May 31st, 2004

Monday May 31st, 2004

We ride through rolling hills and past the city of Ocotlan after which we begin to approach increasingly populous areas on the outskirts of Oaxaca. Traffic gets heavy as we make our way past poor areas with tin houses. After some hectic highway driving during which we cannot communicate because of the traffic, we arrive in busy downtown Oaxaca. The center of town has been taken over by 5,000 striking teachers and as we coast slowly around checking things out we must duck under hundreds of strings that support the tarps they’ve been living under for two weeks. We find a hotel and hurry back downtown to photo and interview the strikers. After some runaround we end up interviewing the coordinator of press and propaganda for the union. We are not inspired, their proposal for alternative education is weak and it seems that they only really want more money. We cover their march the next day and watch thousands of teachers run through the heavy rain from the safety of a shop full of humid customers. Oaxaca is wonderful; we take it easy and enjoy the beautiful city. My uncle Juan Jose lives here and we meet him for dinner where we enjoy the local specialties of mezcal (Oaxacan tequila) and tlayudas (big flat crunchy tortilla pizzas with bean sauce).

After meeting with some activists from the CIPO (Indigenous popular council of Oaxaca) we head over to their office/house where they invite us to spend a few days. We sleep on the floor, sharing the facilities and an outdoor kitchen with members of different indigenous communities who come and go during our stay. We finally find a good bike shop and leave Johanne’s Bert to be fixed. Every afternoon and evening it rains heavily. We jump at the opportunity to visit an indigenous village and head off on Saturday afternoon by bus towards the village of Yaviche. The bus climbs for a good seven hours into the dense green mountains. We leave the paved road for a dirt one and begin to pass tiny village after microscopic village, winding down the tortuous road. At one point we notice that the road is being widened, our bus slides down slick mud slopes past fallen trees and other blatant signs of construction-caused-erosion. We arrive at Santa Maria de Yaviche after dark and follow our friend Pedro down a dirt path to his adobe house. We meet his wife Francesca and enjoy some pasta and coffee, sitting on tiny chairs on a dirt floor. We sleep on the floor across the courtyard where Pedro’s daughter and her three kids live. Our last moments of consciousness are filled with the hysterical giggling of mother and children as they settle down in the family bed.