Mexico, state of Chiapas, city of San Cristóbal: rhythm of life here is mostly routine now after a few weeks of getting settled in. I’m on my third month in Mexico, and as such my day-to-day attention is rarely spent pondering the beauty of the valley or the picturesque colonial buildings. Instead my mind lingers on tedium, like my frustration at my housemates’ neglect of their dishwashing duties, or what to make for dinner.
I’ve finally internalized a premise that once seemed so surreal: moving to a foreign country for half a year. Furthermore, my lucid expectations that signficance and specialness would pervade every hour of this foray has given way to living life by routine, just as I had in New York, or New Hampshire and Texas before that. Human experience, like the sociologists suggest, does always seem to regress to the mean.
However I don’t mean to equate routine with joylessness. Everyday I look forward to my Spanish classes in the mornings. The prospect of mastering a new language, especially one spoken by a whole continent (minus Brazil), plus (more or less) half of ours, and some of Europe, has not lost its lustre. I feel even more encouraged as I begin to feel a small sense of rhythm and comfort for it. Since I didn’t know a soul in this country before landing, and since I a hundred miles away from my colleagues, the language school has also been my main social hub. I’ve struck up friendships with fellow students hailing from all over the world, and even with a few of my teachers, from whom I’ve learned so much about their country in addition to learning Spanish.
I also savor anything that make me feel less a traveler and more a resident. A week ago I bought a wood shelf at a spartan furniture shop well north of the central gringo zone. On the way back, I shot the shit with my cab driver in broken Spanish, talking about growing up Chinese-American, and arguing over whether all Asians know Kung-Fu (hard to tell if he was joking or not, hairy things like humor are often lost in translation). He was the second cab I flagged from the curb, but the first to offer me the non-tourist fare. Knowing the local place to buy furniture, knowing what the cab fare should be, having spontaneous chit-chat with my cab driver, these things made it a good day.
My work here with Compañeros en Salud is another highlight. As I have become more familiar with how the group operates, issues in Mexican healthcare it takles, its approach and philsophy, and ultimately its outcomes and successes, I’ve only grown more grateful at the opportunity to work here. Hope to tell more in a later dispatch.
Lastly, I’ve relished the change of pace. Living outside of New York inevitably means slowing down compared to life in the frenzied place I call home. THe contrast is especially stark here, a town where I had no friends upon arrival, doing work that is very independent, and lacking almost any appointments or meetings to structure my time. It was as if my table had been stacked full of stuff: books, post-its, paperclips, conference calls, and social obligations. But now, all of that had been swept into temporary storage, replaced with my work, the obligation of feeding myself, and a whole lot of uncovered virgin tablespace that’s not seen the light of day for ages.
I’ve fully indulged myself in filling up that space with various activities: reading books that have been sitting in my reading wishlist collecting figurative cobwebs, luxuriously making myself one or even two helpings of french press every day (Chiapas has dope coffee, known for its organic shade grown beans), trying dishes I’ve wanted to try cooking, sleep I had meant to catch up on, and even a gym membership (the first I’ve ever paid for). Even with these additions, I am still left with ample remaining “tablespace.”
On any given day, after three hours of Spanish lessons in the morning, I might walk to the market, and cull through the hundreds of open air stands. These stands sell fruits, spices, vegetables, and chicken splayed out in almost obscene positions, all for prices that shock a pair of eyes acustomed to New York prices. There I scrounge up ingredients for lunch and dinner. In the afternoon I might walk to a cafe on the main drag, which boasts a suprisingly international assortment of restaurants (lot’s of Italian, but even Korean and Thai can be found). I would usually plop down and work over a cup of joe, until my attention is pulled away by women from indigenous Mayan communities who wander the streets in the tourist district trying to sell their handsewn fabrics. Each solicitation from these women, or from children shoeshiners, heightens awareness of a vast inequity. The problematic nature of growing tourism drawing in travelers of means to such a poor region is impossible to ignore. As more of the town is converted into posh cafes and hotels for foreigners, it’s hard to not think that it’s more space taken away from the local residents, so many of whom cannot imagine paying the exorbitant price for a meal or a latte in these establishments.
On the way home, I might take a detour and visit the church of Gaudelupe or the church of San Cristobalito, both picturesque colonial structures perched on opposing hills offering gorgeous views of the historic town center beneath them. After finishing up the rest of my work in the courtyard at home, I might end the day with an evening drink with a friend back on the main drag. It is a international town , and I still haven’t gotten tired of watching the steady stream of people on the andador, picking out conversations in German, English, Korean, from the predominant chorus of Spanish. Although if you’re so inclined and able, one can also pick out distinct Spanish dialects from Argentina, Venezuela, Spain, etc…
Although I relish alot of my life here, I have also been missing a lot of New York. Often days here feel too solitary. Even with my Spanish improving, I’m frequently reminded that language still precludes me from navigating Mexico with ease. Many conversations with my housemates would go over my head when they don’t slow down their normal cadence for me, and stilted misunderstandings with the fruit lady or the barista, although becoming less common, still inject regular helpings of awkwardness. Nonetheless, life here is good, and although I’ve settled into a routine of sorts, my days still feels new and interesting. Until next time!
Jack Wang 