A Guerra do Rio

After the 'War in Rio' reached international news last week, I've received several messages concerning my safety and interest in how things are in the favela where I live, Rocinha. It has been nice to know that people have me in their thoughts, but I feel to truly understand what's going on, this war, one must understand why and how it all started.

As with any illegal drug trade. There are more actors than what meets the eye. Most of arms possessed by favela traffickers (which include sniper rifles, machine guns, AK47, M-16, grenades, rocket launchers, various explosives, etc.) come directly from the police or other 'connected' public figures. The same public figures who have continuously turned a blind eye to these expanding and densely populated communities, many of which suffer from open sewers and other elements that accompany life amidst poverty. These abandoned communities are home to such trafficking factions such as Comando Vermelho, Terçero Comando, and Amigos dos Amigos which now control most of the city's favelas.

Far from the postcard image of Rio de Janeiro, these favelas are some of the poorest and most vulnerable communities in Brazil, usually enjoying little or no provision of public services. Only now that more international attention is being brought to Rio de Janeiro is the plan of action changing from confrontational crackdowns, which don't seem to just target traffickers, but entire favela communities, to one of a seemingly more organized approach. These operations have continuously resulted unsuccessfully in ridding traffickers from the community, and one has to question: are they really intended to? What really results after an operation is a few bodies in the streets and a temporary displacement of the gang. However, with the Olympics as well as the World Cup coming to Rio in a few short years, pressure to 'clean up' the city is heavier than ever.

The program in which to accomplish this has been deemed the 'Unidades de Polícia Pacificadora' (cognates) or simply 'UPP'. The program attempts to clean the community of drug trafficking and implement militant police, who live within and take part in community activities. 

Fast forward to November 22, 2010. Traffickers, provoked by the implementation of UPP programs in various favelas around the city, ventured into Rio's richer South Zone setting fire to city buses, personal vehicles, and committed a series of simultaneous robberies outside of shopping malls in a joint effort to demonstrate their power, to instill an idea that they would not be 'pacified'. These attacks continued for three days and on Wednesday, the war started. Tanks, armored vehicles, BOPE (Brazil's Elite Squad or SWAT), soldiers, and police entered Vila Cruzeiro, a Comando Vermelho stronghold (the group taking responsible for the attacks on the city) driving traffickers out. Many of them poured into a neighboring favela, Complexo Alemão, another CV stronghold. Two days later Complexo Alemão was invaded, with arrests of the favelas bosses, many were forced to surrender. The rest, many say, came here to Rocinha. The UPP program has started in both favelas.

With rumors of drug factions joining together in an effort to combat the police forces, Rocinha, my home for the last five months, has become tense. No one really knows exactly when it will happen, but one thing is for sure, Rocinha is next. My heart aches, it aches because I have the option to leave and my friends and neighbors don't. It aches because this UPP program is a band aid on a much larger issue. Traffickers exist within favelas because these communities have long been ignored by the city and federal governments. Absent are efforts for basic sanitation, health care, education, improved construction, transportation, and the list goes on. The absence of such basic provisions have bequeathed a band of criminals who are often the most disadvantaged in the community. Another important piece of information is that these traffickers do not act alone. Marijuana, cocaine, assault rifles, grenades, none of that crap is made here in the favela. It's transported here, and by the time it arrives it's passed through the dirty hands of private and public criminals. I'm not arguing in favor of criminal factions in the favela, but what I am arguing is that such a whimsical approach to 'pacifying' the favela will never work. It's timing and approach prove that once again, this city could care less about favelas and their residents. 

How Voluntourism Can Change the World and What You Can Do

I have to write this, while it's fresh in my mind. So please, forgive the grammatical/spelling/structural errors that will ensue, for they will be plentiful.

I had a great discussion with another volunteer here in Rocinha about the work I have been doing over the course of the past few years, working but more specifically, volunteering abroad. I've been blessed with the opportunity to follow my dreams; a wonderful family, financial stability, and relationships with inspiring people have brought me to where I am now; a favela of over 200,000 people in the heart of one of the world's most violent cities, Rio de Janeiro. However, I have never denied the direction in which my heart pulls me, and it pulled me here.

Volunteer service. Working with marginalized populations has brought me unparalleled joy and satisfaction. It's an addiction I can't kick. The more we engage in activities like volunteer work, travel, learning about other cultures/peoples, foreign languages, etc. a number of wonderful things can happen to us: our minds expand, our prejudices dissipate, our confidence grows, not to mention all of the like minded, inspiring people we meet along the way. Most of these benefits are obvious, but some are buried deeper, hidden as part of a larger picture and they're not felt instantaneously. What I speak of is this; these sort of activities pave way not only for spiritual and mental growth of the self, but a deeper realization that we human beings have so much more in common than what makes us different. We connect. Our countries give us labels as "Americans" or "Brazilians" or "Chinese" but once we connect, once we cross the invisible wall of seperation, we realize that we are really the same, regardless of the minute difference that characterize us as an "American" or whatever. We share so much. Part of what we share is a common suffering of some sort as well, stemming from various forms of suppression. Whether you live in a favela here in Rio, a home made of sticks and garbage bags in Central America, or you are shackled with a never ending debt by an already exceedingly rich bank who's CEO could elevate your suffering with one day's earnings, we are experiencing an injustice which tears at our very core. In the future, it shall be us who lift ourselves from these injustices, not the institutions we have trusted to protect our liberties. The more we connect, the more we understand that we are part of the same problem, and only in numbers can we begin to rebuild. So what can we do, what can I do?

The International Volunteer sector is, for the most part, currently acting as any other business. Organizations like volunteerabroad charge as much as $3,500 to come to a country and teach English for two weeks! For other volunteer organizations (just type in volunteer abroad into google) like CrossCultural Solutions their prices are even more outrageous. So here's what seems to be happening, these organization have moved away from the initial idea of cultural exchange and voluntourism and are behaving more like any other business, principle interest=profit gain. But this this sector isn't like a normal business, and shouldn't be treated as one.

Now, I'm not saying that they aren't doing some good, they are. But these prices are inhibiting hundreds, if not thousands of interested do-gooders from ever having the opportunity to take part in such a life changing experience. I've had dozens of people write me, discouraged because they sincerely want to do some volunteering abroad but can't find an affordable avenue to do so. They search the web with the desire to go abroad, to obtain that growth, that realization discussed above, but are discouraged because the big wigs decided they could make more money because "the rich ones will still pay." Here is how a company like this operates; they connect the volunteer with the NGO (Non-Governmental Organization) that needs the assistance. Cost = free. They set the volunteer up with a family or in a volunteer apartment who provides the living quarters and the food. Cost = depending on country, about about $150-300 a week. Then we have administrative cost. Cost = depends on the number of employees, but I highly doubt these are salaried positions. This is not even mentioning the numerous, grants and donations these companies receive. So where is the bulk of this money going?

What's the idea here? We need to get more people helping, taking part in these experiences, realizing that what we share is grander than what makes us different, adopting tolerance, respect, and compassion. These attributes are what is going to change our society for the better. These realizations are what unite us, not as Americans or Japanese or British, but as human beings. It saddens me to see we are being taken advantage of, yet again, in this sector. How many people have passed up these wonderful opportunities because of its outrageous cost?

But there is hope. Organizations like www.volunteerhq.org are charging less, and providing more. Their programs are affordable and their opportunities numerous. Perhaps that is why they are the fastest growing volunteer company in the business. If you want to donate, donate to them. Donate to the organization I work with now, www.2bros.org. They charge no volunteer free, and have provided kids in this favela free English courses for over 10 years now, not to mention a safe haven where previous role models; rifle toting, drug trafficking gang members are now replaced with new role models; educated foreigners who speak multiple languages, are sincere, and have the compassion and heart to work to change the lives of these children. Donate to Habitat for Humanity founder Millard Fuller's 'Fuller Center'. It provides opportunities to build homes in impoverished regions of the world at a very low volunteer cost. Donate to organizations like this, who have little or no program fee, because this is for us, this is about people helping people. 

Interested in volunteering abroad?

-www.volunteerhq.org

-http://www.kiva.org/fellows

-www.volunteersouthamerica.net

-http://thewaterproject.org/getinvolved.asp

-www.fullercenter.org

-www.safepassage.org

Funding ideas:

-Donations! Put together a letter, slide show, or album of your intended project and why the people need your help. (fundraising.com, fundriasing-ideas.com)

-Search for grants, fellowships, or if you are in school, scholarships!

-Hold an event. Auctions are always great way to raise money.

-Letters. Write a letter and send it to as many people as you can think of. There are many people who would love to be able to travel abroad and help but are unable to do so, many of them would love to see you do it instead!

-Get an online fundraising page with www.firstgiving.com

Related clips of the organization I currently work with:

http://edition.cnn.com/video/data/2.0/video/international/2010/07/31/bs.rocinha.favela.cnn.html

http://noticias.r7.com/videos/turistas-estrangeiros-sao-bem-recebidos-na-rocinha/idmedia/785a1879c119e7ab0a6968bb7bfd1693.html

The body of Rocinha

A wander through the narrow alleys of my new home, South America's biggest slum, birthed the need for a written analysis of Rocinha and my current situation. For some, this experience could be traumatizing; the noise, the open sewers, and all of the other issued that develop from close quartered living. For others it's like candy for the soul, a new experience around every turn, each as deliciously invigorating as the last. It all depends on how you look at your current situation. Do you invite fear and uncertainty in, allowing a manifestation of helplessness and vulnerability? Or better yet, do you invite the new experience to the contrary, recognizing that you are now part of a community that cares for and protects its inhabitants? We humans tend to retract when we experience the unfamiliar, a sort of primitive defense mechanism I guess. But we are no longer primitive beings, even here in the slum. Brutality has been replaced with generosity, a caring for one another, a connection shared by those who live here. On the outside, sophistication is pride. Yet we continue to submit to unsophisticated lack of ability to connect with one another. We tend to go from home to work to the grocery store to the bank and back in the tightly sealed safety of the car, the tightly sealed representation of who we are, a judgement from the outside rather from the inside. I've always been attracted to poorer, less developed communities because of the fact that human connection is so evident. It is in fact, a necessity for our species. Relationships are the focus, people know each other from the inside out, not just from the outer coating buttered up from purchasing power.

The body of Rocinha is made up of poorly constructed brick housing and edifices, but once inside, the elderly, the children, and everything in between are constantly passing through the streets and narrow alleyways, like cells pumping blood, giving life to the slum. The heart is the kindness of the people, the willingness to help each other at the drop of a hat. The muscle, one could say, are the gangs that keep order here. Like the illegally wired electricity that illuminates Rocinha, the gangs have replaced the lack of government assistance here with a system of order, punishment, and respect. As a gringo living here in Rocinha, this place is safer for me than any other in Rio. A thief is left with a few less fingers after they're caught, and they are always caught, because the slum is a body, and the good cells seek out and destroy anyone who threatens its health. Characterized as a brutal and crime ridden collection of filth from the outside, the residents of Rocinha share what most of Rio doesn't, a community free of crime, free of fear.

This place is little understood. Every passing week is like another puzzle piece added, but this is a puzzle with no final image. In any new environment, I clear myself from judgements. It helps me to absorb and analyze on a deeper, clearer level. Especially in a place as complex as Rocinha, one cannot even begin to try and understand it from the outside. Those that do, do so with ignorance as the drive the freeway safely sealed in their protective four wheeled bubbles, pontificating about surface values, without ever penetrating the inner beauty that makes Rocinha not a favela, but rather a community.

I am the captain of my soul, and the only gatekeeper of my abilities

I will not be paralyzed, I will not allow my dreams to be suffocated by fear

When it does arise, I will simply expose it and watch it disappear

My mind will not be a copy, it will not have a strict diet

It will be eclectic, and distortions of reality within a television set will not fry it

I will walk slowly, and enjoy every step

Recognizing the impermanence of money, that relationships and helping others is where true love is kept

My life will be beautiful because of these truths, and I hope it so

So I can say with satisfaction and gratitude, 'I was my captain'

When it's my turn to go.

Murals for Soacha in Bogotá, Colombia

My summers through high school and most of college were spent working construction and learning every foul word and expression Mexican spanish has to offer. Stripping forms, finishing concrete, and jackhammering equals long days and hard work, but I wasn't really prepared for the work I had committed to a month earlier when I spontaneously decided to head to Mexico and build a house with Habitat for Humanity. I was bound for a small settlement called Chinameca in the state of Morelos with a group of volunteers with the idea of finishing a house in a week. A took a week off of work, but I was going to be compensated with something worth far more than a dollar amount. On the last day of the build, having been one of the few Spanish speakers on the project, I sat holding a middle aged single mother of four as she sobbed uncontrollably in appreciation for the work we had all done to provide her family with their own home. Not just the twenty-some volunteers, but the local masons, the pueblito's "don", as well as various other member's of the community who had come together to make a dream into reality in just seven days. This was quite a change from what I was used to, instead of a middle aged woman up in arms with frustration over a crack in the finish of her three car garage, I was now comforting a middle aged woman whose glossy eyes and ear to ear grin were the product of a 900 sq. foot house made of block whose construction lasted just over a week. To this day, the recollection of this moment clouds my eyes. The feeling was like a drug, and I've been addicted ever since. Two houses later, I find myself here in Bogota, Colombia.

Extensive fumbling through the Internet landed me with an organization looking for volunteers with construction experience to come and help renovate an elementary school in the Colombian neighborhood of Soacha, one of Bogota's poorest districts. The deal was sealed when I scrolled down further to discover they were also in need of artists to paint murals on the walls of the school.

Arriving in Bogota on a rainy Monday night I first met the organizations founder, Al. A British born vagabond like myself, the 26 year old had founded the NGO just six months earlier. This was a newly discovered piece of information that quickly initiated my interrogation-like Q&A with Al. That night I met the family who I was to be staying with for the next month. The mother, a sweet woman of about five feet, was the first to greet me. Though small in stature, her virtue is quite the opposite. I later found out that she founded both the primary and secondary school in Soacha (those which we would be working on). Her sons, Johnny and Arnold, also do a lot of work with the school and its programs. Being similar in age, they have become very close friends of mine and our conversations have formulated many ideas of developing a home building program in Soacha. Though I am not so sure I am ready to put on the breaks yet and develop a foundation yet as I still have one last stop before slowing down, they will be a favorable contacts for the organization when it does become a reality. Everyday I walk through Soacha, I take note of the construction going on and I notice the lack of equipment, resources, and overall manpower. What may take two masons two months to build, a group of volunteers could do with there backs and volunteer fees in less than two weeks. Another noted application to the houses is the paint. Though very few of these houses are painted (most are left with exposed brick and concrete), the small street that I pass everyday that boasts its brightly colored exterior creates a different psych for those who stroll through. The colors generate a sense of beauty as opposed to a sense of ignobility and underdevelopment. It would take less than $100 to paint a home in Soacha, an amount that would barely suffice a couple of mixed drinks at a Vegas nightclub, yet it has the ability to forever change the mentality of the home's inhabitants creating a sense of hope, self-worth, and motivation.

Having past the halfway mark on my time here in Bogota, I feel satisfied with the work I am doing. The mornings are spent picking a ditch in an area that will eventually become a playground area for the adjacent elementary school, and when the rain rolls in (usually between noon and 1pm everyday) I head inside to work on the murals. The two hour trek to and from the site everyday becomes worthwhile when you are hugged by some of the student's, some of which I haven't even met. The children are often just as appreciative as the adults. During some of the home builds, kids were amongst the hardest workers.

Recent years have created a more optimistic view of the world for me. I believe we are beginning to see that we can no longer ignore each other, we can no longer turn a cold shoulder on those born in unfavorable conditions, that we can no longer live in ignorance of the developing issues that help to create much of the ugliness in the world. Want to put a dent in the flow of immigration over our southern border? Use the money to build houses to help them stay instead of a wall to keep them from having a chance. Change the situations in which cause them to leave. Give people a reason to stay, because that is ultimately what many of them wish to do, not leave their families and risk their lives chancing it to an unknown territory with a foreign language. The woman for who we built a house in El Salvador had her husband leave over a year ago. I find it hard to believe that it was an easy decision leaving his wife and children only to taunt death riding a train through gang infested territory, traverse corrupt police officers, and walk days through a desert with little food or water for a 'chance' at obtaining a job in the US and providing a better life for his family back home. The reality is, his family was living in a makeshift home of dirt floors and a ceiling made from sticks and jointed garbage bags. The decision to leave becomes one of necessity when faced with unlivable conditions.

More than just American, or Colombian, Central American, or Mexican we are human beings. Brothers and sisters of the same species. There are over forty-two thousand languages in the world, but only one set of feelings shared by all who carry the human genome. The unnecessary suffering is not going to be solved by any government, it will be solved by us. We already have the capacity and the resources, we just have to realize it. We just have to come to the realization that we have the power to change it. Together. Now. John Lennon said it quite well "Millions of mind guerrillas... Raising the spirit of peace and love, not war."

A Cosmic Connection

I get lost. My head starts to feel heavier and heavier as I struggle to maintain its position, but I can’t take my eyes off of the sky. It's majestic and tantalizing, and in an odd sense a bit comforting given its immensity. But I can’t take my eyes away. The sand is cold, and I could probably use a shirt, but the complexity of current thought removes any consideration of a cotton t-shirt. I was watching a show.

Not just the grand show performed by several hundred billion stars each and every night, but a steady and consistent lapping of the ocean, a natural hymn created by the wind and palm’s divine collaboration, what I was watching was an impressive show perfected after several billion years of practice. One of the greatest things about travel is it’s a forced meditation. Your mind is free to wonder and to explore. Of course meditation itself is achievable in any location under any circumstance, but its complexity and difficulty is often underestimated. It takes months and even years of practice to train your mind. But with travel, that commitment and responsibility so “duly” required of the many actors in your life is forced to dissipate, autopilot shuts off, and your mind exhales. That extroverted effort of responsibility and commitment become an introverted one, a responsibility and full commitment to thyself, a concentration inward.

My mind continued to wonder although I had adjusted my position and was now dependent on the support of my elbows. Fixated on the moon, I examined her pushing and pulling on the tide, essentially “playing” with what we consider the most powerful natural source on earth. My mind wandered further; if the moon has the divine ability and finesse to provide constistency to something as massive as the tides around every corner of the globe, then is it possible that the moon, or other arrangements of stars and planets, can influence the chemistry of our bodies and/or makeup of our minds? An American astrologist by the name of Marc Edmund Jones theorized about mental chemistry and divided people into one of four groups, dependent on two things; the speed of the moon at the day of birth (fast or slow) as well as the position of Mercury relative to the sun. My mind wanted to venture farther however, into the zodiacs all the way back to the beginnings of recorded astrology. It facinates me that through instense examination, pattern recognition, and recordings of notable events, et cetera these people, nearly 2,000 years ago were able to characterize individuals based on an astrological sequence of patterns. Furthermore, they personafied the constellations with familiar creatures possessing similar behavioral characteristics. The constellations were and still are indicators of consistent reoccurrence which allow for a certain set of (or lack thereof) traits to be attributed based on the presence of a certain astrological pattern. Even today we find our daily horoscopes in the local or national newspaper. Even though we may pride ourselves as totally unique individuals, beneath the exterior we find ourselves part of this celestial pattern masterminded by what may very well be incomprehensible to us apart from basic recognition. As the tide inches itself closer and closer to my barefeet, my mind shoots back to the relationship between this ocean and the moon. Staring into the illuminated portion of the pacific, I can’t help but think of how subtle this relationship is, but how many millions of people depend on it. How it has provided for, and essentially is, life.

The relationship between the moon and the ocean is a majestic one. We see the tide change two times a day, everyday, every year. However, the formation of our personality traits is quite another, more complex story. Taking into account the effects of such a subtle relationship between moon and ocean, one can only begin to wonder what kind of patterns are integrated in each one of the zodiacs. We do know that these cosmic relationships are cyclical. And thanks to the work of the ancient Chinese, Egyptian, and Roman astrologers (as well as contributions from several other early cultures) we know that these patterns repeat themselves twelve times annually. But what is the biological reason for such reoccurances? If the moon pushes and pulls on the ocean twice daily, then the relationship between planets, stars, et cetera must be doing their fair share of pushing and pulling as well. Could it be that as a miniscule lifeform taking shape within the whomb of your mother this pushing and pulling is even having a slight effect on the placement and development of your cells, tissues, etc? Interlinking of the brain’s neurons begins at around six months of whomb confinement and at around seven months, the rudimentary brain waves indicating consciousness can be detected. During this developmental process, is it possible the relationship between certain planets, stars, or cosmos can influence the final resting place for cells, nuerons, organs, et cetera within something as tiny as a fetus? Perhaps.
Another part worth noting is the connection between something as colossal as the cosmos and something as minute as the cultivation and multipulcation of cell makeup. Eventually, we continually multiply (grow) until adulthood. An angelic relationship between the cosmos and ourselves? Perhaps there is an omnipresence of the cosmos that walks around in each and every one of us. A subtle reminder of our connection with that which lies above and beyond our understanding. A connection not only with these constellations, the moon and the stars but with each other, with the ocean, with the sand that finds its way to every crevice of my body, with those trees behind me, with my friends back at the hostel and my family back home, with everything. But what is this connection, and why? Could this connection be the answer to the many questions of our existence? An answer that is literally staring right back at me from the depths of the sky?

Working with Immigrants in Arriaga, Chiapas

Where to begin, where to begin?

Well, I guess I´ll begin with the fact that I have always wanted to visit Mexico´s southern most state, Chiapas. The Zapatista movement takes place here, and has long been the epicenter for indigenous rights here in Mexico, as 1 in 4 of the population here is indigenous of some kind. Mayan making up the majority I believe. In the interest in saving time, you can read about the Zapatista movement here...
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ezln
Anyways, I´ve longed to come to this state for some time. So when we left from Salina Cruz (where we had stayed the night since the haul from San Jose del Pacifico began to take a toll on our energy)and entered Chiapas I felt a thrill of excitement, a recognition that a dream of mine had become reality. We were on our way to Arriaga. A small town of around 40,000 about four hours a way from the Guatemalan border. What brought me here was a desire to volunteer. Here in Arriaga, cargo trains pass though from Guatemala to the north. It is the route of immigrants from all over central and south america. No matter where you come from, or where you are going, if you go ¨al norte¨ you will pass through Arriaga.

While in Guadalajara, one of my student´s father approached me after class. He asked if I could translate a document for him, in which I gladly did. I found that this research report pertained to human rights for immigrants passing through Mexico. I had studied this topic in depth, and had even wrote a thesis on it while in college. So when I met with Lalo again, I asked him how I could get in touch with someone in order to do some sort of volunteer work. Lalo, who is a professor at the University of Gaudalajara, gave me some great contacts. One of which was an immigrant shelter in a small town in southern Chiapas called ¨Arriaga.¨ From there on I planned to make my way to Arriaga to see if I could be a volunteer.

When we arrived to Arriaga (with heat to what I imagine to be a Georgia summer) we made our way to Casa Migrante. The experience there was a little weird. The padre was not there and we were welcomed, sort of, but two guys who seemed to be in charge. A couple of strange individuals I must say. They left us for a couple of hours and told us to wait for the Padre. Well, we then met a local guy named Santiago. He sensed our impatience and sympathized by taking us around Arriaga in his car, then to dinner. He offered us his house to sleep in. Which, as travelers on a budget, is a hard bargain to pass up. We were not contacted by the shelter, as they told us they already had a volunteer and wouldn´t need us. Though I find it strange that a ´volunteer´ be turned away. But, whatever. Just being there was a surreal experience, seeing 300 immigrants from all over Latin America sleeping under the train and finding any sort of shade to pass the time until the train departed.

We decided to be proactive and continue following our desire to help, and actually turned the experience into something unforgettable, one that probably would have been better than cleaning toilets and washing dishes at the casa migrante.

We stayed with Salvador for three or four days. During the day, despite the heat, Tama and I made several trips to the market where for around 50 (about $4 USD) pesos we would buy 15 or so small waters or juice, as well as two or three kilos of bananas. We spent our afternoons walking the traintracks of Arriaga handing out the supplies and talking with the immigrants. Now, I often comment on our incredible an experience was yada yada yada. But seriously, this is one that will forever be lodged in my memory as one of the most unforgettable experiences of my life. We talked with people from El Salvador, Nicaragua, Honduras, Cuba, Guatemala, etc. about what they had been through, their experiences, and what their hopes were for the future. We talked with people who were making their first trip, with people who were making there 14th and 15th trip. People who had been robbed, beaten up, people who had walked for 11 days shirtless to get to the traintracks. The first day, we met a group of guys from all over who were traveling together for protection. They told us about the scariest leg of their journey, which was from Tapachula (the border town to Guatemala) to just south of Arriaga. This area is heavily occupied by Mara Salvatrucha and Zeta gang members who board the train with intentions to rob rape and hurt people. They were a genuine group, buenas personas looking for a better life for themselves and their family. One 14 year old boy, making his second or third trip, told us about a teenage girl who had fallen off the train a few years earlier. She had fallen between the cargos and the train had cut her in half. The journey had taken her life, as well as the life of her unborn baby. His eyes held the terror and sorrow he felt at that particular moment.

In summary, working with these immigrants was a gift. A gift that I will never forget. Likewise for them, since many of them had wondered what the hell a gringo and a norteña was doing in Arriaga helping immigrants. I wonder if they will tell our story, as I am telling theirs.

It filled my heart was happiness to be with these people, to assist them, to listen to them. It got my mind brainstorming of all the possibilities of charity and or other opportunities I could establish for a permanent assistance to these people. I will never forget their faces, nor their appreciation of what we were doing. It was truly a dream come true for me. Watching over 300 immigrants from all across the continent sitting atop a cargo train with hopes of a better future is surely a sight I´ll never forget. Waving at us as they get ready to leave is more of a motivation than anything. Now, I need to figure out how to make my assitance more powerful and more permanent.

(the pictures are not so good as we had only taken photos the last day, in which most immigrants had left on the departing train, my apologies.)

San Jose del Pacifico, Oaxaca

I spent my birthday on top of the world. Well, maybe not on top of the world but at the highest point of the Sierra in southern Oaxaca. It was a nice change of temperature from the beach towns we had been in the two or so weeks previously, and it was a sweet reminder of home to be in the woods again surrounded by pine trees and giant rock formations. San Jose del Pacifico is a small town of around 500 people I would guess. It serves as a stopping point for many people who make the trip from Oaxaca City to Pachutla, on the other side of the Sierra. The day we got there we rented a cabin for 100 pesos (around $8 USD) and star gazed until our eyes and our minds could stretch no further. The next day, Tama and I spent the morning and afternoon hiking the surrounding mountains. It was absolutely incredible. First, we ascended into the forest along the trail, unaware of what or where we were trying to reach. After about three hours we were immersed into the clouds and came upon a flat aread of about 300 sq yards on top of this mountain. It was an Alice in Wonderland feeling. The only souls for miles, we walked through one of the most impressive displays of nature I had ever seen. The forest was majestic, and with the addition of the clouds, it really added to the experience. We spent a few hours exploring this mini valley and soaking up the experience. I commented to Tama while on top of the mountain that although I would love to see my friends and family, a birthday on top of this mountain, in the middle of the Oaxacan Sierra, sure beats a night out at the bar.

The planned two day visit in San Jose del Pacifico turned into five days of reading, hiking, and star gazing. At 100 pesos a night, its hard to leave a comfortable cabin with a patio and a view of the Sierra. San Jose del Pacifico is an awesome place, a majestic mountain town with nice people and great scenery. Every evening the clouds rolled in a passed directly in fron of us, and we spent some sunsets sipping hot chocolate (Oaxaca is famouse for chocolate) and eating tlayudas.

Zipolite, Oaxaca

Zipolite is a well known beach community of hippies, nudest, and freedom seekers alike. Situated about an hour south of Puerto Escondido, I guess Zipolite has been a well known spot for ¨amor y paz¨ for quite some time. We got there later on in the evening and we´re kind of stumped on where to find a cheap place to stay. We walked down the beach a little ways until we met a young guy setting up his beach front reggae bar for the oncoming party. He invited us to stay in his hammocks he had about 30 meters of the beach. The stars were not as impressive as Chacagua, but the fire dancers on the beach equally invigorated the night. With flaming balls called Poi attached to chains, this woman spent the better part of two hours dancing and twirling these balls around, over, under, between, behind, and every which way around her body. This was the first time I had seen this although supposedly its rather popular. Pretty damn cool though. You can check out an example of this through this youtube link
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2IjdnMvBW_A

The next day we decided to pack up and move camp as a result of Tama getting bitten about 200 times by mosquitos. That and the fact that our bathroom was a scene even the devil himself would refuse. So we moved ourselves down the beach a little beat to a cheaper and more accomodating place, an 8 x 8 beachfront hut with a hammock out front. We spent the day reading, exploring the beach, and playing in the waves. Every once in a while we get a kick out of nude spectating. Though most of the nudes were old and rather unpleasant to look at, it was quite an experience since I had never really been to a nude beach myself. And no, I did not go nude, I gather that it takes years of being a Zipolite beach bum to reveal the jewels. Something I could not get use to. The experience was good though, and the food was cheap too, we never ate for more than 30 or 40 pesos. We left that night as Kyle, my friend who had been visiting, needed to catch a bus back to Mexico City where is outbound flight was to leave. The bad thing is, we lost track of our days, easy to do while on a hippie beach, and sent him back a day early.

Though more well known, easier to access, and more built up than Chicagua, Zipolite still has the draw and charm it has always possessed. Just be warned, you will see a lot of pot, old wrinkly nudes, and smelly life loving hippies.

Chacagua, Oaxaca

A true paradise, Chacagua is one of those untouched places that I will always long to return to. The tiresome journey to this place ironically is a blessing as it keeps its purity and desolation virgin. To give you an idea of how how one might find themselves in Chacagua, I will document here the ¨camino¨ to the beautiful beach community of Chacagua.

Backpack in hand (We had left our bags in our hostal´s supervision for ten pesos a day) we lathargically walked to the center of Puerto Escondido to take our mini camioneta to the town of Rio Grande, about an hour and a half away. Mind you, Chacagua was just an image in our minds and we were only going the route that had been detailed to us by locals. We arrived in Rio Grande, a bit confused on where to go next but we were immediately hailed by a truck with a canopy over the bed, the standard means of transportation for rural communities in Southern Mexico. ¨?Van a Zipotelito?¨ asked the driver. We complied and for twenty pesos we climbed in the back of the truck playing tunes from Kyle´s ukelele. The three of us, about five chickens, and countless other materials made our way to a small community on the edge of a lake about an hour later. We waited at the dock with a few others, entertaining ourselves with a family´s pet racoon and taking pictures of this laguna that seemed to go on for days.

After about an hour and many stomach growels later, we got into the boat with the chickens, groceries, and about ten other locals. We made our way across the laguna, keeping an eye out for crocodiles, in awe of the beauty this area possessed. Shortly after, we merged our way into a small channel of water housed by branches above. We encountered a small dock where another pick up truck was waiting for our arrival. The bugs started biting, mucho. We all rode in the back of the truck for another 30 to 40 minutes before we arrived in Chacagua. And to be quite honest, I had no idea we had arrived anywhere for it was just a few palapas and sand that stretched across the road and into the unknown. We all go off and were guided by a fellow rider to his cabañas that were situated nicely on the beach. The first gaze at the beach was the most memorable. Never had I ever seen a place so beautiful, so pure, and so majestic. The experience was surreal.

We spent the first night in our buddy´s cabaña before finding out that the restaurants on the beach, which provided great seafood and breakfast alike, allowed visitors to sleep in their hammocks for free as long as you ate at their restaurant. We of course went the cheaper option even though the cabañas were only 150 pesos a night (around 12 dollars).

We spent our time in Chacagua surfing, marveling at the star show the heavens put on nightly, and hanging out with our new best friend ¨Salchicha¨ who could be argued as the happiest dog in the world. Chacagua was great, just a small community of maybe 100-200 people who enjoyed the simple life. Cuban music and happiness filled the air and I had begun to wonder, not just because of the music but also of the complexion of the people (who seemed to resemble peoples of African descent), what were the origins of these people. Were they Cuban immigrants, native people from the area who´s direct heat had affected the skin and hair of these people, or perhaps they were descendents of slaves in Mexico. Whatever the cause, it was sure an interesting and beautiful place.

Chacagua is a place that I could bring a tent and a surf board and be happy for months.

Adios Guadalajara, hello Oaxaca!

Friday the 26th of February seemed a blur. I had spent the previous 48 hours saying good-bye to my friends, packing my things, and cleaning my apartment. I departed the Guadalajara bus terminal around 3:00 pm on Friday after a hasty ¨throw everything is the bag and figure it out later¨ exit from my life in Guadalajara. Tama and I arrived in the Mexico City bus terminal eight hours later to meet my friend Kyle, who I had provided me with much laughter during our Semester at Sea and countless other instances. We found him strumming his ukelele in fron of the ticket purchase moments later. We were relieved to spare the time of finding him since our bus to Oaxaca was leaving momentarily. Six hours later, during the wee hours of the morning, we arrived in the city that gave birth to Benito Jaurez, the famed Mexican president who resisted the French occupation, overthrew the empire, and restored the Republic. Not to mention he was a Zapotec native and was the only indeginous Mexican president. My first time in Oaxaca, I was excited.

Instead of getting on another ten hour bus ride to Puerto Escondido, we decided to spend the day in Oaxaca city. We visited the famous pyramids of Monte Alban, built by the Zapotecs around 500BC. The day was hot, and Kyle fell ill from the sun, or perhaps the garlic prepared crickets we sampled in the market later in the evening. Thankfully, he was better after a nap and a sessions of vomitting. At 9:00 pm, we boarded our bus. We were exausted from the day so the ten hours seemed fewer during the night of undisrupted sleep. I did wake up at one point at see snow outside on the ground forgetting that Oaxaca sat almost 7,000 feet above sea level and we were climbing higher to cross the Sierra.

Puerto Escondido´s vibe is uncomparable. It still remains a small port town, though the tourist´s mark continues to construct its way southward down the beach (where the best waves are). Puerto Escondido is considered one of the 10 best locations for big surf waves and though we didn´t experience any while there, thank God, we did have a good time doing our best to shred the waves. We stayed in a couple different hostals, not the cleanest nor best smelling, but were shielded from the blood suckers with our provided mosquito nets.

We spend a few days in Puerto Escondido, surfing, burning our skin, and lounging in hammocks until we we´re ready to head to our next spot, Chacagua. This was a ¨mythical¨ place we had only heard of by word of mouth but we were ready to find it.

Visit to Guanajuato

A week ago today was my last day of work at Harmon Hall, the language institute I've been working at during the previous months. I will be leaving the city of Guadalajara in a little more than a week, but before leaving, I decided to take a trip to one of Mexico's most prized possessions; a colonial town nestled in the mountains in central Mexico. The city, founded in 1554, played an important role in the independence of Mexico as it was the birthplace of the movement. At one time, it was home to Miguel Hidalgo as well as the famous artist Diego Rivera. If one desires to visit Mexico for the purpose of its culture, Guanajuato is unmistakably a center point.

"Un boleto a Guanajuato por favor." I had arrived to the Central Camionera fifteen minutes before the next departure to Guanajuato and full of excitement, I boarded the Primera Plus bus headed for the state of Guanajuato. Three short hours later we arrived in, what I thought was my destination. We were in Guanajuato alright, but not in the city of Guanajuato. Unknowingly, I marched myself downtown and began looking for a hostel. Unbeknownst to me, I spent two hours wondering the city of León, asking everyone where one could find a hostel or "Mercado Hidaldo." I couldn't figure out why everyone had raved about the beauty of this city, it was actually quite ugly. It wasn't until several blank stares later that I decided I had better buy a map. Luckily, before I purchased the map, I read the cover..."Mapa de León, Guanajuato." SHIT! Frustrated and sweaty, I marched myself back to the bus station, and boarded the next bus to the city of Guanajuato.

Finally, I arrived in Guanajuato. The city bus I had taken from the bus station winded and curved, hugging the rocky sides of the bronze hills that compliments Guanajuato's beauty. The bus passed through several tunnels, in fact, most of Guanajuato's main streets run underneath the city in tunnels with rock walls and arched entry and exit ways. I got down near the center of the city and began to explore. Quickly, I had tracked down the hostel, dropped my bag off and headed out toward the city. Walking through Guanajuato's streets feels almost like a maze, narrow streets and high walls decide your direction. The colors of the city wee incredible. Most of the homes edge the hillside that surrounds the city center. Bright colors reflect the sunlit homes that scale up the mountain side, seemingly defying physics or just ignorant to the power of mother nature herself. Walking around Guanajuato feels like walking around a a doll house or a little xmas village. Everything is small. Wander away from the main streets and you will find yourself in small alleyways between the thousands of homes that paint the hillside.

The next day I decided to head up to Pipila, a statue that sits atop one of the highest hills commemorating the legend of Pipila. Supposedly, the Alhodiga, a castle like structure in the center, was the last stronghold of the Spanish the turn of the 20th century. Unable to penetrate the castle due to Spanish gunfire from atop, Mexican soldiers below were in a bind. Pipila, with the help of others, placed a large slab of stone on his back. Deflecting bullets with the stone, he carried a torch to the door of the castle, lighting it on fire and allowing hundreds of Mexican soldiers to enter the castle and dismantle one of the last Spanish strongholds in the country. His heroism is honored with a giant statue overlooking the city with the same determination that carried his country to victory. I visited several other historic sights during that day and spent some time in one of the many plazas reading. I returned later in the evening with a six pack of cerveza Indio to watch the sunset from the roof of my hostel, coincidentally where a scene from the movie "Once Upon a Time in Mexico" was filmed. I invited another hostel resident I had befriended. Gary the frenchman complied and we had a nice discussion watching the sunset. He was spending one year traveling the world, and his stories inspired me to continue south to Colombia, his favorite country thus far. I also met two Japanese guys in the hostel who were spending through years bicycling the globe. They had started in Alaska, and had made it to Guanajuato. They were to continue south through Central America, South America, then on to Africa and Europe before crossing Asia and finishing back in Japan. Pretty brave for two guys who speak neither English nor Spanish.

Gary and I went out on the town for a drink. After a few disappointing stops we followed the Reggae music we had heard hours before. At the entrance of the bar was its only inhabitant, the owner "Ariel." Ariel turned out to be the baddest mo fo I had met. An immigrant from Cuba, we sat with Ariel and a few of his friends listening to reggae and salsa hits for the next few hours. Sharing stories, laughing, watching Ariel teach Cuban salsa steps, the night turned out to me a memorable one. He gave me many suggestions of places to visit in Cuba and rekindled my enthusiasm for the country.

I awoke chapped and cotton mouthed the next day, and hurriedly packed my belongings to catch my bus back to Guadalajara. In summary, my trip to Guanajuato was just what I needed. It reminded me of how much I love being on the road, meeting new people and creating memories with complete strangers. I returned to Guadalajara refreshed and optimistic. My next stop is Morelia to visit some old friends, then on to Puerto Escondido, Oaxaca. Good times.

Housing Project San Luis Talpa, El Salvador

In July of 2009, I arrived in the San Salvador airport as a volunteer for the Fuller Center for Housing. A city that boasts one of the highest murder rates in the world, around twelve murders a day, San Salvador's violence and socioeconomic issues are the result of a bloody civil war spanning twelve years (1980-1992) and taking the lives of over 75,000 of its citizens. Most recently, the image of El Salvador is characterized by the tattooed faces of the MS-13 and the 18th street gang whose beginnings are traced back to inner city Los Angeles when Salvadoran immigrants were bullied by preexisting Mexican gangs. Today these two gangs are largely responsible for the violence that torments this beautiful landscape and its wonderful people.

After becoming acquainted with the rest of the group, whose members consisted primarily of great folks from Mason, Georgia, we were directed to our rented guest house. We had dinner that night, prayed for the safety of the group and for the work we had ahead of us. Since we had arrived on Saturday, we had Sunday to mosey about and decided to take an elective trip to Zoyapango, a neighborhood just outside of the city, to see a recently completed project. Two vans bumped up a poorly paved road to one of the most gang infested neighborhoods of the capitol city where murders are a daily occurrence, blank stares were abundant. Through a retracting fence, the vans entered an area of about five acres surrounded by fifteen foot concrete walls topped with barbwire. What had previously been an oversized garbage dump two years ago, had been reproduced into a housing complex providing a home to over 200 families. Mike, Fuller Center's Salvadoran representative, is an American expat who headed the project and is truly a saint to the people of Zoyapango having not only constructed homes, but a school, playground area, and a soccer field. A true humanitarian.

We began our build early Monday morning around eight a.m. and I must say, an El Salvadoran day in July is beyond hot and humid, especially for a person raised in Seattle, Wa. We worked hard, and I did my best to act as foreman, translating and directing where we needed help. We took water breaks often to account for the gallons of sweat produced from pick axing water trenches, mixing concrete, constructing gardens, wheel-barreling dirt and grass among other tedious tasks. Every day around noon, we were provided a lunch cooked by some of the local community. Appreciative of our work, the Fuller Center has established over fifteen homes in an area so poverty stricken, many of the families were living in shacks made from cardboard, garbage bags, and sticks. Villa Kawanis, as the area is called, now provides the basic necessities for these families. During our time in Villa Kawanis, we made that possibility a reality for two more of these families. Prior to our arrival, another group had constructed a small building with sewing machines which the women use to make hand bags and clothes, which are then in turn sold to volunteers and other visitors! Because of Fuller Center, these people not only had newly constructed homes, but a chance at life. A chance to provide for their children, and a chance to live comfortably.

Finishing the second home in Villa Kawanis accounts for the fourth home I have helped to construct in Latin America, and one day I hope that number supersedes the hundreds. To volunteer with such an organization like Fuller Center is a truly unforgettable and rewarding experience. The next time you think of taking a vacation to get away from the stresses of life, where a beach a corona and a palapa await, take into consideration a volunteer project. The change in perspective you will experience will take care of that stress you feel, and the work you do will drastically improve the lives of countless underprivileged human beings. (If you think physically you are burdened, I had a seventy something year old woman working by my side, how's that for motivation? ha!).

In summary, my time spent in El Salvador was informative, inspiring, and worth while. Not only did we do something great for the people, I met some incredible Americans I will never forget. They're prayers, optimism, and encouragement echoes in my memory. I hope to turn this kind of assistance into my life's work one day, and this kind of experience continues to inspire me to do so.