Creating global change. Or not.

I read a gentleman's blog today. He's a doctor and practicing Buddhist. A very thoughtful guy who posts about once a week on various topics, but often having a thread of ways to find agreement, or peace in your life in a world with not enough of it. I usually like what he says and even have found comfort in a some specific things he's offered.

But yesterday's post was about how to create peace in a world seemingly driven by war. It's a common topic and his suggestion was a typical one I've found irritating whenever I've heard it. Basically it's: work on making yourself happy (or "at peace") and hope that your happiness positively impacts people around you. That's the best anyone can do.

My problem is that this is exactly what's already going on in the U.S. today—and why those in power are able to get away with all that they are. They put in enough measures and laws for the masses to grab hold of to feel they have their own hand in deciding how or whether to be "happy" or not. Then those in power use that complacency to pass or subvert other laws to get to their version of happiness. Most people's ideas of happiness are set from a young age. And they are more than happy to allow you to find your own happiness, as long as they can continue to pursue theirs—which is the amassing of money and power. All fine and dandy, except their version of happiness seems to always need to infringe mightily on many other people's happiness. And with globalization, those in power can actually choose which group of people to affect in pursuing their "happiness", keeping the wool neatly pulled over the eyes of their neighbors, or constituents, as the case is.

I've long been a bit envious of people who can turn away from guiding change in others simply by "deciding" to be happy themselves and hoping it will catch on. But unfortunately, I've seen too much what I would call "cultural momentum manipulation" in the world to let my life's years pass without trying to really create change in the world—beyond smiling at passersby.

I've been violated! (finally)

The other day I embarked on the dreaded 10-hour bus ride from Quito to Cuenca. Here's the foreshadowing: Everywhere you look, and everyone you speak with will tell you to be careful because it is fairly common to have someone try to cut into your backpack and steal whatever they can.

Despite my extreme paranoia that generally keeps me safer than most (thank you New York!), a young guy tried to steal my camera during the ride. He was in the seat in front of me, after moving around a bit because I kept shifting my bags. I was being extra vigilent. But the guy climbed under his seat from in front of me, and reached all the way back and cut through the bottom of my bag, which was between my legs and only barely extending under his seat. I was certain no one from the front or the back could reach my bag, yet about an hour into the ride, I felt the almost anticipated slight shuffle at my feet and stood up and saw the guy crouched under his seat looking up at me. I shouted very loudly and he had quite a look of fear in his eyes. I kept shouting so everyone on the bus could hear very clearly, and when I looked, everyone was standing and looking over, putting the ball in my court. While holding him by the scruff of his t-shirt collar, I checked my bag and saw the camera body and the smaller lens missing so I demanded them and other passengers pulled them off the floor and offered them to me. Clearly my spanish lessons have not taken hold because the only word I could conjure was mas! when telling him to turn over the other pieces of my equipment. I shook him around a bit and made the bus stop and had him and his female partner kicked off the bus I-don't-know-where.

So in the end I lost two Nikon camera batteries ($30 each) and 5 rechargeable AAs. But you know what I'm most mad about?—and I'm really struggling with this— is that I didn't pummel him bloody. Keep in mind I am a guy, and I was raised in New York, where people start swinging at the slightest cross look from a stranger. Although I was aggressively shoving him around and shouting curses in my most aggressive voice, my only leftover emotion is disappointment in myself for not just totally beating him senseless—as he well deserved by any standard. Ok, any "guy" standard. Ok, ok, any "guy raised in NY" standard. I'm learning, through a few good testing opportunities throughout the years, that my aggressiveness only goes so far. I'm a little afraid of actually punching someone and although it sounds weird, even to myself, it bothers me. Not because it's good to punch people, because it's really not, but because if you're going to stand up for yourself in ways that genuinely keep you safe, you need to know you have the goods to back it up—hopefully never needing to use them. I dunno, that's my theory anyway.

So I haven't been kidnapped so things are good, although I think that's more of Mexico thing. (And wouldn't that suck: "Your family pays a ransom of 8 million or we kill you!" - Um, Sorry.. my family has about $250.76, will that do?)

But after being her for two days, I will say that I really like Cuanca. It's very colonial—every single street is cobble stone— but culturally urban at the same time. I actually watched an old gentleman impatiently tap his keys on the counter for service in a restuarant. To me, that's a good thing and something I would NEVER have expected to see anywhere in Central or South America. The people seem friendly, educated and relatively aware that it's 2009. I could stay here for a little while..

Life and Death is Relative.

This morning I heard a chicken strutting around outside under my window and wondered whos it was and if the cat would have a little fun with it. I didn't think much more of it because there are chickens everywhere you look here in Otavalo. It's the defacto meat, eaten by everyone pretty much every day. This is a very rural and indigenous town and many people keep their own chickens. Of those that don't, they buy them live daily and cook them the same or next day. It's just how it is. NO ONE buys frozen meat of any kind—it's not even available if you wanted to. The good thing about this is that the meat here is fresh and organic. All the food here is. In the States, for any product to fulfill the definition of "organic" (or even "healthy", for that matter) would require all sorts of exceptions to the way our food chain brings food to our tables. Because we have such an extensive and complicated food delivery system, designed through capitalism-inspired market forces to have only a few producers provide for many millions or people (customers), any exception to the standard procedure is very costly.

If you looked at the most extreme definition of organic you find that in developing countries, most food fits that criteria—at 1/4 the cost of pre-packaged, processed foods in the states.

There are downsides, of course. No one gets rich in the food industry here, as there is no food industry outside of the big cities. Also, the risk of accidentally driving into a grazing cow is quite a bit higher here than in the States. In fact, it's a daily risk. So much so that drivers have taken up the habit of honking at anything that has the potential of possibly entering the roadway. Ferel dogs (of which there are many), people standing on the sidewalk looking in store windows, floating bags, intersections with people or other cars or not. In fact, to cover the bases, drivers—all of them—simply honk about every 10 seconds.

Feed is also a cost that isn't accounted for by people raising animals. So every morning people bring their cows, pigs and chickens to their favorite grassy area and let them feed and whatever grows from the ground. It doesn't matter if the land is public or private, if it's not being used, it's a good feed lot. Even thin patches between roads and storefronts are good enough to drop off your animals for the day. And so you commonly have chickens, pigs and cows grazing inches away from the roadside. So the chicken you bought at the street market that morning is in fact "organic" and has left a wonderfully small footprint on the planet, but has also helped to create havoc in a community that has over the years come to accept many instances of havoc by embracing a culture of "anything goes". And if you follow a certain line of thinking, this leads to interesting examples of cleanliness, building methods, child rearing, time management and commitment, noise and a total lack of personal drive to achieve something "better"—something so ingrained in the culture of the U.S., that it filters everything everyone does at all times.

So I come down for breakfast and go into the kitchen to say hello to Rosita, the indigenous woman who cooks the meals here, and see a pot filled with fresh chicken parts, waiting to be cooked. She knew that I knew what transpired that morning, and looked at me with a half smile knowing the visiting gringo would find the events foreign. What I also saw in her look was a recognition of the relationship between life and death and The Way Things Are.

One of the things that makes living in the U.S. so comfortable is that much of the cultural, financial and physical infastructure is devoted to putting a wall between us and The Way Things Are. It's easy to defend it by saying we are more "civilized" or "safer" than cultures that don't have these walls. But our system doesn't change the relationship between life and death, it just hides it—and in fact promotes and imposes it very harshly in other countries.

And if death is a natural and important part of life, what are we gaining by living in denial of what life really is?

A Little Catch Up

Fast-forward five months. I was arrested in Mexico City, spend two nights in jail, two nights in federal prison and eight nights in immigration detention. I was also exposed to the joke of a court system Mexico provides in its "democracy". All for no reason other than another gringo got caught in the system and everyone wanted to have a chance to squeeze some money out of him. I learned that corruption in the Mexican government filters down to almost every low-level employee. (Almost) And the people not directly engaged in it essentially support as The Way Things Are. Especially corrupt in a big, glaring way, is the entire police force. It is a sad example of human nature and I am embarrassed for the Mexican people and, like many educated Mexicans I spoke with, not terribly hopeful for a future of true democracy there.

I will say that oddly (or luckily) some of the most friendly (and interesting) people I've met in Mexico were in the prison. If you've traveled out of your home country, you know the sensation of being the obvious outsider. Try being the only gringo in el Reclusorio Norte Prison in Mexico City. Fucked up.

I've also completed an article and photo story for a new non profit magazine about micro finance. I met with the family of Lucia Reyes in San Miguel las Tablas, outside of Mexico City. You can see the article here: http://www.allencraigphotography.com/microfinance-article/AllenCraig_Microfinance.pdf

Anyway, I am now in Otavalo, Ecuador, where my posts will begin again infrequently. Shortly I will head further south to Cuenca.

Just a photo. Kinda interesting.

This photo to me represents a fantasy image of Mexico I think many Americans have been brought up with. And the fact that I have a photo of it shows that, at least to some degree, the image is representative of real-life Mexico.

But when you travel a bit and learn about people's lives—The makeup of their government, the culture they are born into, the options available to them, you start to understand that this image, this reality, doesn't represent Mexico. It represents life as most people lead it. Well, a heck of a lot of people, anyway.

In the U.S., it's very easy to shelter yourself from the millions of fellow citizens who are in fact poor. But unless you travel through parts of the country that don't offer "points of interest", you'll rarely see what struggling people go through every day. In the U.S., people that are considered poor are represented as caricatures on TV, and where else do we form our impression of the world? In Mexico though, as in many other countries, the poor make up a huge portion of the population, so it's harder to keep them hidden. Or rather, easier to be exposed to them. Or easier to be one of them.

I'm not sure if I have a point to make. But you have to at least admire the ingenuity and general attitude of so many people who can get by alright with so little. They walk out of the house with clean clothes, they have friends, they work hard, they go on vacations, they raise families. OK, here's a point: maybe as us Americans start considering what we need to do confront global warming or to be involved in a healthy social world order, we might reconsider how dearly we hold our exceptionally high level of daily comforts and the global costs of protecting them. Maybe a few sacrifices wouldn't kill us after all.

In any case, I just think it's a cool picture.

Interestingly random pictures of a small Mexican town

A few weeks ago on the way to shoot a microfinance group in a small town a couple of hours outside of Mexico City, I held my compact digital camera partly hidden in the crook of the car window while driving through the town. With just the tiny lens facing out, I blindly clicked away when I thought something might be good to capture. Just to collect the feel of the town. What I ended up with is an interestingly random pictorial of life in small town mexico.

http://www.allencraigphotography.com/Lumix-DriveBy_WebGallery

Remember that even though they are just snapshots, they are copywrited snapshots, so please don't take any.

Tonight there was a thunderstorm so I went for a walk around the neighborhood, relishing the fleeting last quiet moments here as semana santa draws to a close. After a week of relative calm I'm not looking forward to tomorrow morning. Although I did just discover a vendor in the Metro on the way to my morning EFL class that sells different flavors of Nature Valley granola bars for 5 pesos for TWO! That's about .17 each. I'm bringing an empty backpack with me to my class mañana.

How far a peso goes and what $40 gets you

Street cleaners are out in full force in the early hours in Mexico City with those tree branch brooms. They seem to work well for larger garbage, like leaves or discarded jugo containers, but they whisk right over the smaller stuff, like the layer of dirt and dust that loosely covers everything that doesn't move in la ciudad—and many things that do. Like the dogs. I'm a big "pet every dog that you cross paths with" kinda guy, and the dogs here are so dirty, so beaten that the image of all the yuck and disease that would be on your hand is too much to overcome. And so I suffer from dog envy. I see 'em, they give me "the look", but I have to walk away. It's killing me!

I've been teaching a small class at the KPMG offices in Polanco—the money part of the city. Next door is the "tree building". Kinda cool. I love any effort to bring nature into the otherwise cold environment of a city. But I will admit that the idea was probably a lot cooler on the drawing board than it appears here. Maybe it's the implimentation—just a square with a tree sticking out. As if the guy with the office brought in a nice plant that he thought would spruce things up a bit, not realizing that this plant was a TREE. Maybe he stopped paying attention, maybe he wanted to see how far things would go, maybe he wanted to piss his boss off, but eventually the tree could not be contained and a window had to be removed to allow this thing an outlet. And now you have the tree building. I wonder if there are birds that make the tree home, and if so, are they aware of the uniqueness of the situation? Do they get a ribbing from their bird friends? And do they ever sneak into the mail room to make copies of their little bird butts?

In the photo, you can also see a snippet of a pesero driving by—very small and very rickety cramped buses that cover the streets of Mexico City, sometimes in swarms. I should do a whole photo essay on them. (Note to self: plan photo essay on pesero culture.) They are not quite as crowded as the metro, and you pretty much jump on as they half-heartedly slow down for you where ever you are. Outside of the smaller residential streets, you almost never have to walk more than a block to find one. (It's figuring out where they go that's the challenge.) I believe they are owned by the drivers, who adorn their area with their own take on interior decoration—often essentially an alter to the Virgin of Guadalupe, including speakers hand-cut and wired into whatever spot they could manage to cut into, blasting every form of latin music imaginable, including salsa, thankfully. Best thing: although they no longer cost the one peso from where they got their name, they do only cost from 3 to 5 pesos.

As I alluded to in the past here, I've been having some "issues" with the Mexican judicial system, as it is. The good news is it's all over. I've posted a picture of the official form, printed on that dot matrix printer literally held together with rubber bands, that confirms my case being closed, sitting on top of what has grown to be my file, hand-stitched together with string, as they do in the "courts" I took this shot right in what passes for a courtroom—where you're not supposed to get past the disinterested guards downstairs with a camera, less actually take photos in the "courtroom". Speaking of the Mexican judicial system (do I capitalize "Mexican" in that context?) Did you know that there's not even a system in place to fine people for speeding? This goes for almost all "infractions": if you don't bribe the policía on the spot, their only recourse is to either let you go, or arrest you as if you just robbed, say, a Sanborn's. The whole judicial system facade is not even fully fleshed out—they don't even bother because what laws that are actually defined in what ever "constitution" they have are in no way systematically enforced. The only "law and justice" that everyone understands is in place is that policía go about each day looking for opportunities to take in bribe money. Literally, it's encouraged of them from higher-ups. I've even heard that the captains extract payments from the lower level police, which even further reduces their incredibly low wages. So if you get pulled over while driving and feel good about being able to drive away without further hassle after slipping the officer with 40 bucks, I say look at this way: your $40 didn't get you out of an otherwise legal predicament (cool!), it was simply a bribe imposed on you by someone who's been given the authority to seek out or create situations where you will be feel compelled to give him money. I simply don't understand the psychology that allows such so many people to not only accept this, but to actually alter their lives and dreams to accommodate this. But then again, I'm a healthy, fairly educated, upper middle class white guy raised in the U.S. There's a lot I don't understand.

But I think I am starting to understand the relationship of a careless and repressive government that goes very far out of it's way to allow sustenance to a majority of it's population and the almost resigned-to-their-fate mentality of that populous. I am surprised though, at how "third world" Mexico can be and how vast the differences are between our cultures.

Covert Photos at Teotihuacan

Long time no post. I have an interesting 12-day detention/prison story to tell, but it's still evolving and I'm still formulating my thoughts about the Mexican judicial system. I will say this: many of the wretched things you may have heard about Mexican prisons are true. I'll write it up soon I think.

I had planned to sleep in the Teotihuacan archaeological site so I could be there at sunrise and get some pictures lit by that special sunrise light. When I went on Sunday, they wouldn't let anyone in after 3pm because of some unnamed official delegation. So I decided to walk the parameter and scope out the grounds. I saw many, many trucks filled with military police. They were both in the park and out in the surrounding area. So I figured climbing into the site that night might be a foolish idea. In my walk, I did see that official delegation enter with the usual parade of black and white SUVs. I later learned that it was French President Sarkozy who was visiting the site.

I was happy when I found a promising spot in the Palacio de Tepantitla, a part of the ruins separated from the main site and enclosed in its own fencing. I found it right as it was getting dark, thankfully, after walking for 3+ hours around the circumference of the main site twice. Hopping the fence, I walked around and did my own private tour of the site, viewing a closed off, delicate piece of wall partially restored. When I settled in to my sleeping spot, I realized it was much colder than I hoped it would be. I brought a Mylar heat shield thing for camping, but it was not a pouch as I thought, so it was a pain in the ass to keep over me. It was a little small and krinkly-loud as hell. Soon, the sound of the Mexican night came alive. Barking dogs. From every direction the sounds came. Some close, some far, some in groups, some alone. I tried to imagine the types of dogs behind each bark and listen for a relationship between the barks. Maybe, if that beefy Rottweiler stops, the squeaky two mixed breed terriers will calm down and... It was no use. Although the barking patterns continually evolved, they did not let up the entire night.

I didn't sleep much, as expected. Without needing an alarm, I awoke at 4:30 am, gathered myself and pulled off as many of those tiny prickly plant tufts as I could and hoped back over the fence. I walked back up the road (with the sounds of barking dogs just staring to temper ) to the previously-discovered spot in the barbed-wire fencing that I figured I could climb. I got over the fence and walked, stepped, hopped and ducked my way in the general direction of where I thought I wanted to be when the sun came up, every once in a while flashing a little flashlight I brought to check the ground. I made it to where I was hoping I would (based on my hand-drawn map) as the big orange moon was setting. It was gorgeous! But the sun didn't come up for over an hour after that, so I had to huddle there, over analyzing every sound while shivering. I was on the north side of one of the temple platforms—mini pyramids with flat tops—that surround the Pirámide de la Luna. It seemed that after day break the security people are not actively looking for trespassers, but rather just waiting for the gates to open. I had the place to myself for about an hour and a half as the sun finally came up. It was the perfect covert operation. The pictures were pretty good, but not super spectacular—although there's no other time to see light hit the pyramids this way. I was also fortunate enough to hear the takeoff of and eventually watch a hot-air balloon that slowly floated just over and through much of the site. It made for a few neat compositions, but also lent a gentle feeling of eye-winking camaraderie. I knew the people in the balloon could see me running around taking pictures of the structures and including them from time to time. I imagined that they acknowledged me and I liked sharing some of the moment with people who made an effort to experience this special place in a private and unique way—like me.

Once the sun is up, it's so bright that it's impossible to get a properly exposed image. It's hot and bright as heck out there... When I got home, I was so exhausted and hungry and insatiably thirsty...but content.

Migrant Safe House Visit

To follow up with my trip to the Lucheria train yards, today I went to the Ecatepec migrant safe house and spoke to a handful of guys going north. All but one were from Honduras and the casa's sign-in book showed that 80% of all the migrants that come through are from Honduras. Then Nicaragua, then El Salvador, then Mexico and Guatemala. I don't know if that's a reflection of all northern migration these days, or just specific to this route. But they were all nice kids, almost sweet...innocent. Many didn't know how they were getting over the border once they got there. One guy's family prearranged with a coyote, one guy's brother is "bringing him in his car"—whatever that means—and one guy seems to think he can just drive over with his driver's license, even though he doesn't actually have it with him. All in all, there was very little knowledge and planning for a pretty darn big trip. But amazingly, most migrants do make it one way or another. Some get robbed or much worse along the way. A lot get caught after crossing the border, but as long as they don't have criminal record, they are usually held in detention for a little while and eventually dumped just over the border. This is how the U.S. deals with the "immigration problem". (Sometimes the U.S. makes the effort to release them far from where they were caught and if a migrant had crossed with his family, sometimes they will intentionally release members in towns many miles apart. "B's" immigration policy makes all kinds of sense in a lot of ways.) So some migrants need to make a few attempts, but in general, most make it. Many though don't have the resources, the knowledge or the balls to make a new attempt after their initial plans don't work. These are a whole pool people the safe houses are helping, too. And many have been separated from the people they came up north with and have spent all the money they had on their failed attempt to cross. So you're 2,000+ miles from your home country, by yourself, very tired, have no ID, are broke, have no idea how to get home and in a relatively violent country that could care less about your well-being. And you're a woman.

..The secret of life, revealed?

What is it about cemeteries that I love so much?
The peace and quiet for one, I know. The opportunity to let my thoughts wander without any chance of disruption. But also thoughts of all the energy spent, the paths pursued, the love shared and love lost, the happiness, sadness, hope, and anger all spent and now gone, meaningless to all existence.

"The secret to life is enjoying the passing of time" So said James Taylor in one of his sweetest songs. I remember playing it for my life's true love (let's say "M") many years ago thinking it would reveal something of me I thought needed sharing. The problem was is that I wasn't able to let that idea really drive me. And so I was sharing something of me, that wasn't really of me. It was what I wanted to be of me.

Here's one of the many disgusting things about American culture: we are all driven to continually SEARCH. Ideally, it would be the search for the newest gadget, shiny object, consumerized technological advancement, or whatever purchasable thing that represented the happiness we all so dearly seek. (That you DO seek!) So you work, work, work to save money, or better, to earn credit and you buy, buy, buy. Whew. I must be happy now!

And the few who are even aware of the extent that everything around us was promoting this approach to life, can only go so far in keeping it at bay—keeping it from influencing how we see everything, the jobs we take, the friends we have, all the the decisions we make, and especially the love we let slip away for the search that will never be satisfied. Damn it.

I think often—too often really—about the regrets I'll have on my death bed. At that moment, will everything be clear? Is there some spiritual confluence that comes about in us that clarifies the silly pursuits we had, and (now) obvious paths we were blind to?

At that moment, will we learn the secret to life?

"The Obama administration plans to move quickly to tighten the nation’s financial regulatory system."

Is it really happening? Do we actually have a President that is doing things to make our country more rational and fair? I've been wondering since before "B" was in office if it was possible to "go backwards" after a country has gone down a certain path. More specifically, would the policy makers of our country, with a government so seemingly entrenched in its ways change policy and laws to take power from themselves and give it back to the populous? Even Bill Clinton worked within the existing framework that previous administrations layed out.

But President Obama, in just four days, is actually doing just this.

A few years ago when I was helping (man) a 24-hour vigil in front of the California offices of Nancy Pelosi as a statement against the Iraqi invasion, a woman came up to me crying and saying she's lost all hope. Without thinking—as it is not in my character to be positive—I said no matter what the situation, ever, one cannot lose hope. Once you do, you allow the "evil" forces do have their way. I have to say that during this past administration, I lost hope in our democracy. I really thought my country went so far down a corrupt path of greed and fear that no President, no matter how inspired he/she may be, could possibly move such a vast, entrenched system very much. There are just too many people involved who have a stake—and a say—to allow the kind of change necessary to bring our democracy back in line with the intent of our amazingly fair-minded forefathers. I believed we've past the point of no return.

It's way too early to make a final judgement on Obama. This administration is so new and for a number of situational reasons, the Senate and House are giving him a lot of leeway. The inevitable attacks by Republicans, and even Democrats (I love that about them) will attempt to divert and force his hand in ways no one can foresee. Anyone who follows US politics knows the script. Big business still has their greedy tentacles all through the halls of both houses.

But for now: Gobama!

Jumping the Freight

Things turned out fairly well at the train yard I visited yesterday. The cigarettes, soda and water we brought were a big hit. I went to the yard with two Mexicanos—one I met in San Francisco four months ago—and two of the migrants spoke english, so trust was easily earned through the conversations we had. These guys are just fairly normal people but from fucked up towns and countries. They simply want to earn enough money to support their wives or girlfriends and kids. I met a guy, similar to Pedro from Nogales, who's been living in NY for 15 years. Has a girlfriend and three kids he wants to get back to. He's gainfully employed. After being deported, he went back down to Honduras to visit his family, and walked, bused and freight train-hopped the 1400 miles up to Mexico City to the train yard where we met today. He's planning on crossing the Rio Grande in Texas so he won't need to pay a coyote. He told some pretty nasty stories about what the Maras—Mexican gangs that troll the train tracks—do to some of the migrants if they hear they have family up north (who of course would have money for a ransom). Today, in broad daylight, the only potential threat was from the train guards. Depending on what freight carrier is pulling the long line of trains coming through at a particular time, they either strictly enforce keeping migrants off, or watch as they all jump on. The whole thing is clearly understood by all. The Mexican freight companies allow the jumpers because, I was told, they don't want anyone killed while trying to jump aboard. Whereas the American-owned carriers absolutely do not want free loaders.

During the conversations we had running before "the" train was due to pass through, there was a brief scare as a few guys started yelling and pointing in the direction of where we parked the car we brought. Just as we all looked up, we saw a tow truck leaving with our car! The two guys I came with ran after it and amazingly caught up to him, although the driver probably slowed down in anticipation of the bribe he certainly was expecting. This being Mexico, we got our car back for $300 pesos—$23 US today.

As far as risk, well, of the maybe 40 or 50 migrants who had gathered to jump about the 14:00, every single one made it, including the one woman I saw. Although there were a few instances where a small group all decided they wanted to be in a certain car so the run and jump onto the small steel ladder got a bit rough. In fact, I saw one guy in such a clump fall, but refuse to let go of the bottom run of the ladder. He was dragged for a little bit along the rocky ground underneath and seeing how close his dangling legs were to the huge steel wheels, I ghasped in fear for him. He managed to pull himself up, but you could totally see how so many loose legs and arms every year. Most jump aboard trains in the middle of the night, so you have cold, moisture and darkness mixing with exhaustion, clamoring groups and fear of gangs to make for a very risky jump indeed. But in broad daylight, with a bit of time to consider your "spot", it doesn't seem terribly risky. At least from a bystander's viewpoint at this particular train yard.

Next I'm going to visit a few of the many safe houses that care for such injured migrants as they heal and consider their whole life, now with almost no hope for any kind of productive future.

It's over. It's finally over. And a new day begins.

Well the wait is over. Obama is in. But more important is that Bush is out. He's now nothing more than another stupid, selfish hick in Texas where he belongs. (Sorry, Austin.) He should never have left. The American people should be ashamed of themselves for all the destruction we gave him the opportunity to commit.

The big question now is, have we become so used to being catered to—to believing that every possible whim we could ever have should be satiated as soon as possible—that we can't see any other way of living? That no matter how persuasive President Obama's calls for personal responsibility, we cannot do more than shake our heads in agreement, then turn the channel to catch the latest episode of American Idol, not even considering the first mental steps to enact change within ourselves?

And even if we do, will it only be a matter of time when complacency and laziness once again take over and our eyes glaze with thoughts of the new iPod, a bigger LCD TV and the newest phone that has even more features we'll never use but absolutely need?

Can we actually make the sacrifices necessary to collectively change the meaning of "success" in the U.S. to include personal health, well being for others, sustainability of our planet and actual integrity? Because only then will any change Obama tries to bring about have a chance at sticking. As always, it's up to all of us individually, in the decisions we make every day.

Given that, I'm not hopeful.

Toward the D.F.

Tomorrow I leave for Mexico City. The big D.F. I'm very excited because I found a Quaker house to stay at. I know about the Quakers from when I was with the Tikkun Community in San Francisco. They had a meeting house we often had gathers in, but the people who officially were Quakers were what was most memorable. No, they didn't make furniture or quilts, but to a person, they were gentle, genuinely concerned, bright people who were comitted to social change and efforts to make peace. We organized a 24-hour vigil outside of Nancy Pelosi's office "until the war was over" and some Quakers were eager volunteers. We actually connected with quite a few city workers and pedestrians doing that. When people realize you're sitting out on the cold sidewalk nonstop for a cause, they strongly consider what point you are trying to make, whether they agree or disagree. (Just for the record, sitting out on the cold sidewalk by yourself overnight sucks big time. Time goes by veeeery slowly.)

Anyway, the Quakers are good people.

From I've learned so far, over in D.F.m they're all about social change and host regular events—seems like something every night. Apparently, they are a notable place for educcators and activists to stay who come through MExico City, so I'm hoping to make some good contacts for organizations to shoot for. They even put out a regular newsletter on what social activities are going on. The last issue discussed illegal migrants traveling north, which happens to be a story I'm working on. I understand there's a train yard just north of D.F. where many migrants who've come from points south hop a train to the border. A perfect—no I mean—perfect—place to get shots, talk to migrants, and add depth to my story. (What I have so far can be seen at http://allencraigphotography.com/Photo_Galleries/Pages/Crossing_the_US-MEX_Border.html )

Finally, some movement. I'm getting very impatient here in Guadalajara without being able to take a "next step".

I have many photos from recent shoots, but I haven't had time to go through them all.

The wonderful, sorry state

This is one of the things I'm realizing is very common in Mexico, although if I wasn't so into dilapidated things I'd find it rather sad: A somewhat sizable kiddie amusement park, just left as it was to collect dust, dirt and rust. I keep seeing them. In fact, I've only come across one that was in use. The worn, chipped colors are just gorgeous, and I guess it's possible that these aren't "abandoned", but it's just off-season or something. I mean, would they really leave all that fun just sitting there?

Since I was a kid I've been intrigued by environments, usually quiet, removed from their usual state, usually loud and active. My first recognition of this was in 6th grade, when I wrote a report on the handball courts in between my school and my home. I walked to school every day and sometimes I would walk home around dusk, and as I would pass through the park and take note of the silence, the chill, the long shadows, and the wind blowing leaves across the empty courts, now devoid of the people, noise, daytime energy that usually filled out the scene. On the weekends I would be there with many friends, challenging other teams for court time. But at night, by myself, the courts might as well have been on another planet. Being there alone on a regular basis, I felt like I formed my own private relationship with the park and those handball courts. So that on the weekends, the courts and I shared the knowledge that for today, here in the bright light, we were sharing each other with everyone else. We both knew, I imagined, that come Monday evening we'd be back together again, sharing our stories and thoughts with just each other.

Tonalá

I was surprised at how much cool and seeming authentic crafts there were in Tonalá. There were plenty of things that would appropriately be called "crafts". But there were many things that were the real deal, produced by real craftspeople. Some amazing metalwork in particular. Beautiful pottery. And cheap! Those wonderfully colorful ceramic bathroom sinks (I've always wondered where you can get them) were readily available and for a large one: $30! Thirty! From what I heard by almost everyone was that in Tlaquepaque, about 8 miles closer to Guadalajara, the same exact crafts sell for three times as much. Literally the same exact as they are all made in Tonalá no matter where they are sold. But for some reason, the tourists are all lead to Tlaquepaque and that is where they all Shop For Mexican Crafts. Actually, on Sundays, Tonalá gets pretty crazy with their own street crafts market, but thankfully I went on Saturday so I could talk with people a bit more and shoot some of the artisans in their fabricas while they worked. I love pulling out the "big" camera in places like this. People treat you with respect, damn it


!

hostel travelers

This is why I dislike hostels: There is always a smiley little pair who are up earlier than you and that couldn't possibly imagine that the door they are slamming, or the why-so-loud conversation they are enthusiastically having couldn't possible be a disturbance to anyone one else. And it's always Europeans, always. Italians, Germans, and don't even get me started on the French. I've had the honor of sharing a hostel with French folks—they're sure it would be an honor if you were to be woken up by their insightful, witty and certainly relevant conversation. I'm being sarcastic of course because in fact, people like this, no matter where they were raised (god knows the U.S. is full of them) don't give a second thought to how their actions might affect anyone. Apparently, they've lived for 22, 23, even 30 years and and simply must have NEVER had they experience where they've seen their actions have a detrimental effect on anyone else. So I sheepishly admit that I'm being too hard on them because how would they know that slamming doors in an otherwise silent environment where you know there are other people who are still asleep only feet from you would be disruptive?

The Family Business

I went to small nearby town yesterday with gentleman I met while looking for a place to live. He's a really nice guy and speaks a bit of English. He has a wife and three kids and is a dentist. He also spends a fair amount of time very inefficiently selling cell phone accessories, which is why we were driving to another town. I was tagging along a sales run. I would think that a dentist should be doing well enough to not need to scramble around selling cell phone accessories, so I started to ask him about his dentistry business. Here is some information he gave me:

- he has four patients right now—all of them friends or relatives.
- he *thinks* he would like more patients.
- all his patients are people he knows, because,
- he's afraid that if he takes on strangers, he might get AIDS from them. (true story), subsequently,
- he has never marketed his business.
- his dentist office is in his home, partly because,
- as long as you don't have an "office" you don't need insurance in Mexico
- there are many other dentists on the same street.

I was pretty anxious to start the questioning at any of a number of topics. But I know enough to know there are many ways we in the U.S. look at business—assumptions that we know almost every one else has in the States—that Mexicans simply do not have. The drive to be profitable is a huge thing in the States, and it's assumed everyone has that drive and if not, well why the hell not? So I've already learned that many, many Mexicans open a business, but not for profit. More for pride, community and probably so they have something to do with themselves. But what I still don't understand is the almost intentional decisions they make that keep their businesses from being profitable. As if being profitable changes the dynamic in such a way to make the business a completely different thing. Is it the effort involved? Is it just a lack of education or knowledge how to operate profitably? Or is it laziness? Mexican have bills to pay, too. Their kids need schoolbooks, the car needs gas. God knows the stucco needs repairing and repainting. Or maybe, just maybe, once their overhead is covered, and they make enough to buy clothes and feed themselves, they're... happy.

Anyway, I was gingerly trying to bring up ideas of easy marketing to see how he would respond. But it seems that without the common ground of the desire of profitability, our conversations simply could not move forward.

So bringing it back to myself (finally, right?) I wondered if people in general here are uncomfortable with the idea of profitability. So that if they chose to go to a dentist, or doctor and the office was well-run and clean and the scheduling tight, would they be turned off? Because of the cultural lack of understanding of profitability in business, would they feel they were treated poorly or with disrespect?

And if so, does that mean that any well-intentioned gringo who comes here and tries to go into business for himself will hit immediate limitations because of how offputting an efficient and thereby profitable business would seem?

Just wondering.

Btw, when we got to Santa Lucia, the guy whos storefront we were supposed to go to wasn't even there, nor was his store open. No phone calls were ever made, or any definite schedule confirmed. See what I mean?

We ended up walking around a bit and I got some shooting in. On the way back, we stopped by a pickup truck and bought these plant roots that looked a lot like ginger pulled right out of the group somewhere nearby. They cut them up and put them in a spicy sauce (in a bag of course, everything goes in just a bag) and you eat them raw. They did not look like they would be good at all, but the were fairly soft and yummy. Now if I can only remember what they were called.

Luche Libre!

A few weeks ago the city had its first annual luche libre match in the colonial plaza in the center of town. It was as funny as you might think. You can tell that U.S. wrestling has had an impact, but here they stick more to the costumed characters instead of resorting to the animalistic violence that defines wrestling up north.
The characters themself were pretty goofy, most of them. Almost anti-tough. But when looking around the audience and seeing all the little kids and their contagious excitment you realize who the entertainment was for. Still, I couldn't help shaking my head in the almost amaturish cheesyness of it all.

Breakfast Denial

Revueltos is scrambled.

Important to remember, otherwise you may get your breakfast eggs estallados. Not horrible, unless it's important for you to deny all the cholesterol in eggs, signified by the creamy, yellow yoke that otherwise would be spilling all over your plate, forcing you to decide: smear on to your toast, or work around to eat the remaining, non cholesterolly part of the eggs.