Yanga

Once upon a time there was a man named Yanga. Some say he was an African Prince. Some say he was a slave trader. Some say he was a slave. Some say his name wasn’t even Yanga, that he was called N’Ganga which meant healer or holy man. There are many stories and some are historically inaccurate, incredible, and impossible, but the one thing that every story agrees on was that there was a man of African descent who led a rebellion in 1608 or 1609 that resulted in the founding of the first “free” town in the Americas. 

So with my Dad in tow (he arrived Wednesday), I caught a cab, a bus, and another cab to find out about the town behind the myth. Unlike Coyoliyo, Yanga felt less like a village of families and more like an actual town. Our taxi dropped us off in the central square, a lovely plaza dotted with trees and park benches. In its center workers on scaffolding refreshed the paint on the main gazebo in preparations for the 405^th anniversary of the founding of the Yanga.

Like all of my excursions here, I had goals, but not necessarily a specific process in mind. I knew for sure that I wanted to see the statue of Yanga and if possible meet some actual Afro-Mexicans, but knowing no one I decided to make friends with the local librarian, as librarians are often a font of useful information. I made some inquiries and was able to locate the library with ease. It was just across the square on the second floor of the yellow and white municipal building. Once again I felt the eyes following me. My dad being several shades lighter than me easily passes for Mexican, but even in Yanga I stood out.

I was greeted by a man name Lubin who welcomed me on behalf of the mayor’s office and introduced me to Andres, the town librarian. He showed me every book the library had on Yanga and on the subject of Afro-Caribbeans or really anyone in the vicinity with African roots. I bought the one book that was for sale, but lingered to flip through some of the books that are now out of print and unavailable anywhere. The first thing I noticed upon entering the library was that the walls were covered in black art. Though I had yet to see a single black person, the evidence of our history was undeniable.

Andres and Lubin somehow secured a van and offered to take us on a tour of the town. We were joined by two newspaper reporters from the nearby city of Cordoba, one from El Buen Tono and the other from El Mundo de Cordoba. They were both in town to cover the big anniversary party coming up on the 10^th, but seemed even more interested in hearing about me. Both took pictures and promised to send me links to any articles. The woman from El Mundo de Cordoba came accompanied us for the first two stops of our tour.

Our first stop was the statue of Yanga, set in a large plaza on a platform in front of a colorful mural depicting the rebellion.  There were groundskeepers tending to the grass and raking, but Lubin asked them to hold off while we were there. I didn’t really think about it at the time, but it was the first sign that this wasn’t exactly an ordinary tour.

From there we were taken to the Museum of La Palmillas which is not in Yanga proper, but is somehow still a part of the municipality. There we saw two more stunning murals and another huge painting depicting the rebellion and the founding of Yanga. The painting had arrived so recently that it hadn’t been hung yet and was covered with a blue tarp. Irma Becerru, an archeologist from the museum told us that the painting weighed over 300 kilgrams and was so heavy that it broke the wall they had planned to hang it on, so in the meantime the had set aside until they could come up with a plan to hang it properly. It was massive and filled most of the room.

The rest of the museum was filled with pre-hispanic artifacts. After Xalapa it seemed pretty rinky dink, but interesting none the less to see the mix of cultures. When we arrived at the part set aside for Afro Mexicans, it was pretty odd. There were no glass encased artifacts, just a poster of the anniversary of Gasper Yanga (the had a big party in 2009), a few newly constructed pieces of quazi African art, a reconstructed model of a sugar cane press and a big mortar and pestle used to grind coffee.

Irma implored us to wait for the Director of the Museum to arrive. She said had she known we were coming he would have been waiting for us and apologized multiple times for the inconvenience though I felt as if we should be apologizing because clearly they were pulling out all the stops to make sure we were properly welcomed and taken care of. Coffee was made, the director arrived and so did the camera crew for Channel 26 looking to interview the black woman visiting Yanga. So I gave my third interview of the day much to the amusement of my Dad, then sat down with Archaeologist Fernando Miranda Flores, the Director of the Museum and a researcher from the National Institute of Anthropology and History (aka Irma’s husband).

 

Irma and Fernando

The first thing he did was to apologize for the state of the museum and to explain that it was originally intended to showcase pre-Hispanic and pre-Colombian era artifacts found in La Palmillas and the surrounding areas, but that recently that given the Museum’s proximity to Yanga there has been a call for them to include more information about the history of the African diaspora in this region of Mexico. The only problem was that he was having a difficult time locating artifacts partly because much of the culture has been lost. Still he took the time to fill us in and what he had to say was fascinating.

There were two main ways that black people came to Mexico, 1) as slaves and 2) much later as railroad workers. The state of Veracruz with its port access was a key location to the slave trade during the 16 and 17^th century. As the Spanish had already arrived a subjugated the indigenous people and were using them as a source of free labor, the rationale behind importing Africans as slaves was that somehow they were stronger or more able to endure  hard labor. But given the difficult journey and the cost of the voyages (financial and in lives lost) by the 18^th century many had already decided it would be cheaper to go back to exploiting the natives.

According to museum director, Yanga arrived sometime in the late 1500s as a slave. But here is where the story gets interesting. As for whether or not he was a prince, there is no way to confirm, but he was referred to as a prince by his enemies, in particular in a letter written by a Spanish Jesuit priest by the name of Juan Laurenzio who traveled to the Americas with the very conquistadores who fought against Yanga during the rebellion. Why his enemies would choose to venerate him, no one knows.

Also, while all the statues of Yanga show a relatively young man charging into battle, the evidence shows that Yanga would have been around 55 years old during the time of the rebellion. During those times when the average age of death was around 40, Yanga would have been too old to fight. Evidence suggests that the battle was actually led by another slave, a warrior by the name of Francisco de la Matoza. Yanga was undoubtedly a leader, someone who was able to organize 400 slaves into a rebellion, but Matoza was his sword arm. Another mystery is that during the rebellion, Yanga’s troops captured a Spanish soldier and sent him back with a written list of demands. Where did a slave learn to write? Also though he is often referred to as Gaspar Yanga, Gaspar was actually the name of his son, who was named for his godfather, an extremely wealthy Spaniard. So Yanga of N’Ganga, might not even have been his name.

Eventually the Spanish agreed that Yanga and those 400 others could be free and thus the first “free” town in the Americas was established, less out of any ideological belief that these slaves should be free, but rather because the rebellions were causing too much interference to the sugar trade and it was cheaper to just let them be. But their freedom was still very restricted. The people of Yanga, which was originally named, not San Miguelitos, but San Lorenzo de los Negros (which kind of makes you wonder if that Jesuit priest had any other undocumented interactions with Yanga), were not allowed to interact with any of the other black people coming to Mexico as slaves. Freedom was a highly contagious ideal and the Spaniards didn’t want their slaves to become infected. This of course meant that the Africans, out of necessity intermarried with other races, particularly with the indigenous people and as they did, the population dwindled.

Another contributing factor to the dwindling black population was that after a while all the black women decided to leave. Whether they left purely to be able to work (most of them went to the port to clean houses or in some cases become prostitutes) or because they simply didn’t like Yanga is unclear. Around that time the Spaniards decided if Yanga was going to be free, then they were free to be taxed. The men protested saying that without the women it was a hardship to be there, but the women said they had no problem being taxed as long as they didn’t have to go back to Yanga. So after several generations, the mestizaje absorbed that population leaving behind only traces of culture…some dances and recipes and the occasional genetic throwback of curly hair and dark skin.

After the museum, we made our way to meet Florentino Virgen Castro at his home. Louie Armstrong played in the background as we entered a house like a sepia photo. On the walls were framed family photos that told the story of generations.  Florentino was my first official encounter with a self-identified Afro-Mexican. His grandfather hailed from Martinique and arrived in Mexico in 1913 to help build the railroad.

Florentino is an older gentleman, a natural story teller, a musician with a classic Cuban style of dress, and a distinctly Mexican sense of humor. He greeted Lubin and Andres like they were old friends and they went back and forth about the upcoming festival. Florentino used to organize musical performances, but said he wouldn’t be doing that anymore until he was both invited and paid for his services.  

 

Florentino

From there he turned his attention to me and my questions. Our conversation vacillated between the history of the area and the history of his family. He spoke first of Friar Bartolome de la Casa, a Franciscan who he credited with instigating the slave trade. Despite bearing the vestiges of Catholicism in his name Virgen Castro, he didn’t seem to be fan. “That’s what they did to the bad ones,” he explained. “They marked us with Christian names so they would know who the aggressive blacks were.”

He spoke of racism during the slave trade and how the Spanish fed the slaves leftovers and wondered at their strength and how they also made them into the taste testers of the new world making them try the foreign herbs, peppers, and spices to see if it was fit to eat. Then he transitioned into talking about the racism he experienced and how he dealt with it. Not knowing how to navigate the racial tensions he used music, dance, and singing to bridge the gap and blow off steam.

“Yes, there were some who tried to beat the black off of me, but for everyone I beat the white out of them until they were purple with bruises,” he said with a laugh.  “You have to defend yourself.” When asked about being an Afro-Mexican he said he was proud of his heritage and that he came from a line of people who fought to preserve their culture. He showed me information about Yemeya and the other Yoruba gods and goddesses and said that hear they still prayed to her though disguised as the Virgen of Guadalupe. He wrote a book that he couldn’t seem to remember the name of, a recap of stories passed down from his grandfather.

Florentine picked up his grandson and we loaded up the van and went to Mataclara a small town outside of Yanga in the municipality of Cuitlahuac. There he introduced us to his aunt and sister and her family. The two women wore their hair in short afros and the children while brown skin, looked more Mexican than black. The received us warmly and we sat briefly in white plastic chairs in their living room. I told them about what I wanted to do and they seemed mildly amused recounting stories about all the people from foreign countries who had come to see them, but how not one of them had ever returned with photos. The South Africans came. The Ghanaians came. I am not the only one to be drawn in by the story of Yanga, once again I felt as though I were chasing ghosts.

But since I was there I asked questions. What did they do? The men worked in the fields and the women took care of the home and children. What did it mean to them to be Afro-Mexican? This met with a long silence. Then one woman shrugged and said it was what it was. We didn’t stay much longer after that, but thanked them for their time and got back into the van.

Our final stop was a Hacienda, the ruins of plantation. We bought water and chips from a corner store then walked through the empty rooms with tree roots splitting the wall. Then it was back to the main plaza to catch a cab, but when we tried to leave they implored us to wait for “El Presidente”.  “The president,” I asked.  

“The mayor. He’s like Obama here,” Lubin joked. So we waited in the entryway of the Municipal Building watching a Zumba class from across the courtyard. Then just like that we were meeting the mayor. For a mayor he was pretty casually dressed. We chatted briefly then he invited us back for the Festival de Negritud as his special guests. I told him that was the date we had planned on leaving but that we would consider changing our tickets. As if to emphasize his invitation, he told Lubin and Andres to drive us back to Puerto. I protested. It was a two hour drive and they had already spent the day schlepping us around, but as Lubin explained in the van, what the mayor wants, the mayor gets. Dad is going to head home, but I changed my ticket to Thursday and booked a hotel in Cordoba. I’m going to find out what this Festival is all about.

In the meantime here is the link to a brief article published in el buen tono: http://www.elbuentono.com.mx/index.php/altas-montanas/50194-de-visita-en-yanga-periodista-de-eu

Xalapa

“Xalapa, Xalapa, Xalapa.” I don’t know why all the cabbies say it three times. I guess it has a ring to it. It’s one of the easier indigenous words to pronounce. All the ztl combinations get me tongue twisted. I woke up late on Tuesday to an email from a friend of a friend named Jesus asking to meet me in Xalapa. After Zumba and hiking, I didn’t have the energy to rush and since I still have not managed to complete a single phone call, I knew the odds of me actually meeting Jesus were slim. Still I decided to go. I caught a cab to the bus station and when I arrived there was a collective cab in need of one more passenger so I hopped in. The price was only 50 pesos more than the bus and saved me 40 minutes.

I settled into the front seat and endured an hour and a half of 80s power ballads in Spanish as we passed through the lush green country side. After the salt tinged sauna of Puerto de Veracruz, Xalapa was a bit of a relief, breezy and overcast, a good 15 degrees cooler and busy. Despite a bustling city center, Puerto feels very much like a beach town to me, whereas Xalapa felt more like a real city with its winding streets and universities.

On the recommendation of both Lonely Planet and my friend Sarvelia, I made my way to the Museum of Anthropology. There I tried again to make a phone call without success, so I sent an expensive text message to Jesus and then rented a set of headphones and plunged into the museum. I could have spent days in the Museum of Anthropology which is set on five acres of land and not only boasts of the country’s largest collection of Olmec artifacts, but is gorgeously designed and replete with lush botanical gardens. Rarely would I use the word magical to describe a museum, but this was no ordinary place. I stayed as long as I could, but through some miracle Jesus was able to text me back and I finally had a time and meeting place.

I caught a cab to the cathedral in front of some federal building. There were protestors carrying red flags and white sheets turned into banners. I still don’t know what they were protesting, but Jesus assured me that there were protests in that square almost everyday and always for something different.

We found a comfortable café and sat down to chat. Jesus and his colleague Rosenda (who joined us after an hour) work for an organization called Agrupación de los Derechos Humanos. Founded in the 90s by a few lawyers and a chemical engineer in response to the terrible condition of indigenous land rights, they have fought tirelessly to reclaim privatized lands, push legislation to protect indigenous rights, and most recently to end domestic violence in indigenous communities. We spoke at length about all the challenges, the victories, and the work left to be done before Jesus explained why he wanted to meet me.

Rosenda and Jesus

Magdalena

Antonio and Jesus

Recently in Oaxaca and Guerrero the Afro-Mexicans are getting organized for the purpose of becoming officially recognized by the Mexican government. Under article two of the constitution, Indigenous people are referenced by name as being part of the founding population of Mexico. 62 indigenous populations have achieved legal recognition so far, but those of African heritage have not been officially recognized which means they have no legal protection against discrimination nor any access to federal aid.

In Oaxaca and Guerrero they have succeeded in gaining state recognition, but not in Veracruz yet. Apparently they are just at the beginning of that process. Jesus, understanding the idea of my program wanted to put me contact the with State Commission on Human Rights so that if during my travels I met anyone who might be in a position to facilitate this type of organizing I could connect them. So we went to meet Antonio Falcon and Magdalena Fernandez and they talked to me more about the work of the National Consulate for the Prevention of Discrimination and also about the challenges posed by the various identities.

It was all very fascinating, but with my trip more than half over I began to feel very concerned that I might not actually meet any actual Afro-Mexicans, so I asked again where I might encounter them and I was told to try visiting Coyoliyo.

200 pesos and almost an hour later I found myself in a tiny town wandering around and feeling very awkward. I did see my first Afro-Mexican, but she was 8 years old and hardly in a position to answer my questions. Also I wasn’t sure if she would identify as such, which brought to light a whole series of ideas about the identities we choose and the ones that are imposed upon us. It was late by the time I got back to Puerto de Veracruz, but I didn’t sleep well for having so much to think about.

The longer I am here the more I think that this trip should be for all youth of color and not just black youth. I would still love to do diaspora trip, but what keeps coming up for me in Mexico is how the variety of people of color have had to combine forces to survive create this unique cultural identity that is not one thing exactly but a hybrid. This is truly the melting pot that the US claims to be, whereas we are more like a salad, united under the banner of our nationality, but with very distinct and separate cultural identities. 

Videos of the Voladores in Cempoala

Veracruz Update #2

I’ve been seduced by the lure of being busy. It’s easy really. I make lists of things to do and places to go and as I travel this lists just get longer. For every item I check off, I meet someone or see something that adds another three items. Since last I wrote I have visited the Naval Museum and the Veracruz City Museum, found a really cool looking arts cinema, and attended a traditional afternoon dance at the Zocalo. I also met some scary clowns, was offered a job teaching English to local tour guides, and inadvertently attended a hot air balloon race (from the ground.) I went to the beach again and finally put my germafobia on hold long enough to enjoy time in the water. With all that accomplished I still have not managed to complete one single phone call to any of the people I am supposed to be in contact with. Is mercury in retrograde?

Despite all the new experiences, I don’t feel overwhelmed or hurried. I contemplate my plan, but once I know what my day is about I just go to it.  I am more present here and now than I have been in a long time. This is what travel does for me. It’s like an ongoing meditation. I pack a book and my journal in my purse because I eat most of my meals alone and today I wasn’t sure how long I would be on the bus, but I didn’t read a single page.

I realize reading is what I do to escape and here I don’t want to escape anything, I want to engage. Yesterday was my big adventure. I set an alarm to wake up at 7:00AM, but I was awake before then. I took my time getting ready, but then I caught a cab to the second class bus station and got on a bus to Cardel. There is something a little nerve wracking about getting on a bus to a place you’ve never been before. I’m always afraid I’ll miss it or I’ll fall asleep, but to my surprise this time I didn’t feel the same anxiety. While I am definitely a gringa with a very non-Mexican accent, my Spanish is clear enough and I ask a lot of questions. I felt confident that I would arrive where I needed to be and like magic, an hour later I arrived in the main plaza of Cardel, a small town just waking up. Most of the shops were still closed, but I bought a ham and cheese pastry from a street vendor, it was still warm, and I sat on a park bench enjoying the quiet of the morning.

Two men approached me, one in a wheel chair. He handed me a flyer and launched into a well-rehearsed spiel about how this organization had helped him get a job and could I donate. He couldn’t get all the way through before finally giving up and saying “Your hair. It’s like cotton. I just love it.”  The other man agreed and they had a short conversation about it that made me laugh. I gave them a few pesos, but they lingered to chat with me about the US and the weather, nothing deep. Then I said my goodbyes and caught a cab to the ruins of Cempoala. The cab driver looked a bit like the Mexican version of my Dad except that he had tattoos on both arms. He was also chatty and eager to tell me how to catch a collective cab back for a fraction of what he charged me. He showed me where to wait and what to say then left me at the door of the ruins.

It was a bit creepy. Unlike the crush of people loitering on the boardwalk, enjoying the beach or cramming the sidewalks to shop in the plazas and the Zocalo in Veracruz, Cempaola at first glance was empty. Sunday in a Catholic country…nothing looked open. Even the ruins didn’t look open. There was no one at the door to the park or the museum, so I just let myself in. Thankfully I found a tour group mid tour, so I tagged along and caught some basic explanations about the Totonac people and the layout of their city. What’s left of it was buried, exhumed, and in some part reconstructed by the government. There were no fences. You could easily climb to the top of any of the temples, but the guide implored us not to in order to preserve the sight for future visitors. The sun had just begun to peak, so I found a grove of short palm trees to shade me as I listened. Too soon it ended but then came five men dressed in brightly colored garb playing drums and the flute. Four were there to perform a Totonac special ceremony; the fifth was there to collect 15 pesos from anyone who wanted to see it.

I gave my donation, but asked him to at least explain it to me. From where I stood it just seemed like they were playing and dancing around a pole. Turns out each man represented an element…earth, water, wind, air and they were all integral to asking God to send rain and bless the crops with fertility. In order to do this the each climbed up the pole which was pretty tall, then took some long ropes and wrapped them around the top of the pole.

“Van a volar,” The fifth guy told me. They are going to fly. And so they did…I took video.

After that the tour left and I was really on my own. It was nice to get to visit the ruins that way. Peaceful.  I stopped by the small museum and then put my cab driver’s instructions to good use by wedging myself into a cab carrying no less than 7 people. From Cardel I attempted to catch a bus to Quiahuitzlan, but when I tried to tell the lady where I wanted to go she didn’t know where it was (bad sign). She decided I need to be on a bus to Villa Rica, so that’s what I did and it took me right to the entrance of Quiahuitzlan.

As soon as I got off the bus, I kind of wished I hadn’t. Quiahuitzlan is in the middle of nowhere. Literally, it’s a bus stop on a highway. As soon as the bus pulled away there was no traffic in either direction just a sign with a pyramid and an arrow up an empty road. There were signs on both sides, so I crossed the street because on that side of the road there were two houses and what looked like a farm or a ranch. I was told I could catch a cab that would take me up the mountain to the ruins, but looking around I realized that was an overstatement. There was no cab, no truck, no bus, no traffic. I lingered a few minutes but the only sound was of cicadas. I walk a little ways up the path and ran into an elderly couple sitting outside beneath a tree.

Man: Hey.

Me: Hey.

Man: Where are you going?

Me: Quiahuitzlan.

Woman: To the ruins? (As if there were anything else in the vicinity)

Me: Yeah.

Woman: How are you going to get there?

Me: I thought I’d catch a cab.

Man: Probably not, they both laughed revealing a handful of teeth between them. It’s a long walk. Walk slow so you don’t get too hot or you can ask the lady at the hotel.

Woman: Where are you from?

I still don’t know where this mythical hotel is. And it was a long walk, all up hill, winding through a quiet forest with very large spiders and noisy lizards skittering through the underbrush. The road was paved. I don’t think I would have dared if it weren’t. And just when I thought I was really alone, a car would appear out of nowhere to drive past me. I don’t approve of hitchhiking in general, but when you’re hiking up a big ass mountain to get to the exact same place that every car is going to….well don’t worry mom no one picked me up. I walked every step and was covered in sweat from head to toe.

At the top was an incredible view. I could see all the way to Villa Rica. Then as is usually true, from the mountain climbed were the steps of the mountain left to climb. I took a break by the tombs. A man was selling fresh coconut, but I opted for water and sat in the shade to catch my breath. When I was ready I continued to explore the ruins, walking up stone steps to find another set of tombs mostly inhabited by large frolicking butterflies whose wings clapped as they ran into each other.

 The other tourists were all Mexican and tried to stare at me without staring. At first no one would look me in the eye…then finally a woman approached me and apologized to me.

“We saw you walking, but there are 10 people in our car. I felt so ugly to have passed you.”

That broke the ice. Then everyone wanted to talk to me and take my picture. Turns out the lady lived in Canada for several years and had been to Seattle. She was on vacation with her husband and his family touring the sights the way we might go to Yellowstone.    

“Why are you so strong?” she asked me. I didn’t know what to say. “You walked all that way. I couldn’t do it,” she said.

I don’t feel particularly strong. In fact, Mexican bootcamp has a way of showing me just how out of shape I am. Today I went back to Zumba and yeah...it wore me out. But something I did notice, they maybe has nothing to do with the strength it takes to walk up a big hill is the unexpected absence of fear. The first few weeks I lived in Spain, I would enjoy each day to the fullest then come home and in the privacy of my tiny room, hyperventilate from all the newness. It was the same when I arrived in Japan. It’s like when you look up at the sky and realize just how tiny you are in comparison. Traveling has a way of illustrating the immensity of the world. It is so big and there are so many people in it living so many different lives. Yet those small connections and seemingly trivial conversations bring the world back down to a manageable size.

That’s the point right? Strangely I have arrived at a place in life where the world feels manageable and even with all the complications of busses and telephones and the great unknowns and unexpected, I just have this feeling that everything is working out exactly the way it’s supposed to. Today after Zumba David and his cousin Gabriel invited me to their home for lunch. We talked about my program and he has several families he thinks would be interested in hosting our youth. I have prepared an application and will hopefully be hosting a meeting to introduce myself to them this weekend. In the meantime, I am headed to Xalapa tomorrow. It's coming together. :)

Veracruz Update #1

Saludos de Veracruz!

Day 3 in Mexico is at an end and though my feet are sore and I am sweating like a roasted pig after my first outdoor Zumba class (stay tuned for a post about that), I am all smiles because this trip has been awesome and it’s just the beginning!

Before I continue, I just want to say thank you again to the over 50 people who donated online and offline to make this happen. Through your generosity I exceeded my goal and raised $3,340 (and apparently there are still a few checks in the mail)! Amor Spiritual Center is officially my fiscal sponsor which means your donations are tax deductible and you will be receiving an email for your records sometime in the fall. J

I am especially grateful for the extra money we raised because I will be traveling within Mexico a lot more than I had originally anticipated. My first foray will be Sunday. I will be visiting Playa Chachalacas and the Pyramids at Quiahuiztlan. Then Tuesday I head to Xalapa to meet with Jesus from Agrupación de Derechos Humanos, a local non-profit dedicated to working with indigenous groups with regard to Human Rights. I anticipate visiting Cordoba, Yanga, and also Puebla.

In the meantime I’m getting to know Veracruz. I arrived Wednesday morning and caught a cab to my hotel. It was too early for me to check in so I just left my bag and hit the ground running. 

Veracruz is blue skies and palm trees. I love the way the sea salts the air. The heat sneaks up on you. It feels good, the warm damp air, then suddenly you are practically melting. I don’t know if there is an official siesta, but you don’t see a lot of non-tourists moving quickly throughout the day, it’s not until night time when the boardwalk is really packed with joggers and families out for snow cones by the water. Everyone takes advantage of the mild temperatures. It doesn’t get cool exactly, just cooler and then the music starts to play and it feels like an ongoing party.

Everyone here is very excited about the aquarium. It was the first thing the hotel staff told me to go see. Fish are cool and all, but when I got to the aquarium I realized I had zero interest in actually going in. The aquarium is set inside a mini mall of crap next to a Wax museum (that is creepy in every country) and a Ripley’s Believe it or not Museum. If you are 12 years old, need to eat icecream or buy something cheap and touristy, the Aquarium is the plaza for you. It is truly a one stop shopping for tackiness and children that make you temporarily forget that all humans are a blessing. The only redeeming feature besides its proximity to the beach is that in the depths of all that there is a chair massage parlor with new age Mexicans dressed in all white waiting to work their magic with flute and mystical wind music playing just loud enough to drown out the singing mechanical clown I wanted to destroy with a pickax.

After a massage and some cold water I felt like a human being again. Having seen enough of the Aquarium I walked back past my hotel until I found a sidewalk café. It was empty, which usually isn’t a good sign, but I took a chance because it was a weird time to be eating. The waitress was kind of weird towards me and seemed irritable when I ordered shrimp. We don’t have that she told me…and I could feel myself getting annoyed, but I asked for a recommendation and she said mojarra. I still don’t know what kind of fish it is, but I love it! My first meal in Veracruz has so far been the best. Mojarra frito al ajillo with rice, avocado, tomato, lettuce, and warm corn tortillas. Actually all my meals have been great and half of them have been mojarra. I did try seafood stew today and some kind of spicy pork medallions. Yum and yum.

I digress. While eating, a man named Luis came to talk with me. He was the first person to introduce himself to me and even took the time to introduce me to the seemingly surly waitress whose name is Elena (turns out she was just kind of shy and afraid I didn’t speak Spanish). Luis is a jewelry vendor. He has a push cart that he walks up and down the beach.

“Veracruz is international,” he told me. “We are a port so people come here from all over the world.” While I know this is true, the more I walk around here, the less true it feels. There are lots of tourists here, but most of them seem to be Mexican and from other parts of Mexico. Even here at the hotel, I haven’t seen one other visibly foreign person. Moreover I have so far seen only 1 person I would classify as Afro-Mexican. Though when I bring this up everyone points to their nose and tells me about their African grandfather who was coal black.

Despite the rich history of African heritage hidden in bone structure, the Afro-cuban salsa blaring from every restaurant, and the hints of Africa in the well-seasoned food, I am clearly an anomaly. People stare at me openly. It’s a bit disconcerting. At first I thought it was just people trying to sell me things, but now I realize it’s actually everyone. Some guy actually took a picture of ME with his camera phone while on our bus tour of Veracruz. And he was not the last, people can’t wait to ask me where I’m from. So I have taken to putting on make-up and wearing dresses ‘cause I want to make sure they get a really good show. Though it is hot here so mostly I’m cute for the first five minutes and then I am a sweating mess towering a foot over everyone in all my voluptuousness complete with my orange afro. Nope… not inconspicuous at all.

But the men seem to love it. “Mi linda, mi reina, mi morenita,” they call out as I walk by. Yesterday I was serenaded with Celia Cruz songs. Once again I am “Morena”- dark one. The women look at me too. Today the comment that most touched me came from a tiny wrinkled old woman who smiled at me with such a face of delight and told me I was beautiful and black. It made me think what it would be like for a 15 year old black girl from Seattle to be walking down the streets of Mexico to have her beauty affirmed by complete strangers.

After lunch that first day I walked four hours (literally). I walked from the beach down into the historic part of town which is more in alignment with what I expected to see. Pastel colored buildings, white sidewalks, bustling streets. I walked past the Yacht club and the Naval Museum, past the Cathedral with the Black Jesus, the marimba players in the plaza, the market place, and the Zocolo just breathing in the city and trying to see it not only through my eyes, but through the eyes of the young people I hope to bring here.

One of the gifts being a study abroad leader has given me is the chance to orchestrate the magic of travel. There is a lot that goes into this process. It’s helpful to know where things are and what to expect, cultural tidbits like whether you should tip or not or how to identify safety concerns. So far the most dangerous parts of my trip have been trying not to choke on fish bones and trying to figure out when and how to cross the street. I found a cool bus tour that took me all around Veracruz. I also went to the Museum and met a woman name Carmen Cruz who was a well spring of information about this entire region and cued me into the cheapest ways to get to the Pyramid and also to the fact that there is a public dance hosted in the afternoons. I will be going to that tomorrow.

In terms of the program. I have come up with a home stay family vetting process and a tentative 15 day itinerary. Meeting Carmen really gave me more ideas on youth appropriate activities and tours. So I am pricing everything and working on my budget. My hope is to start vetting folks in Yanga next week while checking out the Festival de Negritud! I hear Yanga is a small town, which is ideal for home stay experiences because they kids are forced to spend time with their families.  As always there is so much more to say, but this is already pretty long. So just know all is well and unfolding beautifully. Thanks for your continued support.

Also please check out my website for my updated calendar. www.rejjarts.com  I will be giving an interview on the Ms. Camay radio show in September and in October I will be giving a vision boarding workshop at East West Bookstore. Sometime in between I will be facilitating another self-publication class and doing some writer’s workshops TBA. Message me if you are interested in any of those workshops.

The Year of Why Not?

Something happened. One day I woke up an thought why not? Why not live my life the way I have always dreamed? Why not write books and publish them? Why not take kids abroad on my terms? Why not travel the world? What the hell am I waiting for. Nothing. No more waiting. Time to do it right. 

December Soul Writers

Greetings Soul Writers. For you those of you not able to make it yesterday, we reviewed some basic parts of writing. We talked briefly about alliteration, assonance, and simile, before diving into a metaphor exercise. I was inspired to adapt an activity from Rob Blair's blog: http://robbieblair.com/9-metaphor-exercises/

Create a metaphor using the following three starters.
Life is...
I am...
My heart is...

Once you have a list of a few metaphors, really draw them out. We did this aloud with a group. Here is an example.

I am a mountain.

From there expand: I am a mountain, forged in fire, filled with impenetrable secrets, a fortress hiding in plain sight, a monument to self sufficiency.

Often writers fall into the trap of assuming all people will understand imagery in the same way. The purpose of this practice was to really dig into the metaphor to figure out what we really wanted to convey and to be precise with our language.

Our main free writing inspiration came from Mindy Nettifee's Glitter in the Blood: A Poet's Manifesto for Better Braver Writing. If you don't own this book yet, I highly recommend it. Mindy is an incredible poet. I had the opportunity to see her perform at the Seattle Poetry Slam. Some of her strengths include incredible imagery, narrative poetry, use metaphor, and specificity. Her work stays in my head long after I've read it and as a writer that is one of my big goals, to make a ripple in someone's brain. I read an excerpt from the forward then shared a list of objects to be included in the free write as the prompt. Here is the list (located on pg. 48):

• an antique pocket watch
• an elevator button
• a letter opener
• a restaurant match book with a phone number written in it
• a magnifying glass
• a Gordian knot
• a snow globe with a miniature city in it
• one earring
• a small statue of the Hindu deity Ganesha
• a mineral rock of some sort you cannot identify
• an old dictionary with the entire "R" section ripped out
• an old cassette labeled "To Jackie"

Enjoy the prompts and I hope to see you next month.Soul Writers meets on the first Sunday of the month from noon-1:30PM at the Amor Spiritual Center 2528 Beacon Ave S. Seattle, WA 98144.  All are welcome. We are a drop in community of writers coming together to find inspiration, set goals, and to make time to write.

Here is what I wrote:
I fell asleep with the elephant cradled in my palm. Having the tiny God of remembered truths, God of cleared pathways, a God beyond obstacles right there in my palm print was a comforting lullaby. But when I awoke Ganesha was gone and the city had disappeared. Another God had crept in during the night and ladled out a thick gray bisque that settled swamp like at the edge of my porch where the yard used to be.

I wandered from room to room peering through windows and finding nothing. No neighbors, no neighbors dog, no neighbor's soda cans rolling down my driveway, no driveway. No neighbor's dog shit land mining my yard. No yard. No street. As though the Rapture had come and sucked up everything in its path leaving me and my house as the last remaining island.

His love had come upon me just as suddenly and uninvited, settled in swamplike at the periphery of my heart and mind, but stealing closer inch by damp inch. I pulled on boots. This was rain boot and wool socks weather. A cup of tea and a good book was tempting, but a part of me needed to know that the world was still out there somewhere. Instead I found the gray, a chill biting into bare hands. With every step forward a space cleared between me and the fog. There were in fact trees all around me, sidewalks, houses, tall metal street lamps glowing like halls cough drops. A tight globe of visibility moved with me as though I were fairy in a glass jar lit just enough to see my own footsteps and the nothingness moving in to erase them.

GPS only works when you can see the streets and the signs marking them. I was lost in him already, a foot beyond my house and wondering how some place so familiar could suddenly seem so foreign.