Since I wrote last...

I closed the computer. Ingredients were emerging from the kitchen for the construction of spaghetti sauce, and we all ran into the kitchen for the various stages of cutting, sautéing, and tasting the various stages of lunch. When that was finished, and our appetites properly sated, we settled down to watch a movie and perhaps take an afternoon nap in order to recuperate from the stress of the week’s events. Helicopters still circled the sky, but it became apparent that they were serving no real function other than recon and the shepherding ordinary people such as us back into their homes. We went to a local store and stocked up on candy and made popcorn.
As Emily washed the last few plates and John fussed over the wires to hook up the VCR, the sound of helicopters grew louder. At long last idle and somewhat restless, my ears instantly perked at the intensifying sound and I looked out of the window. The helicopters were circling lower—alarmingly so—and a billowing cloud of thick black smoke now emerged from the city below; from where, I could not see. The base of the plume was buried behind trees to the southwest of the city in the direction of the road from Etla where the troops were stationed. I ran to the roof, exasperated, a bowl of popcorn in one hand, straining my eyes to get a better glimpse. The city is in flames, I thought, scarcely believing my eyes. But what is burning?
The others joined me. We turned on the University radio station and listened as they announced the entry of the PFP (Policia Federal Preventativa) into the southern part of the city with full riot gear and tear gas. The Federales. The situation we had all been preparing for two weeks ago but which never happened. The APPO was standing firm, the radio announced, trying to prevent the military from removing the blockades, but this time they were up against seriously armed men, and what use are a few sticks and stones against assault rifles? Compañeros y Compañeras, the radio blared, La PFP esta entrando la ciudad. Este no es una esfuerza pacifica, pero no respondas en la misma manera. Urgimos que bloquean su paisaje fisicalmente por la calle si es necesario, usando los cuerpos. Asemblamos en el zocalo. (Companions, the PFP is entering the city. This is not a pacifist movement but do not respond in kind. We urge you to block their passage physically in the street if necessary, using your bodies. We assemble in the zocalo.). No shots were being fired, but the suggestion of tear gas and the presence of guns sent shivers up our spines.
“Cerro del Fortin,” I said. “We have to see what’s going on.” Cerro is the site where Guelaguetza (the traditional summer festival and tourist trap, cancelled for the first time in history this year because of political strife) is held, a giant auditorium at the top of a long, steep set of stairs on the same hill as the Crespo house. From the road surrounding the site, you can see the entire city. In all honesty, I had only been by the stadium twice, once during daylight in a car on the way to Monte Alban and a second time late at night with John taking loops around the neighborhood once after Jessica and I were robbed on our way home. That latter view of the site at night, a foreboding and markedly empty skeleton of a building, looking at that late hour like an ancient Roman coliseum lit only by moonlight, had given me the willies. But I knew even then that it was arguably the single best place from which see the entire city, and we needed a panoramic view.
At the moment, I was wearing a pair of Jessica’s overalls, so we packed up all our candy and the portable radio into my generous jean pockets and set out. I still carried the bowl of popcorn, piling handfuls of it into my mouth at a time, less because I was hungry and more because I needed something to do and eating seemed about as good as anything else to fill in the space that sanity had left when it fled.
As we mounted the stairs, we were joined by vecinos (neighbors) from all different directions, each looking as perplexed as the next. For a while, our view was hidden by trees, but when we finally stepped up the last of the cement steps to the road and the stadium behind, the sight was nearly too incredible to believe.
A giant plume of smoke came up from what we could only imagine to be the highway called Periferico in the southern part of the city. Smaller plumes rose up in a row behind it, marking what we would later gather to be the path of the troops as they entered the city from the southwest. The number of helicopters in the sky had increased to three, and they were circling in low swoops, guiding troop action below. John, ever the avid birdwatcher and a co-conspirator of mine in my scientific study of Mexican ants, had brought along a small pair of field glasses, and we took turns gazing at the city through the small lenses. We couldn’t see much, except the black smoke floating ever higher skyward, a stark contrast against the clear blue overhead. And when one fire seemed to go dim, another cloud of smoke could be seen farther north taking its place. We heard on the radio that the military had taken several churches and important buildings, and that the zocalo would be next. Sporadic groups came and went, eyes ever affixed on the city below. A woman waved a white flag back and forth at the circling helicopters. People from all areas of the city shined mirrors at them in household mirrors, trying everything they could to make it harder to navigate. I myself wished to be aboard one of the low flying craft, so I could see what on earth was really going on. My feet itched to find out, but better sense kept us rooted to our seats safe above the city.
The popcorn, the Snickers, the Milky Way, the marshmallow pop, and the two small bags of sour Mexican jellybean thingies were long since eaten. It was unanimously decided that I, as the chief addict, should continue to carry the empty popcorn bowl as we continued along the roadside wall from spot to spot watching the smoke dissipate into the sky. We compulsively stalked the helicopters, watching one land in Parque del Amor downtown, the place the radio said that people were being detained and arrested. I spent perhaps twenty minutes watching people on an overpass watching the helicopters as ominous looking men—or, at least, as ominous as men could be from several miles away and through field glasses—transported packages back and forth from a truck into a helicopter.
James arrived on his motorcycle. Ever the irresponsible employer, he had spent the morning looking for the “action”, and in spite of the grimness of the situation I could scarcely bite my tongue and refrain from chiding him for his error the night before in guessing it would come from the north. Anyways, he had eventually found his way into the thick of things, and indeed his first words as he walked towards the group were, “I got run over by a tank.” Indeed, he was limping a little, but I couldn’t see how a tank could have been involved in the incident: he was, at any rate, all in one piece.
The news was, on the whole, what we expected, but it was nice to hear a firsthand account of the situation. James had been taking pictures of everything, and his foot had been run over by one of the giant bulldozing truck/tanks which had spent the day moving literally inch by inch into the city through protesters and barricades. He had been sprayed with high powered water hoses from these tanks, though miraculously it did not seem that there had been any shooting, only the occasional rumor of teargas. The military trucks were moving men and supplies and the helicopters were coordinating movements from above. What we were witnessing from our lofty view of the city was the burning of buses and cars (a trademark statement/confusion tactic of the APPO), gas tanks and tires smudging black smoke across the sky.
James departed again to download pictures from his digital camera onto someone’s computer. After a while the sun sank lower and shone in our eyes; we shifted on our feet and realized that we were thirsty, sunburnt, and that everyone needed to pee. It was decided that nothing more was going to happen, at least for the time being, and that we should go home.
As made this decision and got up, a group of unfortunate tourists did the same, maybe fifteen of us in all standing and walking away from the sight of the city towards the stairs below. And perhaps because we were the ones who had had the foresight to carry the radio and field glasses, perhaps because we were foreigners and had a different intuitive sense of the situation, and perhaps simply because everyone was on edge and thinking the same thing we were, as we rose to go, everyone started to run. Someone shouted that the police were coming. People jumped into cars and sped away. Some looked seriously downhill at the prospect of jumping down the hill into hiding. It was sheer group mentality, and in reality, nothing had happened except for the fact that a number of us had all decided to leave at once. But everyone was on edge, and our instincts told us, unanimously, that being ready to run was a good thing in this situation.
Eventually, we got home. Nightfall brought a strange quiet to the city of Oaxaca. The smoke from the burning vehicles settled down on the city from above the way smog does in the valley of Los Angeles, and we could smell it as it settled. Finally, we watched our movie, something appropriately light and comedic so we could just sit and not think. Everyone was drained. My eyes were starting to hurt from wearing my contacts for three days in a row and we were all feeling dirty and exhausted from being in the sun by the road all day. John snuck down to the zocalo without telling anyone to take a look, and came back with the report that the PFP had taken the zocalo and were camping out there, asleep on their body shields. We watched the evening news, checked our emails, and tried to make sense of it all. Among the relentlessly circulating media were pictures of a man throwing a rat at the federal police and public health officials drawing blood from APPO members for artful protests in the form of bloodied T-shirts. Among the looping footage on TV were stills of a young boy, 15, killed by a tear gas canister exploded at close range. Depressed, we brushed our teeth and took showers, reluctant to go to bed but too tired and emotionally drained to be functional for anything else.
At some point, James came back and started typing furiously on Brittany’s computer, cursing in his quiet, understated voice that the newscasts were full of shit and that the newscasters were bendejos (more or less, dickheads or assholes, depending on who you ask, but in all cases negative). He brewed coffee. We slumped a little. Slowly, we filtered off to bed one by one. Three helicopters came and made quick rounds of the city, and I fell asleep on the couch, James in the background noiselessly plotting things on a map, slamming instant coffee, and typing.
This morning I again awoke early, and on first sight nothing was remiss in the city. A few cars cruised by on nearby Crespo street, though for the most part things were quiet. James was gone. On first inspection all our email boxes are full with worried messages, and we gather that headlines about Oaxaca have made the front page of the New York Times. I bury my head in my hands, not sure what to say, how to explain the situation, or even to begin to answer the questions that come at me from all quarters, and yet thankful that there are so many people at home who are following my misadventures and are willing to help get me home if need be.
Helicopters begin again at nine, but we know from the rumor mill that at least for now things are safe. Somehow, Britney and John have the motivation to make oatmeal for breakfast, and we eat and pack up for the trip to mine and Emily’s houses and the store for food and supplies and then inevitably by the zocalo to survey the damage.
In a group, wearing my own clothes and packing a camera, I feel much more secure than I would have yesterday were I to have ventured out into the city. My family here, as it turns out, is relaxed and rational about the situation; Emily’s host mom seems to be on the verge of collapse, her daughter still panicky about the presence of so much smoke in the sky at night and the police banging on doors late looking for “hiding APPO members.” Taking these two perspectives in mind, from Emily’s house, we set out for the zocalo.
The zocalo is entirely blocked off by military. At first I approach timidly, my heart in my throat, but as I take stock of the situation I realize that I am not, in fact, the only person taking pictures. Media representatives and local onlookers are swarming all over the place, taking pictures of burnt out buses and the austere line of the federales lined up with clear plastic shields. Their faces are youthful and soft behind the harshness of their masks, and they look bored. I see two of them through my lens looking at me and trying not to giggle a few feet away; they are about my age. They are trying to be grownups and failing miserably, giving in to the enjoyment of watching a guera take pictures of their encampment, something which to them must seem commonplace and even boring. Finally, I venture, as I blatantly aim my camera at them, “¿Como estan? ¿ Abburidos?” They giggle. “Un poco,” one confesses quietly. We laugh, and I am struck with a strange desire to offer to go buy them a Coke or something: it is very hot, and they look uncomfortable in their full, black, riot gear and heavy masks.
The next intersection is more of the same: men of about my age standing behind shields looking uncomfortably hot and trying to remain serious and calm as onlookers take pictures and shout the occasional offensive comment. Burnt out buses and cars line the streets, and I remark that what once served the APPO in their blockading of the center against the military now serves the counter-purpose of blocking the military from the potential of the invading APPO.
We snap pictures and walk the circumference of the zocalo for a while, and I am much braver in my questions, asking the federales how they are, whether they are hot, and how they feel. Some do not respond. Others give rigid, rehearsed, patriotic answers. Others confess quickly, quietly that yes they are a little bored, and yes, it’s a little hot. But all seem to be in the hand of someone larger, giving orders that they do not understand, and speak hushedly lest their superiors should overhear.
Eventually, we have seen enough, and go home. Jessica returns from her weekend excursion and sits playing soft music on the porch, singing softly. Emily naps. I write. Helicopters come and go. We get up to eat and make our plans for the evenings. We make phonecalls home, write emails. The plan hasn’t changed, we don’t know what to say, we don’t know what’s going to happen or even really what’s happening right now. It’s getting dark. But we’re at home, and we’re okay. For now, it’s more waiting.

Just another instance of nothing happening...?

I awoke this morning to realize that I had slept the night through; the sun beamed down full force through Jessica’s bedroom windows. Why isn’t the city in flames? I wondered to myself. I rolled over and ran my fingers through my newly short hair and asked, unimpressed, to no one in particular, “Is this just another instance of nothing happening?”
“I think so,” Emily said from across the room. “Still, my nerves can’t handle it.”
It didn’t seem strange to me to find her standing there at the window, nor did it alarm me that I was in fact in someone else’s bed in someone else’s house and wearing someone else’s clothes. Whenever rumors begin to fly through the city about political chaos and conflict at the barricades we all find our way to the Crespo house one way or another; it isn’t uncommon to pass the night on the couch or comfortably in Jessica’s enormous bed downstairs. This latter circumstance was the case last night, and so I awoke at 8:15 in Jessica’s room with Emily standing gazing out the window at Oaxaca on yet another lazy Sunday and it did not seem strange at all the Jessica herself wasn’t there.
A journalist from Indymedia in New York was killed in my city two days ago, one of four to be shot by plainclothes policemen in a systematic raid of barricades on Friday organized by the state government. The move was one of unparalleled stupidity, and all in all it was precisely what we have come to expect from Ulyses Ruiz Ortiz, Oaxaca state governor currently banned in his own capital city and on the run from insurgent forces who have had control of the city for the past five months. His actions were in stark contrast to the current situation in the rest of the city, which had led us to believe that things would soon return to normal in the confused city.
Friday began another three-day economic paro or huelga (strike) by businesses in the city. The APPO put up extra blockades so as to be especially annoying. It was a quiet day, one which I passed almost entirely reading in my hammock after my morning class was finished. Call it foresight, call it clairvoyance, but sometimes I just know when it’s a good day to stay home. By mid afternoon we knew that something had come to pass which was wholly unexpected: local police had systematically, overtly, come to remove the barricades. In the resulting mayhem and confusion—protesting teachers had all but returned to classes and given up their quest, at least on the local level, and there seemed in fact to be no reason for additional pressure from the government—several people were shot, including Brad Will, a 36-year old leftie journalist arrived in Oaxaca perhaps three weeks ago to cover events here.
Saturday was shrouded in tension; we cancelled our Halloween party at the last minute as perhaps only four or five students showed up to each class, including mine which usually has twenty rowdy, jostling eleven year olds eager to do anything but learn English on their Saturday morning. The softspoken director of my school, perhaps 27 and originally from Cincinatti, Ohio, himself an APPO sympathizer, interrupted class to call all the teachers together to organize a meeting after work at the downtown building. He was calm and a little shaken: as it turns out, he had written once or twice for Indymedia and had been in correspondence with Will before his arrival in the city.
The full meeting with all my coworkers was brief. Mostly James, our director, talked for a while and reiterated the emergency contingency plan; the rest of us looked at one another, half bored and half nervous. The other teachers at Cambridge Academy also happen to be my dearest friends; we have independently discussed the situation to death and as I looked around the table I could guess with a fair amount of certainty exactly what was going on in each of their heads.
After the meeting we walked to the nearly empty organic market and ordered seven wheatburgers from one of the last closing stalls, sitting in front of the fishpond and chatting. Loud fireworks banged throughout the afternoon. We then in various groups wandered, as we always do, to the Crespo house, the closer of the two buildings that we as teachers inhabit in the city, because it has wireless internet where we can follow the news and all sleep in the same place if need be.
The night passed uneventfully. Periodically we looked up to see airplanes, but none of them were military planes. Loud, frantic wedding music blared into the twilight and the night resonated as it always does with periodic booms of ubiquitous Mexican fireworks. Nothing seemed remiss except for the somber attitude of the city and the deserted streets. Bored, we cut my hair to a boyish crop, gave Britney punk rocker bangs, and gave Emily a bob minus the garish bangs typical of that style, which we kept long. John offered to let us glue the extra hair onto his own head, the front of which hasn’t seen hair for a while, but we didn’t have any crazy glue and gave up the mission in favor of playing hearts and listening to music, our ears secretly attuned to helicopters or other unusual sounds in the night which never came.
But the night passed without event, and in fact I slept peacefully. Breakfast consists of quesadillas from the local market and Nescafe instant coffee. We laugh at the fact that we are so accustomed to instant coffee. Everything seems to be an ordinary Sunday. Only today, we hear the thumping of helicopter propellers in the sky, harbinger to the eerie sight of helicopters circling, circling, circling the city in their lazy arcs. It is a sound familiar to all of us by now, and it draws us out onto the roof to look. Sure enough, they are circling the sky. Two, shiny new ones. Not the older ones of a few weeks ago. A sign of the federal police. I shudder in spite of myself. I don’t know if I can ever look at the powerful creatures the same way anymore—such an incredible, graceful phenomenon of modern physics, and yet so terrifying that my hair stands up on end as I see them and I feel adrenaline surge to my limbs. I think of Chris Rea and his fascination with aviation, back in the states somewhere living his normal life, and of the days we spent putting together model planes in high school. Then, I secretly wished to know more about them, so that perhaps one day I could design them. Today, I am simply confused.
Our boss arrives, and between gulps of instant coffee and the rush to find new batteries for his camera, he announces that there are new mentions of peace talks, which is a relief. We now know that there are 3000 troops in barracks in Etla and 200 poised to block the road to Mexico City. Local police are still in plainclothes throughout the city, but for the most part they have no real meaning. It is the federal troops which could, when pressed, do real damage, armed with riot gear, tear gas, and everything else necessary to have a very violent “nonviolent” intervention. But today, nothing seems to be in the works—only the neighbors flashing large mirrors into the sky to harass the two military helicopters still circling the southeastern part of the city.
James scoots off on his motorcycle, APPO identity card/“press pass” in hand, to check out the barricades, promising to keep us posted via cell phone of what is actually happening. I fuss after him for a few minutes, making sure he has an emergency backup plan and that what he is doing is not actually stupid. When he finally turns to go, I shake my head and bite my lip, laughing to myself at the fact that I should feel like such a mother to a man who is in fact my boss. In a sense I wish I could go with him, but I know that to be stupid. He knows the city and its people far better than I do, and I am in that respect content to stay at home at the computer, listening to the University radio station with my instant coffee, typing and plotting things out on the giant map of the city spread out beside me, following things as best I can while, as always, taking things with a grain of salt and a dose of courage.
I know that the news at home sounds bad. Fox issued a written statement recently saying that he would now use force if necessary. We made the Americas section of the New York Times again today (actually a very good, fairly accurate article, available at http://www.nytimes.com/2006/10/29/world/americas/29mexico.html?n=Top/News/World/Countries%20and%20Territories/Mexico). Headlines and photos look horrendous, and are, as usual, exaggerated. But I say—slowly and cautiously, with as level a head as possible—that things are okay. That I am okay. I will know when things go wrong, when it is time to switch into panic mode and get the hell out. The system of action here is delicately calibrated for appropriate planning and response. And I have—we have—a system in place for if and when it comes time to leave.
As always, I have two hundred dollars in cash stashed in my room next to my passport and my FM3 visa ready to go in case of emergencies, photocopies of all of my important documents, including credit cards and extra identification. My cell phone is stock full of phone numbers to call in case of an emergency, people with cars and safe places to stay. And in the meantime, the owner of my school has a home in the hills that we can leave to in the event of a personal crisis or the need to escape for a while, and a house in Puerto Escondido in case we simply feel like taking a week off. I am okay. The weather outside is fantastic, my instant coffee for some reason tastes good in spite of its cheapness, and the company of my friends is unparalleled in its comfort and honesty. I shall spend this afternoon, like so many other afternoon recently, listening to insurgent radio and watching helicopters do recon over my city.
Today, incidentally, marks the conclusion of my fourth month in Mexico.

Namaste,
Anna

helicopters and swimming pools

We were to have had a party on Saturday. Nothing special, mostly Cambridge teachers and a few of the older students with whom we could share hors d'oeuvres and some mescal to fight off the nonexistent cold.

While I actually didn’t live at the hosting house, I was considered a resident because I lived there a while ago, before half of the current residents moved in, and so went early on in the afternoon to help prepare. This consisted mostly in sitting on the cement roof in a hammock, drinking familiar-sized Coronas and reading Neruda poems aloud with my friend and fellow teacher John. One of us would read and the other would sit and stare thoughtfully into the sky, making appreciative noises at any of the many particularly moving passages. It was an incredibly beautiful day: blue sky overhead, lush green plants swaying in a light wind, and the pleasant, mellow company you can only find among real friends.

The helicopters were a total surprise and completely incongruous. At around six, two of them emerged with an unpleasant drone from the southernmost part of the sky, from the general direction of the airport. One tailed the other as they flew low, making wary loops around the city. The first lap we could only sit and stare at the grey camouflage above our heads with the rest of the city. Nicolas and Veronica, the house’s landlords and frequent visitors, flew outside from where they had been working and stared in amazement. “Federal police,” Nicolas said. “It’s about time. I hope they shoot every last one of them.” We gasped in surprise but could not in all honesty blame him. The city is in economic crisis, businesses are closing, people are fed up with protesters and barricades in the street.

On the third lap we could see the word MARINA in big black letters on the bottom of each of the two choppers, indicating that the they were actually not federal police but the Marines. They circled around ominously once more and then left amidst a barrage of warning fireworks. The APPO signals, which we have all memorized by now, are one burst for “hey what’s up?” two for “you might want to pay attention” and three for “report to HQ, the war’s on.” Today the signals were coming hard and heavy in sets of three from the various base camps, sometimes one right on top of the other, a barrage of nonsensical messages. Church bells, another ancient system of warning typical to smaller towns, tolled incessantly. The city was in chaos.

“The last time they used helicopters was June 14th when they dropped tear gas,” John commented. “This isn’t good.” After failed attempts at negotiation this past week, panic shopping on Wednesday to precede business strikes on Thursday and Friday, and a passed governmental deadline for the APPO to withdraw, we could only think that the time had come for the city to once again be shrouded in tear gas and terror. Tempers were wearing thin. Fox had sworn to solve the conflict before he leaves office in November. No one really believed him, but perhaps this was a first step.

We watched as the helicopters came and went again and then were replaced by a military plane, ancient and clunky but equally ominous. They’re trying to scare people into their homes, we thought. Showing they’re playing hardball this time. And yet nothing more came of the event. No teargas, no violent outbreaks. But the rest of the night we were on edge. So was the city, which was quiet except for fireworks, hushed voices, and false cries of alarm. “This country has a surplus of fireworks,” Jessica commented drily, as we jumped to our feet for perhaps the tenth time in a row to look at the smoky plumes disappearing into the twilight. Night fell and fireworks from the city below kept bursting in periodic spurts, as though perhaps we hadn’t noticed that the world was about to end and were interested in finding out from the APPO´s own strange brand of morse code.

“I guess that means no one’s coming to our party,” I said grimly. “I hope no one minds sharing a bed, because I’m not walking home right now.”

And yet several people did show up. It was a horrid assortment of people, everyone on edge and feeling somewhat awkward, alternating between pointedly commenting on the situation and pointedly not commenting on the situation, which was almost worse. We tried playing cards, but no one was in the mood and none of the Mexicans knew how to play save one, who didn’t really but insisted on telling everyone how to play nonetheless. Soon everyone left the table except for me and the guy who sells shallots at the organic market, who sat too far too close to me at the end of the long table and drooled at me from perhaps a foot away. I’m still not sure who invited him. “What a wonderful accent you have,” he crooned. “You are so beautiful.” “Tell me the best way to learn English.” “Practice a whole freaking lot,” I said flatly. It’s a classic routine, all too familiar, and I found myself infuriated for once instead of patient and somewhat flattered. It wasn’t even mildly entertaining. Couldn’t he see there were more important things going on in the world than wooing a disinterested gϋera? “You have to help practice speaking,” he begged. I pointedly ignored him, shuffling the deck of cards over and over, trying to mark and then cut Aces and failing miserably. He kept rambling. Irritated, I got up and went outside without making excuses. Not long thereafter I decided it was time for bed.

Sunday was a gloomy day. The morning brought more helicopters and airplanes, and the whole city seemed devoid of cheerfulness. It was too hot. Everything seemed grim, everyone seemed upset. No one knew what to do. It seemed stupid to pretend it was a normal day, and yet going through the motions of everyday existence was the only way to pass the time. We ate breakfast. I made a peach cobbler while everyone else took naps. We ate the cobbler. We made small talk, checked our emails, and looked for news on the internet. I carted a copy of The Lost World around the house with me, walking aimlessly upstairs and downstairs, thinking that somehow, sometime I would start reading it, but the inspiration never came. I wanted to go home to sit in my hammock but my house felt a million light years away, and it felt saner to be in the company of friends. Eventually in desperationwe caved in to our confusion and our American ness and ordered pizza, something I didn’t even know you could do here, and watched Magnolia. By the end when the frogs fall from the sky, it didn’t even seem all that unusual. I don’t think I would have been that surprised had it happened outside at the same time it did on television. Eventually I went home, feeling grimy in borrowed clothes and not having showered for a day and a half.

Today, the local paper confirms that there are choppers, troops, and helicopters in Guatulco, “a long drive but a short plane ride away.” And still, no one knows if this isn’t just a really big bluff. No official statements have been made, no intentions declared. When the APPO attempted to assassinate Ulyses last Sunday at El Camino Real (a hotel two of my friends just happened to be touring at the time of the attack), they specifically chose a day of rest in which most people would be safe in their homes. No one is looking for a bloodbath here. And yet it has been three days of helicopters circling, circling, circling as we eat, walk to work, and go about our daily routines. Nothing has happened. Fireworks go off at all hours of the night. Our director insists that he has connections in the APPO and that nothing will go wrong. Without being morbid I know that he will be the first one to die or be arrested if it does, a single white man with something to prove in a sea of Mexican rebels.

I got a membership at the pool today after three months dry. It was a long time coming. And yet I knew I needed it to keep my sanity in these strange times. The water felt miraculous, and the grime on the bottom reminded me of Clark’s pool before it was remodelled. An odd thing to be comforted by, but I enjoyed it nonetheless, puzzling at the floating debris as I passed it at every lap. I hardly even noticed that I was the only white person there, and didn’t once think of the troubles in the outside world even once. My soul felt at peace. Never mind the outrageous expense; never mind my aching shoulders and newly clicking tendonitis; never mind that my suit, once several sizes too small and nearly impossible to put on, slid easily over my torso after over three months of walking everywhere and living off a simple Mexican diet. The calm turquoise radiated with light, and as I finally settled into my breathing pattern—hold, bubbles, breathe, hold, bubbles, breathe, hold, bubbles, breathe—my body relaxed and my mind shut off. I finally felt at home, there in that expensive bath of chemicals and clear blue water. I was able to go to work this afternoon and not feel panicked, and everything made sense again. I even listened to the rantings of my overbearing German roommate about how naïve our boss is to the whole situation with something akin to sympathy, nodding and flipping through my French books as I did so.

So, well… I’m okay. Things are strange but not dangerous. Or at least, not at the moment. At my prompting, we are having a meeting/discussion about all of this at work tomorrow, and we have developed an emergency contingency plan as the result of my German roommate’s hysterics this morning, which were apparently not just for my benefit but that of everyone else at work as well. I live in one of only two houses in the city that Cambridge teachers live in; my best friends live in the other. I am well connected to any news of federal movement by my former coordinator Anna Barto, who teaches English to Oaxaca’s airport director, and any movement of the APPO by my director, who apparently has something to prove to himself and therefore has adopted the cause. I will keep you posted on how things unfold.

Anna