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April 04, 2007

Adventures of Bad Boy and Chico

Adventures of Bad Boy and Chico
So, Erich and I have these names for each other: I’m ``Chico`` (after my falsified Chicano identity, which I so readily throw out into the public, hoping to be given some sort of special treatment) and he’s known as ``Bad Boy`` (because to be honest, he’s anything far from being bad).

In fact, the name ``bad boy`` derives from my own childhood; I remember my good friend Jung Jun (aka Chris Kim) ``christening me`` with the name in high school and it’s been a term that I readily associate with friendship.

And so, this story that I’m about to tell is our story, the story of Bad Boy and Chico, as it happened. After all, this is our adventure and nobody else’s. And the following are some of my own personal thoughts.

The Trip
On Thursday night, I met Erich in the ADO terminal ready for our trip to Chiapas. I was excited to go, because we’d been planning the trip for so long. At the same time, I was eager to get away from Merida for a bit—the sites, the sounds, the students, and to be honest, the roommate.

We left for the bus at 7:15. All in all the trip wasn’t that bad, although I could not fall asleep that easily; I kept staring at out the window, watching the full moon—first in Yucatan, then in Campeche, then in Chiapas. The full moon was traveling with us, following us through the entire trip.

Flight Plan, The Longest Yard, the Chronicles of Narnia…movies played on and on.

In the middle of the trip, I awoke however, to a random stop that we made on the side of the road. Erich was sleeping and didn’t notice what was going on, but I quietly stared out the window. I saw the bus driver hop down from his seat and talk to a man (a man who’s face I could not see), a man who was standing in the shadows.

Who was this man in the shadows? What did he want? Where did he come from? For a split second, I thought of the possibility that they were Zapatistas—that Commandante Marcos had followed us. Could he too have been following the full moon?

I peaked out the window and watched the man in the shadows, his arms gesticulating to our bus driver. Suddenly, two soldiers in camouflage uniform walked up to our bus, opened the under hang compartments and took out about five suitcases. They opened the suitcases, looking to see what was inside.

Who were these people? What did they want? I thought that the whole event was really strange. They weren’t in Zapatista uniform, but at the same time, I didn’t find their behavior to be that of Mexican national guards.

But I guess I’ll never know—just the image of the man in the shadows sticks out in my mind.

The Hillside
By daybreak, I was able to get a better look at the surroundings—at the state of Chiapas. We moved quickly through different terrain—through hills on a twisting, winding road. Erich said it reminded him of Colorado. I say it was more like California.

Immediately, I noticed the immense poverty—shacks on the mountainside, bricks left on the side of the road, women walking with their young children dangling on their backs.

Imagine this image.

Imagine a world with no Britney Spears, with no IPODS nor cell phones. There were no fancy cars, no Michigan hats…

Imagine a world like this—a living, breathing community so removed and so different from our own...

And as the clouds descended on our bus, I wondered what San Cristobal de las Casas would be like—I wondered if it was a thriving community like Merida.

``Wake up, wake up, wherever you are... I come from a land, I come very far. Jersey, `` I think ``is the name of my star.``

``Jersey,`` they chant `` is the name of your star.``

It really felt like I was entering into another land—totally different than that of any other part of Mexico I have really seen. Perhaps it was due to the extreme comfort that I feel right now around Merida, or just the slight tingle that I felt entering into Chiapas, a state torn by poverty and once the site of extreme uprisings by Zapatistas.

San Cristobal de Las Casas
Once Erich and I made our way to the hotel, we unpacked our belongings and headed out into the city of San Cristobal de Las Casas. It´s a charming city, with cobblestone streets, quaint shops, and cafes. It almost reminds me of Quebec City—the city of the north enclosed by a fortified wall. Here, the city stands the same, only fortified by the mountain range which circles it.

We walked around the city for a good number of hours, entering into churches and travel agencies, restaurants and shops. As we walked, I thought of the last trip I took with friends—the last long trip—to Quebec last summer. And I thought of how much I´ve grown as a person since that trip. How my outlook on some issues have really changed...

I enjoyed walking around with Erich—he explained to me a lot about the churches that we entered into and also about his experiences in Oaxaca. Apparently, Chiapas is very similar to Oaxaca, where he spent time on his last study abroad program.

We also had the opportunity to watch a concert in the centro. A large orchestra, dressed in black and white, played familiar American tunes: Fly Me to the Moon, Stand By Me, Sailing, and many more. I really enjoy watching such simple concerts, out in the open air and available for everyone to hear. Because after all, everybody should have the opportunity to listen to a little music

and eat well too, right? Erich and I ate at a nice Italian restaurant one night. The next day, we went to Doña Isabela’s panaderia, little bakery on one of the calles. The desserts we bought we good, although I was a bit upset when I found out that the woman at the cash register wasn’t the actual Doña Isabel herself. In fact, I don’t even think that there is such a lady…

By day and night we walked around the city; I especially liked attending the Palm Sunday ceremony at one of the largest iglesias with Erich. I watched him buy his palm and learned a little bit about the holiday and a little bit about the culture. It was a good experience all in all, something which I’ll never have the opportunity to do again, most likely.

You Can Pick Your Friends, but not your Family
Being on this trip has made me realize that you can pick your friends, but not your family.
And I must say that this reality certainly ends up being a good thing. Over the course of the past few days, I’ve understood better and better how great it is to have the opportunity to choose and make friends; on the flip side, I’ve come to realize how fortunate I am to have such a great, functional family.

And I make this statement by way of comparison:

Erich and I are sitting in the hotel room in San Cristobal de las Casas when he mentions to me that Louisa (another extranjera studying at the UADY from his group) and her mother and sister have arrived in San Cristobal.

Louisa had mentioned something to me a few weeks ago about possibly meeting up and she had spoken to Erich about it even more in detail.

I wasn’t opposed to the idea because Louisa happens to be a nice girl and a smart girl; she’s a student at Colombia University and I have (over the course of our discussions) really related to her college experience.

So when Louisa called Erich and asked if her Mom and her sister could join us for a while, I was not upset about the idea.

Then came the warning.

We’re sitting in the centro and Erich tells me he’s found out that Louisa’s family isn’t the “traditional family”; they’re extremely liberal and almost “hippie” by trade. We’re waiting for them to meet us, mind you.

“Okay,” I thought. “I can do this.” I didn’t want to prejudge her family, although I must admit that I silently was. I thought about some of the ultra-left people that I’ve come in contact with at Michigan and about some of the differences in our opinions/behavior.

And although I silently agreed with myself that they wouldn’t be “my type of people”, I conceded that it was important to be a good person and hold up my end of the bargain. I felt that it was important to be respectful to Louisa no matter what her family was like.

“Instead of floral center arrangements in their home,” Erich told me, speaking of Louisa’s home, “they have pots of marijuana instead.”

Okay. That was enough for me. I started to get a bit more judgmental.

We ended up meeting Louisa, her younger sister and her mother; they certainly fulfilled my expectations.

Louisa’s mother, a divorced woman from France, looked as if she was leading the sexual revolution/hippie movement of the 1970’s.

Like the “Patty Hearst of Paris”, Mrs. “Louisa’s mother” (for lack of a better name) had the face of a woman living with a strange past.

As the four of us sat in a jazz café, she spoke to me about trying some of own remedies for my sore throat: cucumber onion tea, tobacco with lemon, snake skin and carrot paste…

The conversation went on for about an hour and by the end, I understood that Louisa was living a life far different than I imagined; she came from a family that I would never have expected…

She was a girl with a very different family situation than that of my own. Perhaps it was her sister’s joint rolling and her mother’s approval that put me a bit out of my own comfort zone.

My experience talking with Louisa and her family made me think of their faces; her mother’s expressions and strange mannerisms were definitely engrained in my mind for sometime after…

And I thought about a famous poem that I had studied, which I shared with Erich later on in the evening:

We Wear the Mask, Laurence Dunbar
Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)

WE wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!

How Louisa hid so well her family! Sure, she’s opened about talking about them, but on the surface, you’d never guess….

Later that night, Erich and I spoke before bedtime. We spoke about our own families and our own personal upbringings. And I listened very carefully to what Erich had to say. It seemed that in terms of upbringing, we had a lot in common to share.

All that I can say is that I’m glad that I have the family I do.

Tuxtla: Jaguares!
Vamos Jaguares! Erich and I went to see a soccer game:

Jaguares vs. Santos
1 to 1
March 30th, 2007

at the Tuxtla stadium.

Futbol is definitely a part of the Mexican culture and I think it was great that we went to see a a game. We took a bus from San Cristobal to the capital city of Chiapas, Tuxtla. The city was much hotter than San Cristobal; it’s not set in the mountains.

It was a lot of fun getting the chance to do something a bit different.

Vamos Jaguares a ganar! Vamos Jaguares!

The German Efficiency
Erich thinks that I’ll have a heart attack by the time I turn 40—no, 35. He’s switched his mind only within the course of a few days, clearly citing that I live my life very fast-paced—very (as I like to call it) “rapid fire”.

We’ve spoken a lot on the trip about some explicit differences between us.

Obviously, we’re followers of different religions. Though, like many times before, I’ve gained incredible knowledge and satisfaction from engaging in such talks regarding our religion; it’s been great to talk about and represent my Jewish faith. I think more and more, I’m discovering and establishing my own dignity along with respecting the dignity of others as well.

And, as I celebrate the Passover holiday for the first time alone, away from my family, outside of the country (in a place where there are no Jews), I’ve certainly felt closer to my Jewish community more than ever.

My talks with Erich have been great; as I sit at the pool writing this entry, I think of how much greater it would be if most of the world would take the time to get to know other people. I think about how great it would be if other people took the time to learn about other religions—about people of other races, ethnicities, cultures, and sexual orientations—

because there really is no room or place in this world for misunderstanding. There really is no reason for it at all. The world would be a much better place if people just took the time to stop and listen.

Stop and Listen.

But despite our differences in religion, Erich and I also come from very different parts of the United States.

And this difference is something that I am conscious of and often encounter with other people at Michigan. You see, I live my life based on very New York influenced culture. I love being busy. I love eating on the run, rushing around, staying 100% active.

I live for pressure.

And this outlook is something that I don’t share in common with Erich or many of my fellow Wolverines back at Michigan. Ever since I can remember, I’ve always been active. I’ve always set high scholastic and co-curriculur expectations for myself—I’ve always led, and always have engaged.

And I’ve done this because I know I can. I’ve set high standards and have forced stress upon myself because I know I can.

And so on our trip, Erich has noticed this difference. I like rushing around, making sure that I see everything. And on the flip side, he’s more laid back—not really laid back, but just more relaxed.

And I’m okay with that. I accept the fact that I like to remain constantly busy, even if that means “getting a heart attack” (although I know he meant that comment just as a joke and in good faith). I’m okay with rushing around—even if that means compromising my social life for a bit.

And today in Palenque, the subject was brought up one more time.

We left early from San Cristobal de las Casas for a tour we booked to the Agua Azul and Mihsol-Ha. In our group were two other students from Europe—Finland and Sweden. Erich and I made friends with the two girls quite easily, who are also here in Mexico on a semester abroad and are living in Guadalajara.

Over breakfast, we spoke about our traveling experiences. The girls told us how they travel in a very relaxing way—how they like to take things as they come.
“None of that German efficiency,” the Swede girl said, as she looked at Erich and I . “We don’t live our lives based on the German efficiency.”

German efficiency? Was that me? I had never heard that term before.

Do I have the so-called “German efficiency”? And (as I have wondered time and time again) is having the German efficiency really a bad thing?

I think that it was just really funny how Erich and I had been talking about the subject through the course of the whole trip and then all of the sudden, out of the blue, a Swedish blond stranger brings up the topic again.

Does it really have anything to do with the fact that I’m German? Maybe it does… Although I really don’t see my grandfather living in similar suit, with a very fast-paced behavior…

Don’t Japanese people move quickly? Or Canadians?

Am I really living my life in accordance with my German identity?

In any event, we ended up befriending these two girls and talking with them throughout the entire day. They were really funny.

Agua Azul and Mihsol-Ha were beautiful sites; both allowed us to see the difference in terrain between Chiapas and Yucatan. The jungle environment is aesthetically challenging to the eye and tucked away from real major distraction.

As I walked the sites, I thought of my two friends from the papeleria that are originally from Chiapas. What caused them to move to Merida? How different and equally exciting the state of Chiapas is! I’m really glad that I had the opportunity to come

and I’m really glad that I’m able to pass the time with such interesting and genuine people.

And so throughout our day, the conversation continued.

“My father says,” the Swede eventually conceded, “that it’s important to plan some of your life.”

I looked at her carefully.

“Because if not, life will just rush on by.”

I was really happy to hear her say this to me, because I felt that her outlook was really smart.

Life is too short to just have it quickly rush by.

It’s a shame that some people don’t take the time to think about their own lives—that they don’t take the time or energy to do a little planning. You see, everybody in this world has a project designed for them; I’m just confused why some people don’t take the time to work on it a bit more.

And Erich and I continued the conversation only a few hours ago over dinner.

I felt that it was important for him to know about how I operate, about how I think. You know, we’ve speaking so openly to each other over the course of the semester that I just wanted to set the record straight.

“So hear me out:

I don’t consider myself the average kid. But I am who I am and you get what you get.

I get a thrill from being active. I get a thrill from learning and a thrill from living.

I experience opportunities as I see fit. I live my life in bounds, out of bounds, and constantly in rhythm.

Even if that means making social sacrifices. Even if that means not being able to conform my identity to other’s expectations.

I go to the University of Michigan. I work hard, I play hard.”

And I hope that I made my point. I really think I did.

And I felt really happy about engaging in another great conversation. Because by the end, I walked away knowing something priceless:

I am me.

Hat in the Water
I love Michigan. I just want you to know that. I love the school spirit, the academics, the great opportunities afforded to me, and the people that I get to share it all with.

Don’t forget that.

Of course, talking about missing Michigan while on a study abroad experience is a totally different topic. Right now, I just want to let you know that I have great respect for my institution.

And that deep respect has certainly become embodied in my Michigan hat.

I remember exactly when I bought my hat. My brother convinced me to get it—he put me up to it. He’s been wearing hats for years and I have never done the same.
I remember how he dragged me to the mall—how we shopped for it together—and how I made such a fool of myself trying it on.

Should I get a small? A large? What does “one-size” mean?

All-in-all, my M-hat has definitely served its purpose here; for my brother’s help, I am certainly grateful.

I wear my hat (my first hat, mind you) almost every day. Always front-sided and never hanging partially off my head (like my brother’s hat), my hat stands as a reminder of good memories back at Michigan an good memories spent with my brother.

And it’s also been a great way to connect with other Wolverines here in Mexico.

It shouts out: “I’m a Wolverine! Hail to the Victors!” and it’s certainly done the job. I’ve met more Wolverines here and Wolverine fans than I ever expected.

So when my hat fell into the rushing water of Agua Azul, I was mortified. My heart sank. I had been trying to take a picture of the waterfall from the rocks when I fell and the hat rolled off the bank and into the water.

Luckily, a man in the water reached for the hat with a branch and retrieved it for me.

So okay, I know you might think that this entry sounds silly, but it’s not to me.

I really like being a Wolverine. I really like my hat.

And I really like all of the memories that come along with it.

And now, it has even more stories to tell.

Crustyness, Schvet, and Schmutz
Over the course of the study abroad experience, I’ve met a lot of people from all over the world.

That to me is really special.

But what I think is even more “mind boggling” (as someone would say) are the conversations that I’ve had with those people I’ve met.

The two girls from Northern Europe that Erich and I met on this trip are one such case.

It was great listening to them, getting to know what life in another country is like and getting to hear another foreigner’s perspective of Mexico.

“Yach itz not ast cheep ast you’d think,” said the Swede girl with her heavy accent.

Her accent really reminded me of my grandfather’s.

And through out conversation, I was really surprised by the words and phrases that I picked up: schvitz, schmutz, schlump, etc.

(And apparently, Erich says some of those words in his house as well)

The girls were funny, but their talk of “crustyness” at the end was the climax of our conversation.

Kids are kids, no matter what country we’re from. Some things transcend all borders.

Laughter seems to be universal.

Palenque
Es cierto que las ruinas en Palenque son muy distintas que las otras ruinas de Yucatán. Entre selva, cascadas y montanas, el sitio es mucho más grande que los otros, y la turista puede pasar todo el día en el sitio, observando nuevos artefactos de los proyectos de excavación.

Erich y yo fuimos dos veces al sitio—una vez después de ver el Agua Azul y otra vez la próxima mañana. Pero en la segunda mañana, estaba vistiéndome en una camisa negra—un idea muy mal. Aunque el me avisó que había mucho calor, no le escuché, y llevé agua conmigo.
Nunca jamás voy a vestirme en una camisa negra. Estaba sudando muchisimo. Nunca.

La Camisa Negra Tengo la camisa negra hoy mi amor esta de luto

Hoy tengo en el alma una pena
y es por culpa de tu embrujo

Hoy sé que tú ya no me quieres
y eso es lo que más me hiere

que tengo la camisa negra
y una pena que me duele
mal parece que solo me quedé
y fue pura todita tu mentira
que maldita mala suerte la mía
que aquel día te encontré
por beber del veneno malevo de tu amor
yo quedé moribundo y lleno de dolor
respiré de ese humo amargo de tu adiós
y desde que tú te fuiste yo solo tengo…
tengo la camisa negra
porque negra tengo el alma
yo por ti perdí la calma
y casi pierdo hasta mi cama

cama cama caman baby
te digo con disimulo
que tengo la camisa negra
y debajo tengo el difunto
tengo la camisa negra
ya tu amor no me interesa
lo que ayer me supo a gloria
hoy me sabe a pura
miércoles por la tarde y t ú que no llegas
ni siquiera muestras señas
y yo con la camisa negra
y tus maletas en la puerta

Final Thoughts
So, you might call this entry stream of consciousness—you might call it a narrative or creative writing, a documentary, or maybe even a reflection.

You might call it good writing or drab (or if you’re an engineer, you might even call it ``well writing``). To you, it might seem simple or complex; it might be even noteworthy.

But at the end of it all, you should call it a memoir—because after all, that’s all that it is—nothing but memories that are now just a thing of the past...

Posted by jlsumich at April 4, 2007 08:01 PM

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Posted by: stvdwtt at April 6, 2007 08:02 PM

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