Snippets from my past week

Traveled to Guerrro with my family spent three days there with beautiful experiences and stories. Here are some snippets, they are out of context but I hope they paint a picture:
Walking through the cobblestone streets of a very poor town in Guerrero. We heard the blasts of trumpet and the beat of a drum and ran to see what was going on. In front of a rag tag group of musicians playing the same beat

buuuuu be beeee beeee biiii beee biii beee
toca toca toca toca of the drum

and in front of them was a group of about 20 or so indigenous women in thier traditional dress of a black artfully emboidered skirt with shiney sequence here and there, white blouses, some of them with shalles, but all of them with a bright red necklace around their necks that demanded attention amidst the shades of grey black and white of the night.

Soon the women stopped in a narrow street lined with houses and there the band made camp playing song after song, with only slight variations of beat and tune while the women twirlled in circles, holding the edges of their skirts and bouncing slightly from foot to foot. The beat was kept strong by young group of boys playing th trumpets and a six year old girl who stared at me with dark brown eyes, an unflinching face that never broke into a smile. Her hands seemed to be moving without her comand, keeping a rat tat tat tatatat.

The four of us women stood against the wall and watched with broad smiles. Tere joined in the dance with the women, who welcomed her. Suddenly from down the street we heard another group of women dancing down the street, but they were not only dancing, they were running, some twirling white scarves above their heads, others moving quickly from one side of the street to the other waving their skirts in the air. Shouts cried into the air, and the band followed them with an intense and loud rythmn. Everyone stood back to make way from them as they rushed passed us with little more than a glance. They shouted in joy and danced with a wild enthusiasm. Wow....my eyes followed them until they disappeared and I shared glances of awe with the women around me. The women congregated around a house, one of them handing out cigerettes and mezcal (a strong acloholic drink) in a tiny clear plactic shot glass. The group of women then came over to us and offered us the drink and cigerettes we all accepted (though none of us wanted them on such full stomachs) with large smiles and chatted for a bit with the women.
We came to find out that these women were celebrating handing over the duties of planning the annual pueblo festival, and the women that ran shouting and dancing down the street was the group of women who were to take over the duties of planning the anual festival.


Later that night, electricity went out, wind was raging and huge drops of rain began to fall. We all sat cozily around the platic kitchen table with several candels huddled away from the rain. The warm flickering of the candles the priest picked up a guitar and began to strum a song that all 12 in the room knew. The voice of Tere and Amado rang out deep and strong above the rest. We sang and danced until the hours of the early morning, each one refusing or drinking more bottles of beer and shots of mezcal. Hypolito (my dad)´at one point with the rosy cheeks of a happy drunk turned to me and said, Us Mexican we are very happy people..muy feliz he repeated again. We know how to celebrate. We may not have food to eat tomorrow, but tonight we sing and dance! He waved his arms clumsily in the air to add to his enthusiasm and pride.

As the hours wore on, the voices grew quieter and the songs became sadder, singing of our people who live in houses of cardboard that leak water when it rains, or of the campesino fighting for his land. The voice of Tere pierced the wet glowing night with words filled with a hearfelt somber as she knew exactly the life of her people that suffered in this way. My eyes grew dreary and my head rested on my hands. I listened to the struming of the guitar as my eyes closed heavily,my foot keeping the beat so as to keep me at least half awake. The night turned into a dream, a little hazzy around the edges. I looked at each person, their expression, their lips as the melodous words seeped out like a thick stream of honey. The flames flickered across each face, half illuminated half cast in shadow. How beautiful was my last and fleeting thought as the night of song turned into sleep.


The next day we went to the house of Tere and Amado. Humble built of sticks and cement, but full of a beautiful alive and welcoming energy. They are both leaders of a group of poets and dancers, activists and thinkers several indigenous communities of Guerro. The walls were full of paintings that were heavily charged with political, social and rligious messages. Paintings that revealled the innermost luchas or internal struggles with the world, God and humanity. The toilet was a hole in a cement stoop surrounded by cactus plants for privacy. As I went pee the wind rushed by me and I felt as if I was out in the wild. A smile grew across my face, how often can we go to the bathroom with the warm wind brushing across your cheek and the smell of the flowering tree with falling petals right beside you?

I bucket bathed that night with water heated over the fire, in a room that seemed like a sauna. In a way it is the luxery of being one with nature that some people pay thousands for for vacations and spas. The water trickled down my spin and legs, warm and soothing right before bed. I climbed into Tere´s bed that she lent me for the night surrounded in a pure white net to keep the mosquitos out.. ah tonight I sleep in a cloud I told her with a broad grin. I drifted into sleep as the sound of the insects and the smells of the warm night breeze accompanied me into my dreams.

Food:
Atole with stawberries and chunks of sweet white bread just before bed
In the morning, blackberry purre and large slices of papaya with a warm cup of coffee mixed with yerba buena

The next day their groupof artist writers activists and dancers were dancing in a festival commemorating the death of the last king of the Aztecs. They dressed in hides of animals and canvas, bones that draped down the spines of men, flaps of leather that covered only the privates of the men, and tops made of bamboo, sticks and hide that barely covered the chests of the women.They were all painted with symbols from their tribe, and decorated with anklets and necklaces of seeds that xluncked together when they danced. They found a spot of grass infront fo the temple that housed the remains of the king and next to the other groups of luxurioously dressed dancer in bright feathers and dresses, they humbly assembled and dance. In one of their last dances, one of the women waved me in and I danced with them, hoping from one foot to the other in sound strong steps that complimented the fearful pounding of the drum.
I was honored to dance with them, and honered to have been invited.

The ride there I was in the back of an open red pick up truck that carried all the dancers. We were on lonely curvy roads that pastd the most beautiful countryside. I hung my elbow out the edge and drank in the hills and small pueblos that we past, the donkeys on the side of the road, the dark women carrying bundles of who knows over their heads. I felt an overwhelming sense of peace and serenity.