2 DAYS IN THE COUNTRY (DAY TWO)

TUESDAY, 21 OCT. 2014
LA BANDA, MEXICO

Veering off the two-lane blacktop, we follow a ragged gravel trail--bumpy as a dragon's backside--through miles of rolling sagebrush and cactus country.

Ahead, mountains glint in the afternoon light. Three times we ask directions from local campesinos and get similar, but slightly differing, advice each time. No maps to go by out here, and no GPS or cell towers either.

"I'm feeling real confident now," Lee drawls doubtfully.

We press on. We three men are jammed in the cab of the bucking, rattling pickup that has taken more hits than Joe Louis.  A few minutes on we come upon a large, insect-like earth-grading machine. For the mile or so we’re trapped behind the monster, we swallow dust and blink away tears.

When the big machine finally drops to the side to let us pass, the road itself vanishes and we plunge into a foaming streambed.  I look down and see the water boiling up white. With a lurch we shoot up the far bank and continue on the Road to Nowhere.

Just when I’m sure we’re lost, Lee recognizes an abandoned hacienda and old Indian chapel... and not too much later the tiny village of La Banda emerges in the middle of a cornfield and brace of trees: small adobe dwellings enhanced by a lively chorus of chickens and goats. We park against a chain-link fence before a squat stone schoolhouse.

“Buenas tardes!” a grinning woman shouts from the doorway.  Drowsily, a couple of dogs exchange places in the dusty schoolyard.

Lee, Saul, and I tumble out of the truck.  In the cab’s tight quarters for the past hour, there’s been enough male bonding to last a month.

We’ve come here on Rotary business: a planning meeting with residents’ committees from the two campo villages of La Banda and Montecillo de Nieto.  In the next few months, Rotary’ll be working with locals to construct new cisterns to provide clean drinking water.

Arrayed in a semicircle of chairs are two-dozen women and a few young children—the village men are still working in the fields, or they’re away up North, or gone.The meeting gets underway with small talk and jokes.

Saul’s brought his white board and uses colored markers to define project benchmarks and confirm leadership roles among the women of the two villages.  There are flashing smiles and pealing laughter. Meanwhile, a tiny girl and two young boys run around, playing tag.

With his easy smile, Saul’s really good at getting the women to open up, share their concerns, and give their personal insights. Dedicated to clarifying ideas and channeling unwieldy concepts into workable solutions, Lee takes copious notes in a log book and offers occasional comments to keep the group on track.

I watch the proceedings from the sidelines, unable to follow the rapid-fire Spanish.  But even though I can’t comprehend what’s being said, I soon grow attuned to following the ebb and flow of the conversation, like a sailor tracking the waves.

It’s a unique experience for me. The women—most are in their 20s and early 30s, but a number of village elders are present, too—are hardly shy about sharing their views. I watch them carefully, and what surprises me most, I think, is their confidence. In themselves and in what they hope to accomplish here tonight and in the future.

This confidence, I eventually come to understand, arises out of their endless struggle to make a better world for themselves and their kids.

The women of these two villages, miles apart, share a common thread of warmth and closeness and fellowship that is just magical.  The Rotary’s cistern project will bring them and their children fresh, clean drinking water, something they lack right now. That’s the motivation for them to attend organizing meetings like this one for the past two years.  But it’s just a start.  And a good one at that.

Like parents everywhere--rich, poor, or in-between--they’re hoping to keep their children safe, strong, smart, and healthy, and by the time the meeting’s over I’m convinced that nothing in this world is going to stop these mothers from trying to achieve their aims. Not the rigors of living  out here on the very edge of the map. And not the trivial machinations of the powerful in government and industry who strive to marginalize them even more. These women won’t let that happen.

After a potluck-style dinner of warm tacos, beans, and rice served in the schoolhouse, it’s time to head out. Evening has fallen. As we walk toward Lee’s pickup, I’m surprised to see a dozen women and their kids sitting in the open rear bed. Lee explains we’re taking those who’d earlier traveled by rural camion from Montecillo to attend the meeting back home.

The air is crisp, the night subterranean, the road carved with ruts so deep I feel like that wave-tossed sailor once more—but the sounds of laughter and endless light-hearted chatter from behind us strike me as clear and profound as church bells on Sunday morning. To my ears it sounds like a call for the world to right itself.

.     .     .     .     .     .     .

Anybody with half a brain can make easy pronouncements about the two faces of Mexico--the urban rich and the rural poor.

But if one point is perfectly clear after witnessing first-hand the extremes of living in our patch of this country, I would suggest this one: Family is what counts here. Whether rich or poor, the Mexican people want something better for their children. And they want to give it to them through their own--not by gringo outsider or even government--inititative.

Whether it’s through teaching competitive skills at the Otomi Grand Prix or ensuring their villages of La Banda and Montecillo get clean drinking water, parents at either end of the economic spectrum will do whatever’s necessary to give their kids a fighting chance in life.

Let’s pray that these children from very different economic realities today can, in the next generation, stand together to achieve a stronger and more unified and equitable country.

(The first part of "2 Days in the Country" was published last week and is available in my previous blog post below.)

© 2014 Tony DeCrosta

Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com

2 DAYS IN THE COUNTRY (DAY ONE)

FRIDAY, 17 OCT. 2014
OTOMI LAND, MEXICO

A lovelier setting cannot be imagined. The morning is exquisite, as is the slice of Mexican society on display.

The sky is colored what should be nominated as the next “Pantone Color of the Year”: San Miguel de Allende Blue.  Glistening stone fountains, lawns lush as Irish heather, towering cactus plants, and well-tended ornamental beds make this few hundred acres a horticulturalist’s dream.  A soft breeze has been whispering magical canticles all morning.

I’ve found myself at the Otomi Lakes & Villas, an exclusive residential community and equestrian center set along the Presa Allende, a pleasant five-minute drive from our fair city. The Otomi Indians were the original inhabitants of these parts, and I doubt they ever dreamed of a legacy so grand.

It’s the first day of the Otomi Grand Prix Horse Show. This painstakingly
manicured event features the best Mexican riders vying for top honors during three days of horse jumping competitions. Horse-owners, riders, families, and friends (and at least one plebeian interloper like me) have convened from all parts of Mexico for what promises to be an unforgettable experience.

Riders of all ages—nine to forty-nine--are set to test their horse hurdling skills against each other.  Neat assemblages of designer trophies, to be presented to top performers, gleam on tables in the Trojan sunlight.  Awards go to the riders only.

Otomi Lakes & Villas really is something special. Houses sell for millions of U.S. dollars and feature every amenity the average drug lord’s family covets (there have been rumors but, then again, in Mexico there are always rumors). Even with their swimming pools and Roman fountains and Spanish gardens, built-in theaters and exercise rooms, and 24-hour security guards, these elegant domiciles don’t have much over the horse stables (part of the equestrian center).

That’s an exaggeration, of course. But in fact the stables are way more luxurious than the rustic adobe hutches most of Mexico’s 56 million rural poor inhabit. The stables have clean, running water, electric lighting, and land line phone service for starters.

Everyone’s waiting for the competition to begin.

Those gathered here today are youngish, urbane, vibrant, and… well, damned beautiful.

Proudly displayed are some naturally attractive faces, wonderfully coiffed hair, and well-toned bodies--as well as numerous examples of the latest achievements in abdominoplasty, blepharoplasty, breast augmentation, reduction, or lift, buttock augmentation or lift, chemical peel, lip enhancement, rhinoplasty, rhytidectomy, genioplasty, and liposuction, not to mention tactically advantageous injections of collagen or hyaluronic acid…

I could be sitting on the film set of “The Rich and Famous of Latin America.” Worse yet, I’m the only one wearing gym shorts and sneakers!

Everybody else is dressed in their best equestrian attire: dark vests, white pants, black leather boots, leather gloves, and riding helmets that look sharp but offer as much protection as a paper napkin. Some of the higher ranking men wear formal club jackets, cream shirts, and bold neckties.

Many parade around as if they’re posing for photographs, which they are since a bevy of hired photographers scurry about the different venues, attempting to immortalize every moment. Everyone’s a potential focal point for tomorrow’s El Universal or next year’s club brochure.

Stirring “We are the Champions”-style music—played in their original English versions—blares from loudspeakers planted atop the judges’ stands. You can’t help but be inspired, even if you normally don’t like being within kicking distance of any horse’s hooves.

At one point while the competitions are going full-throttle, a bright-yellow helicopter swooshes by overhead like an angry wasp. It settles down in a nearby field. After discharging some VIPs the machine buzzes off in a cloud of dust, making the return trip to--where? Guanajuato, Guadalajara, the D.F?  Nobody else in the crowd even seems to notice.

In the first arena, a stunning Arabian stallion and young rider have just earned a near-perfect score by navigating all the jumps within the time limit and without a stumble. In response, there’s only scattered applause. It’s a tough crowd.

Under voluminous white canvas hospitality tents, uniformed staff busily serves gourmet hot dogs and hamburgers and skinny glasses of champagne. Other servers, white towels draped over a forearm, portage trays of lesser fair like sweets and salted crisps and energy drinks to those of us seated in the covered grandstands.

As well configured as the competitors and their families and friends are, they actually pale in comparison to the beauty of the horses themselves. These sleek Arabian, Appaloosa, and Iberian breeds are so mannerly, so noble-looking, and so handsome it occurred to me that any one of them would make an amusing dinner companion for an evening at Hank’s New Orleans Café and Oyster Bar. (I’m sure nobody’ll mind.)

Even I can appreciate these creatures’ ageless beauty and grace. I bet you that most horse owners envy the truly august lineages of their animals, wishing they were similarly endowed.

The kids—young male and female riders—start to fascinate me. Anxious parents watch as their teenage sons and daughters--atop full-grown stallions, for God’s sake, with nothing but a paper napkin for head protection--negotiate the challenging hurdles.  Weirdly, it reminds me of my former days as a Little League coach in Philly. Like my fellow parents, I cheered our kids’ every pitch, hit, or catch with unhinged fervor--just like the parents of the young riders at the Otomi Grand Prix today.

Sure, these kids come from super-wealthy families. But all are natural beauties like most kids anywhere, and many of the youngest are really just children: painfully self-conscious and shy and quick to heed their parents’ calls to behave. They even act like kids much of the time, giggling and taunting each other playfully and eating too many candies and drinking too much Coca-Cola.

Still, it doesn’t take long before any keen observer notes that most are already beginning to be molded in their parents’ images. They are assuming the most well-turned-out and urbane features of their progenitors. In time, for sure, they’ll take on the same cool, calm, and deadly superior looks as their parents.  Attitudes and values will soon follow. But for now, they’re just like kids anywhere.  And I like them best for it.

Later, as I head on back to town, following an exquisitely tailored two-lane road inlaid with cobblestones, lined with rail fencing, and comforted by an unbroken canopy of trees, I had this evil thought: Whether they win or lose at the jumping competitions this weekend, the competitors and their families and friends at the Otomi Grand Prix are and always will be standing in Mexico’s winners’ circle.

And yet, and yet…. I still had much to learn.  I would be reminded of my short encounter with these children of wealthy families a few days later when I ventured a bit farther out into the countryside to visit a poor Mexican campo. An important lesson waited for me there, too.

Please continue with "2 Days in the Country (Day Two)," available online next week.



© 2014 Tony DeCrosta
Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com