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
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
posted by ajolley | 8:00 PM
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