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.