Surviving Zimbabwe

Aaah...wonderful, smiling Zimbabwe. After days and days in Africa, in the Botswanan bush, I finally hear drums. Africa, where the first heart beat, the drum beats on, like the Zimbabweans keep on keeping on.

We are still on safari. I am still on my first organized travel tour group and I happen to be with four scientists. As an artist, it becomes painful to hear science being used to take the fun out of everything. I am tired of being scolded for anthropomorphizing and scoffed at for daring to think that animals can have fun. Even the allure of bungee jumping off the Victoria Falls Bridge is tainted by talk of maximum velocity and trajectory.

I finally come to feel sorry for the scientists at the Boma restaurant in Victoria Falls, a touristy spot featuring game meat and dancing, drumming. This display of dancing, drumming, community-building Zimbabwe-style inspires the scientists to talk economics yet again. "Can they really make a living being dancers?" one asks. Maybe that is the trick, that is their mistake: they can't see the people. They only see poverty.

My mom orders a Diet Coke that costs $240,000 Zim dollars and dinner costs over $3,000,000 Zim dollars. It seems ridiculous, almost funny, these prices, but speaks to the economic strife of the country. Yes, there is reason for the scientists to care so much for economics while they are here, but they discuss, pity and complain in the same breath. They relate stories of the current Zimbabwean president and his insanity that they saw on CNN from the comfort of their Manhattan home. They shoot sad, condescending faces at the waiters at the restaurant lamenting their situation. "These poor, poor people," they say.

Then they complain, the armchair liberals. They complain about aggressive street-vendors and the amount of tourists in Vic Falls. After spending at least $10,000 USD each to go on an American-organized safari, they complain about staying at a foreign-owned hotel. "I feel bad most of my money is leaving the country," says one. When told about the local library's need for children's books, another one balks at the idea of spending $45 USD to send a box of books over. I thought they wanted to help these poor, poor people, but $45 seems like too much to spend to help them out. They don't even talk to the people. They keep the CNN images seen from sofas in their living rooms and feel guilty. These Americans feel guilty about a situation they didn't even cause. Instead of interacting with the place, its people, they only frown and cleanse their hands with anti-bacterial gel.

The Zimbabwean people don't need pity. They need clothes, shoes, pens, paper and they ask for it all, but in trade. Zimbabweans have a reputation of being honest, hard workers. They trade. They do not come with their hands out, they come with their wares...and what beautiful wares!! Our days spent at the Vic Falls market are by far the most memorable of the trip. After Botswana, a country of only one native craft, basket weaving, I am blown away by the myriad of Zimbabwean artistic expression. Yes, all this art is aimed at tourists, but in a country in the midst of financial collapse, tourism feeds the starving artists and their starving families. Supposedly, it is illegal to use US dollars in Zimbabwe, but some one looks the other way in regards to Vic Falls. I imagine Vic Falls is the best to be if you are Zimbabwean thanks to tourism. Employment is plentiful and constant. US dollars make acquiring goods possible over the near-by borders of Zambia and Botswana. Tourism, I believe, is saving this part of the country.

My mom and I go to the markets with bags of clothes. We go to the ladies market first. Batiks, wood carvings and stone sculptures all available for a couple pieces of clothing and a few dollars. We talk to the ladies selling batiks first. As I open my bag of clothes I am surrounded. These ladies get first pick and like typical women, they are choosy going for the best clothes. The whole negotiation process is filled with laughter, tough bargaining and integrity. We then head to the men's market down the street. Each stall has a name: "Discount Store", "Chicago Bulls", "Walmart". Everyone tells us their name almost immediately and I start to think it may be a custom like receiving gifts with two hands instead of one. We hear names like Truth, Lucky, Gift, and Good Price. My mom and I laugh and tell them we know their mothers didn't name them Good Price. The men tell us their Ndebele names and everyone giggles as we butcher the sounds. One guy looks at us and says, "See? Just call me Good Price and I give you good price."

Despite the reports coming out of this country, I don't feel any desperation from these people. Yes, they are poor and looking at their outward appearance their poverty is apparent, but the dignity of their character is unavoidable.

Zimbabweans proudly declare that they are survivors. They are a proud, persevering group of people who seriously never cease to smile. One Zimbabwean even declares that Botswanan people aren't as happy as Zimbabweans because they have more money. "Money doesn't bring happiness," he says. These are people who are not jaded, not by their situation, nor by the tourism that surrounds them. When my mom and I return to the market the next day, a man starts walking next to us, smiling as he follows us. It takes us a minute to notice, but when we look at his hat, his smile grows wider. "Nice hat," my mom says realizing it was one we traded yesterday. The man just starts laughing and gives my mom a one-armed hug saying, "Nice to see you again."

I leave Zimbabwe missing the laughter, the smiles and the short lessons in the Ndebele language.
I leave Zimbabwe awed by their art, music and spirit.
I leave Zimbabwe believing in the people, believing that they are surviving and will continue to survive with unbroken spirits.

I return home to my comfortable, spacious American home wishing I could explore more of Zimbabwe without fear of impending political unrest. I look through my photos and tenderly unwrap my souvenirs, but it all seems inadequate. I am disappointed in my purchases just like I am disappointed in my photos. The images fail to capture the true feeling of the places I have been, just like the few sculptures, batiks and carvings I brought home fail to capture the magnificence of the creative spirit of the people. I feel stupid once I am home for passing up the chance to buy one or two more sculptures because I was worried about spending an extra $15 or $20. At home, though, the money doesn't seem as important as the ability to give this uniqueness to others as a gift. I guess I have to be content with the memories and the few pieces of creative expression I do have.

Tepito, el Dulce Gigante

In a city as big as Mexico, D.F., there is certainly not a lack of things to do. The city is full of Museums, colonial buildings, ruins, parks, delegations, and of course, markets. Every street corner, in fact, can become a market at any moment. These "markets" are usually inhabited by vendedores ambulantes who are sellers with no license to sell and are usually selling pirated goods or knock-offs. Just walk down the street Moneda next to the Palacio or down the street Donceles and turn left on Rep. de Argentina to see two of the most persistent and easily accessible "black markets".

I am actually not sure if these two spots are official market sites. In both cases, you will find actual stalls, structures, but you will also find people just setting up tables on the sidewalks. It may be that the stalls have permits to vend, but the ambulantes are the sidewalk dwellers. The other day, I was looking at CD's on the sidewalk when suddenly a cascade of whistles could be heard moving down the street. Looking in that direction, I saw a wave of vendors hurriedly packing up their goods and a policeman in the distance. The guy with the CD's looked at me and told me to wait a minute while he too began packing up. I told him I would come back, which I did, 15 minutes later and I bought 2 cumbia CD's.

Mexico City also has official markets happening all over the city. Many of the markets have designated days. For example, the delegation of Coyoacan has a Saturday market. My favorite market is on Sundays and it is walking distance from the Centro Historico. It is called Lagunilla.

Lagunilla is the bohemian market. It has a little bit of everything, but is more eccentric. There are antiques, jewelry, funky T-shirts, Indian wares (from India), tarot card readers, and clothes. It is quite a large market that is fun to look around even if you don't need to buy anything.
To get there from the Zocalo: go up 5 de Mayo, turn right on Rep. de Chile and keep walking, you will run right into it.

As I have said before, Mexico City has everything, including contradiction and synthesis.
No market anywhere captures the spirit of the vendedor ambulante and a corrupted officiality like the infamous Mercado de Tepito.

I DO NOT, I repeat, I DO NOT recommend that just any ol' backpacker or tourist goes to Tepito. I went to Tepito knowing full-well what I was getting myself into and I went with the utmost respect for its reputation and the reputation of the people who live there.

Tepito is a living legend. It is the toughest, most feared delegation in all of Mexico City and mainly because of the market that operates there 6 days a week.

Tepito is THE black market of Mexico. They say if you lose your passport, or it gets stolen, it ends up in Tepito with a price tag of $5000 USD. If you want a gun, go to Tepito. If you want a diploma saying you're a doctor, drugs, exotic animals...go to Tepito.

Now, Kike used to take me to Tepito and I have never seen any of the above contraband. I don't even know where it would be. I mean, I am sure it is there and the market itself is a GIGANTICALLY HUGE labyrinth of stall after stall after stall. Most people go to Tepito to get more basic things, like movies, CD's, clothes, electronics, cook-ware, make-up, shoes, etc, all of which have "fallen off the truck" so to speak. The police are constantly doing early-morning raids on Tepito to try to put an end to piracy, but they are never successful. A day later, the market is up and running again and just as packed as the day before.

Obviously, due to the nature of merchandise and the kind of business conducted in Tepito, it has a dangerous reputation. Kike always made sure I was respectful and aware of the risks of going to the market. I never thought of ever braving Tepito by myself until I met Nicole.

Nicole is a nice Australian girl living in Cuba who is staying at my hostel. Since Cuba is communist and what-not, Nicole comes to Mexico to do her shopping. We have talked quite a bit about our fondness for travel, Latin men and Mexico, so it was more of an honor than a surprise when she asked me if I was up for an adventure.
She asked, "On Monday, would you like to go to Tepito with me? I have never been, but I would like to go."

We both giggled excitedly at the idea of it. Big, bad Tepito, the barrio of myth and legend, were we brave enough to do it?

I wouldn't have ever braved it alone and I would not have gone with Nicole if she weren't as street smart as she is nor if she didn't speak Spanish. So, I decided, what the hell?

Monday morning, we woke up and headed to Starbucks. Yes, that's right Starbucks. Hey, I like good, strong coffee and it is hard to find in Mexico. Also, I would like to add in my and Starbucks defense, they only serve shade grown organic coffee from Mexico. Regardless, I bring it up more because I think it is funny. We may be the only two people to ever go from Starbucks to Tepito in one day.

Well, we went, nervous and giddy the whole way. The whole experience was actually very nice. Not many people were there because it was the Monday after vacations and we took all the precautions. Our money was stashed all over our bodies, we put on our hardest faces and always watched each other's backs. All in all though, the experience was as anti-climactic as this e-mail will be.

People were actually nice to us. One lady selling movies was fascinated that we even knew about Tepito and told us we would always have a friend to visit when we came. I mean, imagine you were in South Central, L.A., or Compton, and people actually invited you back.

The moral of the story is, I guess, not to go to Tepito because it is wonderful. The moral of the story is more that there are a lot of horrific stories that circulate about people, places, and things. I hear them all the time from travelers and non-travelers alike. The fact of the matter is that people generally are good people. Everyone is similar in that most people just want to love and be loved. While bad people do exist, they are not the majority.

We, as Americans, have been taught to fear the unknown. Horror stories circulate about everything. This place is dangerous, that place is dangerous, people do this, people do that. In the end, the majority of stories are just stories. People have so many bad things to say about Mexico City as well. Don't take taxis, don't walk around at night, don't take the Metro. The fact of the matter is that bad things happen everywhere and there is no one place where bad things happen every moment of every day. Life should be about adventure and fear only keeps us from living a full life. So, while respect should always be paid to the reputation of a place, NEVER, judge a place on reputation alone.

Go. Explore for yourself. Just remember to be smart, aware and informed.