taken over two and a half hours and he is
unlikely to find a return rider), and drops us in front of the church,
far and away the largest and best maintained building in town. On the
other side of the church is the “agencia,” or government building. A
half dozen men are sitting or standing in front of this building, though
nothing much seems to be happening here.
These men tell us the story of San MartĂn Peras. There are no jobs, and
what usable land there is for their crops is far from the village. They
are able to grow less than one-quarter of the beans, corn and squash
which form the majority of their diet.Everything else must be purchased
at one of the tiny local tiendas or in the market at Juxtlahuaca. Few of
the adults speak Spanish, unless they have spent time working in the
U.S.or elsewhere in Mexico. Basically, the families are completely
dependent on whatever their sons, daughters or husbands are able to send
them from the U.S. Water is drawn from a questionable well, or from the
river, which is not close and not really safe. The government
distributes a type of salt at the Clinic to purify the water, but it is
only used irregularly.Most of the houses are grey cinder block, one
story, 3–4 rooms with a semi-enclosed outdoor kitchen. There is an
outdoor toilet, which is flushed by pouring in a bucket of water.
One is struck immediately by the number of children every-where. Many,
many of those in the U.S. have left children behind with other family
members. In the house where we stayed, there were ten children ranging
from infants to twelve-year-olds. These included the family’s own
children,and grandchildren from three other children. The family unit
was the husband and wife, their two mothers, a daughter, a
daughter-in-law and the ten children. In most houses, people sleep on
the dirt floor on straw mats called petates. There is little
furniture—some plastic chairs and a small table. The homes we were in
did have electricity, usually one or two bare bulbs and a television
set. Some people are a little better off. I spent some time in the home
of a friend and former patient who was fifteen when she had her first
baby in the U.S. and worked the fields both before and after, then came
back with her husband and child last year “to rest.” She has her
interior walls painted, a cement floor, and several pieces of furniture.
They will return to the U.S. in a few months, after her second child is
born. Most houses have metal doors and roof.
There are many dogs around, but no one seems to pay any attention to
them. There are surprisingly few other animals.
The first day, we found three of the families we were looking for.
(People don’t really have addresses, and often don’t know each other by
name, unless they are directly related.) Each of these families, and all
those to whom we eventually talked,graciously invited us into their
homes, gave us cold sodas,and offered to feed and house us. Without
exception, they were warm and kind and thankful for the news and
pictures we brought. They cried and laughed and shared with us their
stories of how difficult things are for them, without any hint of
self-pity. I was puzzled by the cold sodas, as it didn’t seem as if
folks would have refrigerators. What happens is that, as soon as a
visitor arrives, a young child runs to the store and brings back
refrescos. My most lasting image of this day was a3 year old boy, living
with his aunt and uncle. We had given him a photo of his parents, and
Cata explained to him who these people were. He stared at the photo for
a good 15 minutes without a word, then left with it still clutched in
his hand.
Dinner that night was an enormous piece of beef in a spicy consommé with
hot tortillas. I wondered if this represented a week’s or a month’s
worth of meat for the family, but of course I could not refuse the
hospitality. Though I don’t normally eat beef, it was delicious. As our
house didn’t have doors, it was a little cold at night, but we had a big
warm blanket and slept well.
The next day, we arose bright and early, determined to do abetter job of
finding our families. We returned to the town building, hoping to find
the president. The men said he wasn’t there yet, but pointed out where
he lived, so we walked to his house. His wife said he was still asleep,
having been out late, but that she would let him know we were there.
Back at the square, people were becoming more interested in us, as word
started to get around that we were OK. I finally got smart enough to
start showing photos, instead of just asking for people by name. Things
started to really open up, as folks volunteered to go find so-and-so’s
cousin/brother/mother/grandfather and tell them we had a photo for them.
Around 11 a.m., the president arrived in his brand-new black truck. (No
one else seemed to have a personal vehicle.) He spoke good Spanish, and
we were able to communicate some of the needs of those living in Oxnard,
like being able to obtain birth records, as well as our desire to
establish some ongoing communication between our two cities. He was
friendly, and offered to take us to see the schools. At the Primaria,
they were having graduation ceremonies which were fun to watch.
Afterward, the director showed us around,emphasizing the tremendous need
they have for better class-rooms. The kids have to use broken-down desks
situated in puddles of water. The students were eager and very
well-behaved, the teachers seemed sincere and caring. There seemed to be
several hundred kids in this school. There was a bilingual
Mixteco/Spanish text, although it’s not clear how much it’s actually
used. Understandably, the educators’ focus seems to be on teaching
Spanish, which they know the kids will need to succeed outside their own
village.
The second school we visited was called the “Migrant school.”Again,I was
puzzled. Surely there were no immigrants in San MartĂn Peras. The
teacher explained to us that this school(which seemed to be smaller and
even more poorly equipped)was for the kids who would be leaving with
their parents during the year, “to help them get ready.” I wasn’t able
to make sense of the two-tiered system. But again, the teacher seemed
caring and the kids seemed happy.
Our next stop was the preschool, which was also having its end of the
year ceremonies. Seeing all the little five-year-old girls in sparkling
white dance dresses was a stark contrast with the state of most kids’
regular clothes. Apparently, there is no tuition to attend the
pre-school, although families are asked to make contributions. The
regular schools are free, as are books,(though many families who live in
outlying “ranchos” have no access to schools.) Parents are only required
to buy a uniform.There is no secondary school. When one completes
primary school at age twelve, it’s time to go to work, which usually
means leaving to go to other parts of Mexico or the U.S.
Having completed our tour of the schools, we returned to the town
center, where a bunch of people were waiting for us.Word had now
definitely gotten out, and we spent the next six hours talking to
families, writing down their relatives’ names and taking photos. People
were much more open and confident here in their own setting than they
are in Oxnard.One older woman looked me in the eye and spoke to me at
length in Mixteco. Cata told me afterward that she was thanking me for
coming, bringing news, and taking their images back to their children.
I asked two people how the president of their pueblo was selected.
Neither knew. They said they didn’t vote, although Cata thinks there is
a vote which the people just don’t know about.We also asked a number of
women about their feelings regarding birth control. All said they would
be eager to have away to prevent having more babies, but that services
weren’t available. They said the one clinic was there just to vaccinate
the kids, a process which involved many hours of waiting around on the
given day. There is no prenatal care, and babies are delivered at home
by local midwives or parteras. The closest medical care is in
Juxtlahuaca. Several women told us of their babies dying on the way when
they had complications such as breech delivery.
At about 7:30 p.m., our “Mom” came and practically dragged us home to
eat. We had a wonderful plate of beans and tortillas. We finally had a
chance to take photos of this great family who had taken care of us, and
to share some of their stories. People continued to show up at the house
to talk to us. Even after we had gotten into bed at 9:30, an elderly
gentleman arrived. He apologized, but had been working up on the
mountain all day, and had just gotten home and found out we had been
looking for him. His son had asked for us to bring back his birth
certificate (we brought back four in all),so this man agreed to meet us
at 4:30 the next morning when our bus would leave.
Sure enough, our gentleman was waiting for us at 4:30 a.m.,birth
certificate in hand. I took a picture of the church (I had forgotten to
take any scenery shots, and the church had lights), we said our goodbyes
and loaded the maximum number of people possible into a large van.
Thursday and Friday are “Market Days” in Juxtlahuaca, so many people
would be going to buy their goods. Along this route, we passed some of
the villages of other people we knew. There seemed to be considerable
variation between pueblos in how well off they seemed to be—the number
of animals and fields, the type of housing, etc. Cata and the taxi
driver talked about a pueblo in the area which was very wealthy,with a
hotel and an elevator.
We stopped in the town of San Francisco Higos. It is tiny—just a few
blocks long. Most of the people of this village had emigrated to the
U.S. in the 1980s, and had been able to obtain legal residency in the
1987 amnesty through their employers. Eventually, they were able to
obtain legal residency for their children, as well. While still poor,
they are clearly doing a lot better than the people of San MartĂn
Peras.People are able to travel back and forth legally (and therefore
much less expensively). The “Agente” and his assistant were very
friendly, showed us around their new common building including a
“meeting room.” They had space to put a clinic,but explained that the
town could not afford to support a nurse to staff it. They said they
received no support from the Mexican government. We visited the school
here, as well.When we asked who had relatives in Oxnard, they all raised
their hands. They giggled as I taught them a few words of English and
spoke my best six phrases of Mixteco.
We had a terrific cup of hot chocolate in the beautiful out-door kitchen
of a lovely woman who is the mother of one of my patients. She had a
pretty little garden with some flowers,corn and squash, and a lemon
tree. She also had a flush toilet(with a seat!). She is a widow with
just one child left at home, and several working in the U.S.
Back in Juxtlahuaca, we found the mother of one of our community
members, thanks to the local postman who happened to be riding by on his
bicycle. (There are addresses in this town, but not house numbers, and
lots of people don’t know the names of the streets.) This woman’s
husband is also in the U.S., and she hadn’t heard from either one of
them in months. It was a very emotional meeting. We spent the night at
an inexpensive hotel right near the Zocolo. It was really noisy, but the
shower water was hot and a bed felt great.
The next morning, we were up early again, to catch the bus back to
Oaxaca. We amused ourselves with topics ranging from the conquest of
Mexico and the role of the Catholic church to views on gay marriages.
Cata told me many stories of her family life. One that impressed me
deeply involved her grandmother at the river, reciting to the various
gods of rain, corn, sun, etc. The prayers were remarkably similar to
those of native Americans, talking about how they planned to respect and
protect the earth, to use only what they needed, and to live in harmony
with other creatures.
Back in the U.S., we repeated the process of finding families, giving
photos and messages and talking about our trip. I see this community
with new eyes. How there is really no option but to marry and leave by
age fifteen. To ride in buses, trucks or walk for weeks to months to
reach an area where they can find jobs. To risk the expensive and
extremely dangerous border crossing to look for a place called “Oxnard”
where there may be seasonal jobs picking strawberries. To endure
hard-ships and humiliations unimaginable to people born in the United
States.To live in crowded shacks and eat only beans so that there will
be some money to send to families back in Oaxaca. To dream of some day
reuniting with family and community.
Mixteco/Indigena Community Organizing Project was formed to try to fill
the gap created by the relocation so many Mixtec workers to the Oxnard
area. It is an attempt to build on a tradition of communal ownership and
community service (el téquio) in recreating a community here in the
U.S.This community strives to instill pride and joyousness in the Mixtec
culture and language. It provides material and educational assistance to
hundreds of people trying to survive in anew culture. And most
importantly, it creates a community network of communication and
cooperation which can help insure the survival and success of the Mixtec
people.