Raw Cut | Rudi Krausmann | Travel Diary 7/9

THE COLUMN OF LIFE

In a plane flying over the Californian desert from which snowcovered peaks of the Sierra Nevada in the distance were also visible a young, blond man in a grey silk suit and a blue open shirt was dozing contentedly in his seat. As the plane descended towards Palm Springs, an oasis made artificially by technical development, the young man opened his eyes and immediately smiled at everyone visible. He looked very much like the happy American as shown on posters after the second world war advertising cigarettes or other products for the world market. I never believed that this type of young man really existed in the reality of life, he was either too naive or too innocent. But here he was, sitting beside me with a plain but pleasant face which showed no trace of the recent past or sign of an uncertain future.
"How are you?" I said.
"Fine," he replied with a broad smile.
"Where are you going?"
"San Diego, I am stationed there, I am in the Marines."
"And how is life in San Diego?"
"Nice and warm and easy parking." He lifted himself up in his seat and added. "I used to be stationed in San Francisco, where my mother lives, but don't like it there anymore."
"Why?"
"You no longer can park your car there for free." His concern for parking his car for free startled me, it seemed more important than anything else for him, at the moment. After a pause I asked him. "Have you been to Mexico?" "No, never, I don't want to go there, it's too dirty." After that we never spoke to each other the whole journey, subconsciously we both knew that we had nothing to say to each other, perhaps we were a different species, who by chance had boarded the same plane.
When we arrived in San Diego airport, not having made any arrangements for accommodation, we decided to stay at the Hotel Flamingo, which advertised for half price at the information desk. An elderly gentle coloured man, with greyish curly hair drove us there in a shuttle bus. The Hotel Flamingo was painted entirely in blue or pink, and had two life-size flamingos, one in blue the other in pink, cast in plaster standing in front of the reception. It had a small swimming pool in blue and as a bonus aeroplanes were passing over it every 10 to 15 minutes. Later we found out that it had a pink piano in the bar but no-one from the staff was to be seen as we had arrived.
"Where is everybody?" I asked our gentle driver as he handed over our luggage. He seemed the only one still on duty.
"The staff is having a party." He replied, "but don't worry, I'll fix you up." And so he did. He showed us the room -- we were the only customers at the moment -- and also invited us to the party which was held in the dining room. When we got there the party was nearly over and most of the participants were more or less drunk. One of the waitresses was sitting on the knee of a man who was watching a football game on television. Others were staring into their empty glasses and some of them had fallen asleep. The cook, hardly capable of walking, nevertheless carried some sausages and meatballs on a tray through the room and placed them on a table. Then he was looking for a woman to embrace, but everyone was fleeing from him and he decided to have a beer instead. Only the barman, a distinguished looking middle-aged black man had things relatively under control. Like a schoolmaster he looked into the room, hoping perhaps that not too many glasses were broken. The staff consisted of about twenty people, of mixed races, who still were wearing their working clothes and got on very well with each other, at least for the moment. We were obviously invited to take part without being too much taken notice of and could share the food from the table for free. Here nobody seemed to care what anyone was doing, as a result too many things happened at once. While the television was on, one could hear also someone practising classical music on the piano in the bar adjoining the dining room. In short a real tohuwabohu and perfectly democratic. When I ordered some drinks, I asked the barman.
"How long are you open?"
"Twenty-four hours."
"Enough work?" He laughed, "For us work is like play, don't forget, we are nearly in Mexico, mas o meño. But when we are full, it can be a hell of a place." And he laughed out loudly. "You came the wrong time, this is out of season, at the moment we are running at a loss." "And what is the party for?" I asked. "To celebrate the end of an era. Tomorrow we have a new boss, the place will be under new management, but I doubt if it's going to change anything."
From the Flamingo the centre of San Diego was in walking distance. What was the main attraction there is hard to tell. For most people it was the supermarket, which stayed open till midnight, and where one could not only shop, but also dine and dance. A special police force must have been in operation, as derelicts and beggars could not be seen there, although quite a few were hanging around in the main street, in particular in front of the town hall. One wondered how it was possible that a town which has a Bank of America Square let's its citizen run out of money. The 'Bank of America Square' was the most sterile square I had seen anywhere so far, it consisted of four skyscrapers facing each other across a square of concrete without a tree or a bench. All four skyscrapers represented a bank, We crossed it and were relieved when we saw a vacant lot where some drunks were lying on grass no longer dreaming the 'American Dream' which only money can buy. They may have been broke but at least exhaled a sign of life.
Later, sitting in a coffee lounge, we saw through the window a young Mexican being escorted by a policeman. It must have been an illegal immigrant just caught. The waitress told us that very few last more than twenty-four hours after they cross the border. Not only their physique, their accent, if they speak English at all, but in particular their clothes make them stand out in the crowd like a rabbit in a snowfield. If they catch a bus, the driver can detect them easily and only needs to press a button to get a policeman on board the next stop.
When we looked at the local newspaper, which was left behind on the table, we saw a large photograph of Eva Gardner on the front page. She had just died in London, leaving three husbands and many lovers behind. According to the article this sensuous beauty had drunk every husband or lover under the table. On another page there was a reprint of an interview with Gore Vidal. This American novelist who lived in Rome had just published another novel called Hollywood. When asked what his intention with his novel had been he told the interviewer that while writing it, it was to finish it, which was no pleasure as he suffered from high blood pressure, and once finished he intended to sell it. He had decided to live in Italy because he found the United States boring, being a country of the rich, by the rich and for the rich. As we returned to the blue and pink Flamingo we once more crossed the 'Bank of America Square'. This time a tall impeccably dressed black man was standing in front of the by now closed Bank of America and holding in a plastic cup a toy flag of the United States. He approached us gently and whispered. "Have you got some change for the president? He is broke."
Back at the Flamingo the bar had become a 'hell of a place' as the barman had indicated. Two bus loads of marines had arrived and booked in for the night. The party for the staff was definitely over. We had a snack and retired to our room, preparing ourselves for the journey to Mexico.
For a tourist there are of course many ways to go to Mexico from California. An international flight would be the easiest. One can also go by special bus from San Diego, at least it makes it possible to fly on from Tejuana with Air Mexicana, which reduces the costs of airfare to 30 percent. But the cheapest transportation no doubt is by trolley to the Mexican border, which is also the most interesting. The trolley starts from six o'clock in the morning and goes till midnight, in intervals of 30 minutes. It's like a train and stops in every suburb. These suburbs are industrial and not a pleasant sight, but it is there where the working population lives. In the mornings and evenings the trolley is crowded with Mexican workers who cross the border daily and return home the same evening. These workers who do mainly menial jobs in the States are considered the lucky ones, they earn 'good' money in dollars and live cheaply in Mexico. Yet they look anything but happy and one wonders why? Compared to their compatriots they can spend the pesetas like water at home, on their days off they can walk in the streets like kings, so why do they look so depressed. Maybe they are lost souls, who belong nowhere, whether to the United States nor to Mexico, inhabiting a nomansland where the mighty dollar did not do the trick, certainly did not give them what they had expected. Although they need and like to have money, in their souls it has not reached the status as it has for the American citizen, where 'money is a kind of poetry.'
When we arrived at the border in Tejuana, we took a taxi to the airport. What we saw was nothing more than a shanty town, and the most depressing one at that. In the foyer of the airport the seats were torn and young men were hanging around hoping to make a few pesetas for any service that offered itself, like pushing the luggage of tourists closer to the check-in desk, if they liked it or not. It comes as a shock to arrive in a country where the social conditions are so vastly different from Australia or Austria, where millions of people wake up hungrily in the morning, where social security is nonexistent. When, thirty years ago, in my student days in Vienna I was trying to learn Spanish and envisaged some Spanish speaking countries in Central or South America, I had thought of exotic lands, with grandiose architecture and delicate manners. What I saw in reality was the very opposite. Later, in the relative security of the Air Mexicana aeroplane, flying over the desert of Northern Mexico, I could not help thinking of the first South American I had met in the Cafe Gloria in Vienna, an Uruquayan with whom I had tried to practise some words of Spanish I had learned. This student had no interest in 'wine, women and song' like the others, he always sat quietly in a corner and seemed to exist on a few cups of black coffee, perhaps engrossed in a 'labyrinth of solitude'. Our conversation was usually very brief, something like this.
I would start with "Come estas?" He would answer: "Bien."
I would say: "Que haces?" He would reply: "Niente"
Then I asked: "Estudias?" he said: "No, yo existo," and that was it. After that there was nothing more to be said. The Viennese, with their non-stop conversations, must have appeared to him the most ludicrous people in the world. This Uruquayan never read a newspaper and seemed remote from everyone in the Cafe Gloria. Existentialism, en vogue in Vienna at the time, was discussed in most of the student coffee houses, but this South American, perhaps the existentialist par excellence, never mentioned it. He hated the word in speech and print. As the plane approached Mexico City the passengers became restless, it is possible that many would have preferred to fly on, as we landed in one of the most polluted cities in the world. "One only lives in Mexico City if one has to," someone said behind me, "I am glad that I am only changing planes there." The voice came from an elderly American, talking to his wife.
"Do you want to leave me behind," she replied, "what should I do in this overpopulated, stinking metropolis?" "You could have lots of fun there, with all the dollars you have on you." He laughed. The outskirts of Mexico City mainly consist of shacks, where the new arrivals had made a temporary abode from any material they could find, but are cut off from water and electricity. Only if they found jobs could they move on to better accommodations, which was most unlikely. Quite a few barren hills are dotted with these primitive huts and it was difficult to imagine how one could live in them in the heat of summer. And millions live like that in a city with a population of over 20 million.
"How much do I tip the bellboy?" the American lady sitting behind us asked her husband. "About one thousand pesetas," he replied. "That sounds a lot of money!" "No, it's not, it is only forty cents for us, in this country we are all millionaires. You remember, you always wanted to be a millionaire, now you are one, isn't that funny?"
"It's not funny," she replied sharply.
As it turned out, this elderly couple was also flying to Oaxaca, but had to change planes in Mexico City. The husband was a pastor and had been in Mexico several times before. His wife never wanted to go to Mexico, and was suspicious of everything that was not American.
"Don't drink water there," she told us, "it's not safe."
"Drink tequila instead," her husband said and laughed. Once in the plane to Oaxaca there was no more escape from tourists, mainly American. What distinguished us was that we had not booked in advance and had no idea where we were staying. M picked out a cheap hotel from the travel guide Let's go Mexico. When we arrived there by taxi there was only an old Mexican woman sitting behind the reception desk doing some knitting. She spoke whether English nor German. I was forced to try in Spanish.
"Hay cameras?" I asked.
"No hay."
"Cuando hay cameras."
"No se."
"Mañana?"
"Si mañana," she replied. I was not quite sure if she had understood me. M said to me she was surprised that I had asked for a camera, as we already had one. But I was convinced that camera meant room in Spanish. Be that as it may, we had to do something, as it was already dark. Three schoolboys walked past the hotel but had suddenly stopped and came back to look at us. I could see in their gestures that they were amused about our appearance, although I did not know why. In my abominable Spanish I tried to explain to them that we needed a room and if they knew a hotel nearby? They shook their heads and laughed.
"Hablas ingles?" I said to the oldest of them, who could have been about 14 years of age. "No," he replied and added for all of them proudly, "somos Mechicanos." I had the feeling that he knew English quite well but did not want to admit it. I joked with them using English, Spanish and German words in a mix up. That seemed to amuse them. They talked to the woman behind the counter who must have told them that the hotel was booked out. "Hotel Santo Thomas!" one of the boys shouted. I guessed he mentioned a hotel nearby and handed each boy a piece of our luggage. Together we marched off into the Mexican night. The Hotel Santo Tomas was just around the corner and had plenty of rooms left. I handed a 1,000-peseta coin to each one of the boys. At first they did not want to take it, but I insisted, mas o meño. When they left the one I had asked if he spoke English shouted very clearly. "Good bye and good night."
'Ten thousand years ago, perhaps even earlier, a small group of nomadic hunter-gatherers arrived by foot, without beasts of burden in what is now the state of Oaxaca in southern Mexico. These early inhabitants, -- probably no more than a few families -- hunted animals with stone tipped spears and foraged for wild plant food. During subsequent millennia population increased and many innovations in culture and society appeared: Domesticated plants, complex political and social systems, writing and large urban settlements with monumental architecture' This is the beginning to an introduction of an archaeological article by Marcus Winter to Oaxaca. When we woke up next morning in the Hotel Santo Tomas we were in the inner city of Oaxaca. The hotel was simple but clean, in a prize range that travelling Mexican salesmen would use it, but the majority of its customers were tourists. When I opened the door of our room, an Indian boy was just cleaning the blue and white tiles of the floor with a mop. "Buenas dias" I said. Buenas dias" he replied and grinned. "Hablas ingles," I inquired. He shook his head. "Otras linguas?" Again he shook his head. "Fumas?" "Si, si," he said. I offered him a cigarette and attempted to light it for him. He put the cigarette into the pocket of his shirt and indicated that either he did not want to smoke it now or was not permitted to smoke while he was working. He continued cleaning the floor very thoroughly, at times glancing at me in a bemused way. Are we foreigners or 'gringos' by now all figures of fun, I thought, as I walked on past the communal kitchen to the front of the hotel. As we had our room on the first floor there was a balcony from where one could look out onto the street. Although it was a side street it was full of the morning traffic heading towards the centre of Oaxaca. The cars were making a considerable noise but were slowed down by the occasional cart with a donkey or horse. Modern Mexico was obviously triumphing over the old one. Opposite was a barber shop, a fruiterer and a store for office equipment. But the air was still clear and over the low rooftops the contours of churches pierced the blue Mexican sky. Somehow it felt good to be here. As I returned, I saw two women and a child sitting on a table having breakfast. We nodded at each other but made no attempt to get into a conversation. We were tourists who avoided tourists.
When we walked into town later on we saw elderly women selling pieces of corn which they heated on an iron stove on the pavement. Indian boys offered various fruits assorted like a bunch of flowers which were covered in a plastic bag to protect them from flies or dust. And everywhere Indian women or girls carried assortments of flowers in a flat basket on their head. When one stopped them to buy some they rarely smiled. They were whether friendly nor hostile. Also they did not care if one bought the flowers or not, it seemed. They had a calmness inside which protected them from bargaining tourists. Some of them did not stop at all, perhaps they were on their way to the cemetery and the flowers were for the dead. FLORES PARA LOS MUERTOS. Also many Indian men were standing in street corners or walked around on plazas, in particular near the zocalo, the main square. Many of them sold handmade baskets or rugs, woven in the villages. They also had the same remoteness, and did not care if they had any sales or not. Nothing seemed to matter. Some are rich and the majority is poor, such is life, in the end they all turn to dust. Mexicans, I had read somewhere, are fascinated with death, revolution, flowers and fiestas. Is it their fascination with death which keeps them remote from everyday life? They only become alive during a fiesta, which is when they go out of themselves, become excited, or during a revolution. The rest of life they let pass indifferently. One wonders what they think of the tourists who stay at the Hotel Presidente, where one night's stay costs as much as an average monthly salary of a Mexican, step out from their air-conditioned rooms into the morning sunlight and become nervous if the taxi had not arrived to take them to prehistoric ruins?
Or course in Oaxaca, being rather touristic, everywhere souvenirs are sold, some spread out on stone floors beside a church. And not only Indians, also mestizos, a mixed race of Spanish and Indian blood, are offering their wares. Some of them use gimmicks, sound or even a small monkey to attract a crowd.
The cathedral of the Virgin of Solitude, an imposing building of baroque architecture, has a golden altar and is frequented as much by tourists as by the local population. We visited it during mass, where a group of tourists walked around inspecting religious statues while the locals were kneeling in prayer. Attached to the church is a museum which exhibited at the time modern tapestries woven in a nearby village in one wing, in the other jewellery of ancient Mexicans, the Mixtas and Zapecs. Most beautiful was a diadem of pure gold, and very simple design. In preconquest times the king, who was a poet at the same time, was equally connected to god and the people. This political, religious and poetic state of affairs produced a dialogue of this kind:

Man: I ask you, o priests
whence come the narcotic flowers
the songs that make us drunk?
Priest: The beautiful songs come from the other world
from the House of the Sun in Heaven
only from his House come the manifold
flowers.

(from a guide to Mexican poetry, ancient and modern.)
 

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