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Published: June 23rd 2005
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Inside Chiesa de Santo Domingo
No flash allowed so it's a little blurry, but you get the idea...solid gold. "All that glitters isn't gold."
My days in Oaxaca, a city whose colonial architecture, art-filled parks, floral courtyards, lively plazas, colorful shopfronts, extraordinary cathedrals, historical artifacts, and purely delicious cuisine beckon you to explore its wonders, have proven one of the key truths in travel: it is the people where you travel that make or break the experience. For no matter how fascinatingly gorgeous or culturally rich a place is, it will never win first prize in your list of travel greats if you feel you have been swindled, attacked, or otherwise mistreated.
My first impressions of the city, having arrived at 6 in the morning and being blessed with the rare opportunity to watch the city slowly rise from its quiet slumber, were quite memorable. This was obviously a city that valued its private morning time, as my new English mates and I couldn't find a solitary cafe open prior to 8 am. So as we patiently waited for the staff to arrive and the coffee to start brewing, we took a seat alongside the zocalo and observed the vendors trickling in to set up their displays as the sun snuck higher and higher above the horizon. By the end of breakfast, however,
the tranquility of that moment was all but forgotten, as the jackhammers tore up the sidewalk not even 15 feet from the zocalo cafes. The whole central plaza was being torn up to lay a new walkway.
Not to be deterred by a little noise, I set out after my nap to check out the town and was amazed by all the aforementioned beautiful aspects of the city. However, nagging ever so slightly was the constant hissing of the local men. I made the mistake of actually having a conversation with one of the more low-key male approachers, and my sentiment now grew into severe irritation. Now, it is not the case that I had never heard of machismo; in fact, all the Latin American countries seem to be infected with this vile disease. The extent to which it reaches in Mexico, however, is completely off the charts.
After having an hours-long conversation with an educated and intellectual man, I was told that he still saw me only as white skin, blonde hair, and a body. As if, after having rejected his romantic offerings, a statement like that would really entice me to jump into his arms. And
the men are so unable to deal with rejection: it really didn't matter which excuse I resorted to...boyfriend, married, lesbian....they are so infinitely frightened of rejection that they try to convince you that you really DON'T feel that way about your pseudo-lover. Not to mention that, in general, they talk and talk and talk, not seeming to pick up on the fact that when you keep telling them, "Goodbye/ I don't want to talk to you anymore/ I'm leaving", that it is their cue to shut up and go away. Most important, it appears that they don't understand that no means NO.
My growing horror was only worsened later that evening, when, while walking accompanied by a male friend, a pickup pulled up and two men in the back made this sign which means, "Pass her over to us." Yikes. As much fun as it is to feel like an actual good that can be traded in the marketplace and reused at a man's will, I had had quite enough of the Oaxacan men. But was I safe back in the refuge of my hostel? Of course not. After having explained to one of the friendly Mexican workers about
Edificio J of Monte Alban
Why this Aztec building was built at a 45 degree angle to all the others isn't exactly clear, but they believe it has something to do with their astronomical beliefs the horrid experience I had, he took it upon himself to try to kiss me a few times (because apparently when I was lamenting the aggressiveness of the men, I MUST have meant that it only sucked because none of them were as wonderful as HIM), and then when I shut myself in my room, he kept pounding on my door to try to talk to me some more!
The funny thing is, the next day while enjoying a rare moment of peace on a cafe balcony, I paused to read the bilingual GoOaxaca magazine that gives basic information on the city, sights, services, and Mexican cultural tips. Given my recent experiences, I had to laugh when reading a guide to foreigners on how not to offend the "very polite and formal" Mexicans. This tip had obviously not been written by a single blonde woman. Mirroring this laughable proposition was the customs and etiquette section of my travel guide, which stated: "RESPECT. Mexicans almost always use proper terms of address when speaking to one another." Hmmm....does that include guera, mamacita, puta, pequena, or muneca? I didn't think so. Seems to me that what these boys here need is a
schooling in exactly that....a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
Now, to be fair, there are horrible creatures of this sort in all the world that do damage to the reputation of their gender. However, you can only be fooled so many times in one place when giving newcomers the benefit of the doubt before you start to put up barriers and make generalizations. Perhaps what is most upsetting about this experience (second, of course, to the realization that this attitude of domination which holds hundreds of thousands of women and girls around the world in servitude is so present and culturally acceptable that even my U.S. published guidebook writes it off as "more annoying than actually dangerous") is the change it threatens to bring about in my general demeanor and outlook on life. Appreciating the beauty even in a snow-covered heap of tires, seeing the possibility in an impossibile situation, finding the silver lining in a bad situation, believing that everything can be achieved if you set your mind to it, and just, in general, being upbeat and an eternal optimist, are all attitudes that have been threatened by my encounter with the ugliness I just witnessed. But I'll be damned if
I let them take anything from me, least of all my confidence and my happiness!
So let me tell you what I
am grateful for in this place, despite my desire to never return here again. I'm grateful for the culinary miracles that Oaxaca produces. One could live here a year and not sample all the goodies this city has to offer: from the chocolate shops with their fantastic free samples and malteadas, to the markets with the cheap comedores displaying giant tlayudas, mole rojo with chicken, enchiladas, tamales en mole negro, and pozole, to the streetstalls with spicy enfrijoladas and giant fruit salads, to the pastry shops with such ornately designed cakes and tarts that you feel bad biting into that artwork. I'm grateful for the pureness and honesty in the eyes of the woman hand-weaving another straw hat, whose dark brow has been wrinkled by the sun as well as the years. I'm grateful for that similar twinkle in the eyes of the guitar-toting mariachi singer in the zocalo, whose joy and pride in his work is evident in the emotions and timbre of his voice. These are all sensations you can only experience firsthand....no videocamera or National Geographic photographer will ever convey how two human beings interchanging glances momentarily glimpse the soul of another human being. And lastly, I am grateful for the ability of misfortune to test the fortitude of my character.... and to have risen as a stronger woman because of it.
Oh, and just for the record, Sir Mexico just lost the battle.
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anonymous
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cool
thats soooo cool when you sea it for real!!!! - codie ott