Be Dareful Out There

  I’m in a field on the outskirts of Uruapan with 100 Mexican machos swinging machetes.  This is what everyone (unsolicitedly) warned me about.  Except one.  My yoga goddess-sister Allison who, before my departure, sang a protective kundalini mantra and gifted a sticker-- “Be Dareful Out There.” Finding a stranger on the internet and asking to crash on their couch for two nights is a bit daring, for both parties.  For all my host knew, I had my own scythe in my 75 liter pack.  Or undiagnosed schizophrenia.  Or bed bugs.  Or all of the above.  Yet we both agreed to the risk of hosting / staying with a stranger based on a handful of photos, references, and brief bio that (for him) mentioned both Buddhism and artisanal mezcal. His mid-sized, Michoacan city was void of hostels, and, after two days alone, I was craving a bit of companionship and adventure.  Just not expecting to trudge through waist-high grass with a knife wielding mob.

    But let me begin at the beginning.  With my host, Chucho.  Equal parts artist and activist, he played saxophone in a band, taught English, and was in the midst of organizing a two-week community festival.  As we waited in his stuck car for a few liters of gas via taxi (genius point to Mexico), his phone buzzed with calls and texts from Costa Rican reggae bands and local videographers, spotting our first conversation about the societal benefits of community organizing. And also explaining my earlier, near futile attempts of reaching him via Couchsurfing, Facebook, and Whatsapp. Upon arriving in Uruapan, I'd briefly panicked with my backpack in the main square, warily eyeing 4-star hotel and shoddy motels before he finally answered.

    With his ancient Nissan running, we rumbled to O'lenguas language school, where he squeezed in a meeting for the festival’s upcoming press conference.  I volunteered to cover his English class.  The simple pleasure of feeling useful--of helping, teaching, doing anything other than wandering along hiking trails and cobblestone streets until happy hour--provided my starving ego with accomplishment. 

    After, I was unsure if we were headed to his house or… “Tacos?” he suggested.  My stomach growled in response, my Sagittarius moon spirit enamored with the plans yet unknown. I never would have stumbled upon the street stand--EDY’S TACOS, as advertised by neon, spraypainted plywood. Had I, I would’ve wolfed down my meal at a plastic, corner table and bounced.  I certainly wouldn’t have sat at their greasy grill bar for two hours, drinking convenience store Modelos and enjoying Edy's show: slapping tortillas and dicing onion at lightning speed, insulting his sous chef with such slang that I questioned my Spanish fluency, offering another taco with a flirtatious wink.  I sipped and stuffed myself with entirely too much corn, while Chucho clucked away on his laptop between bites.

    

    I was ready to roll into bed---or whatever sleeping surface he had available for me.  Instead of driving to his house two blocks away though, he whisked me to a mezcal speakeasy, colorful and cloistered.  Chucho insisted that, before tasting, I pour a drop on my hands and inhale as if it were essential oil in yoga class.  “Your body will know if it’s good just by smelling.”  I obliged, savoring the earthy, agave aroma.  He said to swish for 10 seconds, preparing the palate.  Inhale. Swallow. Exhale.  Smoky warmth, not harsh burn filled my core.  “Good mezcal needs nothing else,” he sneered toward the plate of lime, salt, and tajine, before proceeding to type furiously. I attempted to read with one eye open, but eventually surrendered to simply taking in the hipster scene. Finally, well passed Cinderella’s curfew, I tumbled, not onto a couch, but a memory foam mattress in my very own room, and slept like a brick.  

    8, too short hours later, he asked if I was ready to go.  I hadn’t done Reiki or written with warm lemon water, or even showered away the taco stench but, in the spirit of daring, grunted a Spanglish affirmative. “Good.  Boots,” he nodded to my well loved Lowas after I'd pulled on crumpled clothes.  My plan had been to visit the national forest, conveniently located in the center of town. 

    Instead, I wound up on the outskirts.  Is this where I get murdered? I wondered for the umpteenth time in jest. After all, the U.S. State Department advises against travel to this state due to crime and kidnapping.  When I saw a stream of farmers with knives, racing cortisol prompted me to ask for clarification.  “To take down the fence!” Chucho reminded me, bits of our conversation surfacing from last night. 

 

   The well-heeled owners of a soccer field had illegally fenced a natural spring on protected, wildlife land.  Leaders of local, rural communities united and alerted the Ministry of Environment which, in ubiquitous bureaucratic fashion, hemmed and hawed.  When the locals decided to take manners into their own calloused hands, the Ministry stepped up, providing, not permission, but an official document stating their “awareness” of the de-fencing.  As no public servant ever wants to piss off the rich. 

    Leathered hands gripped barbed wire without hesitation, while I, the lone lady, winced and recorded.  “I’m a journalist,” I lied to an irate owner, who ignored the document and instead questioned my gringa presence.  It was worth the split second of seeing him shook as someone huzzahed about the arrival of international press.  The farmers' faces, hidden by sombrero shadow and N-95s, Chucho told me not to record.  

    “The owners could reach out to the narcos for help. So the locals are a little scared.”  

    And where does that leave me? The bright eyed backpacker playing (now targeted) journalist?  Did I overdraft my daring? Thankfully, I was planning to skip town anyway, with Chucho offering a ride to tomorrow's press conference in Morelia, the state’s capital. 

    But not before one last surprise.

    Still alive, after our social justice mission, I hiked to the ruins of Iglesia San Juan Parangaricutiro. The crumbling altar and stalwart towers in a sea of volcanic rock from nearby Paricutin (last erupted in 1943) gave me pause.  Soundless breeze, not a leave a’quiver.  The stoic silence punctuated only by my scratching pen and an occasional crow caw.  An overwhelming remembrance of the impermanence of all things.

    I made it back in time for my last substitute English class. Shy Susana gifted me a few of the billion--BILLION!--avocados that come from the world's top producing region each year, and Andres a tupperware of the regional chongos dessert, the Mexican hospitality and generosity never failing to amaze me.  However, after class, there was no Chucho nor Nissan for me and my trash bag of avocados.  The school’s secretary and her 9 year old son led me aboard a bus where I surmised we’d meet my host. Again I relished the thrill of not knowing, of flowing along someone else's plan.  

    We wove through the center of Uruapan until we stopped at a no-name red room. 2x4 lumber chairs, tables, and crates held a handful of amigos, beers, and secondhand books.  The soft opening of the cafe-bar-bookshop, hummed with candlelight and jazz records crooning through crackly speakers.  Chucho introduced me to his friends, the only patrons, both pedestrian and posh with their shared cigarettes and odd professions.  Per usual, he fielded e-mails, and I, questions about my travels and Ohio.  A casual, intimate gathering that I might have eyed enviously from the street as I pressed on to a dingy hotel.  Instead, I played my favorite part of shiny blonde foreigner, feeling the gratitude of belonging and acceptance, even for just a round (or two) of beer. 

    With just a dab of daring, I was able to behold an authentic side of Mexican life--from Modelos to machetes, my backpacking tourism temporarily elevated to an unforgettable experience that I one day hope to repay.