From March 10th until the 20th, I was part of a delegation of Land Stewardship Project members, organized by Witness for Peace, who met with farmers and non-governmental organizations (NGO's) in the state of Oaxaca in southern Mexico. I'll be posting a recap of each day on this blog.
I heard Nolan’s alarm go off at some ungodly hour and saw him get up. I, however, quickly went back to sleep. My alarm went off at 6:30 and I was in the lobby by 7. The taxi showed up a few minutes later.
I didn’t have enough Mexican currency for the ride, so he charged me $20 American, which was probably highway robbery in that context, but I didn’t care. It was still way less than I would’ve paid for a taxi in the Twin Cities.
I made a little Spanish small talk with the guy. He had a nice, middle-class kind of compact car. He was also dressed in a middle-class style.
The Bloodhound Gang’s 1999 hit, “The Bad Touch,” came on the radio, which I found amusing. For the uninitiated, The Bloodhound Gang was the U.S.'s preeminent novelty band of the late 90’s. I probably hadn’t heard the song in 15 years.
The drive to the airport only took 15-20 minutes, giving me 2 ½ hours to catch my flight. The United ticketing area was white and futuristic. I negotiated the digital self-check-in with a little help from an agent and went through security, which was much less of a hassle than in the U.S. I took off my shoes without needing to, which is ironic, since I usually forget to take ‘em off at the TSA checkpoints.
I walked down some long halls. Near my gate there was, basically, a fancy department store. It was much different from the previous 10 days. I wasn’t disoriented, just unimpressed and uninterested, not to mention a bit contemptuous and pitying of the done-up ladies hocking these wares.
I sat and journaled by the gate, wearing my “Never Forget” dinosaur T-shirt (classic), when a bunch of Kardashian kopykats sat down next to me. I was judging them pretty hard, but then I wrote in my diary, “I don’t know what’s inside her. I don’t know what she’s made of.” That was in reference to the one next to me, the group’s Kim. She may’ve been judging me hard too. I was lookin’ pretty schlubby.
On my plane’s ascent from Mexico City, I saw terraces that acted as elevation contours around the hills. There was also a strange sight that I took as an omen. “PROMESAS” (“PROMISES”) was spelled out in huge letters near the top of a mountain. That really struck me. It sounded like “Promises, promises,” like I wasn’t gonna keep my promise to turn my life around, to set a new course of working for good. It felt accusatory, like the land itself was talking to me, or the disgruntled common people who’ve been visited by many well-meaning Gringos and still have nothing to show for it.
At the Houston airport, I indulged in some over-priced Panda Express. It tasted good, actually. My palate hadn’t been completely transformed by 10 days on a Third-World diet. I was still susceptible to the temptations of sugar, salt, MSG and the million artificial chemical combinations thereof.
There was a March Madness game on a TV nearby. That used to be one of the highlights of my year, but in the last decade I’ve cut way back on my TV sports spectatorship. I was kind of interested, but when I went over to watch it took forever to get through the commercial break, so I left.
At MSP, I saw Ernie Hudson (who will forever be known as “the Black Ghostbuster”) striding purposefully through the terminal with ear buds in, apparently talking to someone on the phone. That was kinda surreal.
I was unable to use the Uber account I’d opened in Houston. The MSP wifi was suspiciously hostile to that app, so I took a regular taxi. The cabbie looked and sounded East African. I chatted him up, no longer comfortable with the First-World silences between strangers. He was going to school to be a medical lab technician. I told him about the trip, and he raved about what hard workers Mexicans are.
He dropped me off in downtown Minneapolis at Kieran’s Irish Pub. I was only 15 minutes late to “The Encyclopedia Show,” which was the reason I’d taken a cab instead of the light rail. I wasn’t performing until after intermission, so I had plenty of time to prepare mentally.
I felt very odd being there. The anxiety was giving me a strong sense of detachment and disorientation. I did well, not quite comfortable enough to be in "the zone," but I got a bunch of laughs. One of the other performers complimented me afterward on his way out the door.
I caught another taxi to get home. The cabbie (another East African, I’m guessing) told me he was buying a house. He was on the phone with his realtor near the end of the ride. I still tipped him generously, even though he seemed to be in a better economic situation than I. The cab rides totaled $90 with tips. Freeway robbery!
My parents had left for vacation in Spain just a few days before, so I was home alone. The freedom was nice, but I was also very anxious about it. Since quitting my last corporate job 2 years ago, I’ve developed a fear of being alone for long stretches, like the 2 weeks I was looking down the barrel of now.
That night I ate too much and stayed up too late, despite my fatigue.
Here ends the account of my trip, but I’ll be writing an Epilogue to try and sum up the experience.