The restaurant outside Guanajuato

Hello everyone who clicked the link from ThornTree about the good restaurant outside of Guanajuato.

I took the original posting off because I am trying to shop it around as a magazine article and I didn't want it to get plagiarized. It is an amazing restaurant though...

Here is their web-site:

www.ik-etznab.com

Dedicated

Kike (Key-kay) gave me Mexico tied up in a red, white and green bow.

He gave me all of Mexico's exotic foods, its popular customs, all its cumbia, hip hop, ska, reggae music, its current events, all of Mexico's pride. Kike gave me futbol. He didn't give me soccer. He gave me futbol Mexicano, the stats, la porra. He made a fan out of me, made me a Jaguar, made me bleed orange. He tamed Mexico City, big, bad Day eFay, the beast, he tamed it right in front of my eyes giving it to me so I could make it my own. Kike made a wife out of me, his esposa, and with that he gave me a whole family: a suegra, mother-in-law, her food, her rules, her grandkids, and her only son. He gave me a life in Spanish, a life dubbed in street Spanish with dictionary Spanish subtitles. Kike would spoon me every night as we fell asleep and every morning as we woke up. He would cuddle me and give me all the energy, all the experience and all the love he knew how to give.

I have tears in my eyes at this very moment, knowing and having to admit that after all Kike had given me...it just wasn't enough. So, if this book were especially dedicated to any one person in particular, it would have to be Kike.

To Kike, Key-kay, Enrique, el Negro: for giving me everything you had to give and for showing me Mexico.

On Being On Safari

On the first day of safari while having lunch next to a pond filled with hippos, it hits me that I am in Africa. Actually, it hits me more that I am on safari and having my first group travel experience. There are eight of us: two guides, two older doctors, a computer scientist, his Science PhD wife, my mom, and me. We are all American except for the two British guides, and I wonder when I will truly feel like I am in Africa.

This morning I come close. We begin our Botswanan experience in a basket store. Botswana only has one art-form which is basket-weaving. Johnno, the older Brit guide, tells me this is the closest I'll get to seeing Botswanan culture before heading out to the bush. The store represents a 200 woman basket weaving cooperative and I am excited to see a group of ladies sitting in front of the store. What turns me on most about traveling is social interaction. I love talking to people from different cultures. I love how different people are and how similar we all are at the same time.

We spend about an hour at the basket store. The lady doctor in our group lost her luggage and had to go to town to get some supplies. My mom, myself and the two doctorates are in the basket store killing time. As everyone browses the many designs, I chat it up with the basket lady. I ask her about business and she asks me about the States. She speaks good English and teaches me a little Setswana. After a while, I go outside where the group of women are sitting and one is weaving. "Dumelang bo Mma!" I say greeting them in Setswana. They greet me back and laugh as I try to sound out other phrases. My mom and I are having fun getting our first taste of Botswanan culture.

The lady doctor returns from her shopping spree in town and browses the basket store. I take this opportunity to observe my traveling companions. My mom's laugh rings out as she plays with a baby on a woman's back. The doctorate girl who is not much older than me is silent. They all look uncomfortable and I don't think I have seen one crack a smile yet. Johnno has cracked a few jokes and I think my mom and I will end up in his car for most of the trip. I hear the doctorate girl ask our other guide questions about basket weaving, the huts that surround us and the clothes the women wear. She was just over near the women and I wonder why she doesn't ask them herself. After a couple more minutes, we all load into two cars and we're off to Moremi Reserve to begin the safari.

* * *

We are two days in a mobile camp in the Moremi Reserve. We have a five-star camping experience with a staff of 7 cooking, serving our food, cleaning our tents and filling our bucket showers with hot water. I wasn't expecting to be camping like this and I am happy we are. We can't be any closer to the bush. There are bones in our camp from an ancient kill. At night, the sky is white as complete darkness accentuates billions of stars. We watch zebra graze 100 meters away and fall asleep to the reverberating sound of lion roars.

We wake the next two mornings at 6am to coffee boiling on the campfire. It is still dark and cold, but the excitement of the game drive is warming. We see a lot in Moremi. We see all kinds of antelope, eagles, giraffes, zebra, and hyena. On the way back to camp one afternoon, we spot a tree full of vultures about 200 meters from our tents. Johnno tells us this is quite the find because there is only one reason vultures congregate. We drive toward the tree and find three lions lazily sleeping next to a bush. Tucked neatly under the bush, but not completely out of sight is a half-eaten zebra carcass.

We watch the scene for awhile. A jackal circles at a safe distance. The lions continue to sleep. Suddenly, on the other side of the bush, we see the small head of a mongoose pop over the grass. He has smelled the zebra and moves in silently to steal a few nibbles. When we pulled up to the scene at first, Johnno laid down some rules for riding in his car. We must speak in hushed voices as to not disturb the animals. We can never get out of the vehicle unless we start singing "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" in which case we will be forced to walk back to camp. He strictly prohibits waving good-bye to the animals because they never wave back. He also will not tolerate any Disney-fication of the animals because as he says in a British accent, "It's all rubbish." As the mongoose sneaks a snack of the zebra, however, two of these rules go out the window. He begins to narrate for the mongoose. This will become a habit of Johnno's which just leaves my mom and I doubled over laughing until we cry. Johnno is hilarious and his narration seems to break the Disney rule and definitely causes us to break the quiet rule because we can hardly contain our guffaws.

* * *

After Moremi, we head by boat to Camp Okavango which is a lodge located in the Okavango river delta. Botswana is arid and does not receive much rainfall. The water-ways of the delta are fed by rains falling in the Angolan mountains. It takes six months for the water to reach Botswana and it creates an amazing web of swamps, creeks and islands. This part of the delta is green and beautiful. It boasts the largest number of lions including a pride of 7 male lions which is very rare. We lovingly refer to this pride as the gay pride, but the scientists don't find this funny.

At Camp O we get to go on a walking safari. We take a boat to an island and are very lucky to walk right up to a herd of buffalo being stalked by 4 lions. The lions are only watching the buffalo and we are not lucky enough to witness a kill, but it's cool to see the lions stealthily move closer and closer. Our walking guide Robert leads us away from the lions out into the bush. We see cape buffalo skulls and a hippo skeleton. A family of wart hogs grazes away on bended knees. Robert walks right up to the wart hogs and playfully oinks at them. They hardly pay attention.

A breeding herd of about 30 elephants comes out of the trees in the distance and makes its way toward us. Johnno also leads hunting safaris and knows quite a bit about tracking animals. He says that if he finds a set of elephant tracks that move in a straight line without any signs of stopping to eat, a human has no chance of catching up to it. Elephants hardly change their stride, but steadily move onward. The briskness of an elephant's pace becomes clearer as the herd gains on us. Robert quickly moves us to a cluster of bushes so we do not look threatening to the mama elephants. It's obvious that Robert is being more cautious with these gigantic animals than with the lions. By reputation, elephants are far more aggressive than lions, or better said, they are more easily threatened.

Our time at luxurious Camp O is relaxing. Our tent is a game drive all unto itself. We have 2 sparrows nests, a hornets nest and about 20 bats sleeping in the tree outside our door. At dusk, the bats wake and swoop all around eating bugs. At one point a bat flies too close to the sparrow's nest and is knocked out of the air with a squawk. It falls onto our porch and my mom and I are scared it is injured, but it gets up and flies away. Night falls into a cacophony of lion roars and hippo moos. After 2 days, we are off again by plane to Khwai another game reserve.

* * *

The drive from the air-strip to the mobile safari in Khwai is where I get to know more about Johnno and Africa. It is a long drive over dirt roads under a hot sun. Johnno's second passion is history and he satisfies my hunger for cultural knowledge. We get into jovial arguments over how much blame can be laid on the British. Johnno scolds me for my anti-colonial beliefs. "You can't fault the British," he says, "because then you would be blaming the Scots, the Irish and the Welsh and I know you don't think they did anything wrong. It's the English you hate, so get it straight." Johnno is English and throws any wise-cracks I give right back at me.

He teaches me a lot about Botswana. He tells me Botswana is the wealthiest country in Africa. With only 1.7 million people and the size of Texas or France, the money from diamonds go a long way. Botswana also makes quite a bit of money off of safaris and hunting safaris in particular. Hunting permits are expensive and then any animal killed carries a trophy cost, elephants being the most expensive. I came to Africa believing the African elephant was endangered which Johnno quickly corrects. In the 80's, he explains, Kenya had a huge problem with poaching which caused Kenya's elephant population to dwindle. Animals rights groups joined the campaign to stop poaching in Kenya, but Southern African elephant populations have always been strong. The population grows at 3% a year. Evidence of elephants is everywhere. We see groups of elephants everyday, as well as, tracks and the destruction left in the wake of their feedings.

Johnno also schools me in my African history. Studying colonization and African-American history in college, I came to Africa thinking I knew a thing or two about injustice and oppression. Johnno tells me stories, from the English point-of-view, that make me think. The British brought roads, he says and a fairer justice system. He says the Botswana government was modeled after the British one. Botswana was never a colony, only a protectorate for 40 years to protect Botswana from South Africa during the apartheid years. It's one of the reasons Botswana is so wealthy: it has a fairly honest government. Botswana isn't all money and diamonds though. 37% of the population has AIDS and the average life-expectancy is 33. I think about Robert our walking guide and he seems like an anomaly. I think about a conversation I had with Jacob, one of our camp staff, who told me his mother died a week ago and I think that chances are it was AIDS related. I guess money doesn't cure everything.

I don't know if I believe everything that Johnno tells me, but he definitely makes me think. I realize I had come to Africa with a very black vs. white mentality. Johnno reminds me of a truth I believe in. I believe that the majority of people are good people and want to do good things. Johnno reminds me that this also applies retroactively, that while bad people did bad things during colonization, there were also good people doing good things. He asks me why I would think there were less good people living back then than today. He says one of the things he hates most about white people today is their guilt. He says guilt doesn't do anyone any good and that charity only makes beggars out of people. He has seen it in Kenya. The charities give people things for nothing until the people expect to get everything for nothing. He believes the best thing that can happen to Africa is that they get over the past and move on. I don't entirely believe him or agree with him, but I listen. He is expanding my view of the world and I am developing a small crush on him. I start to crush on him despite the fact that the is almost 50 and despite the fact that he is English.

Kwhai isn't all about history though. It is in Khwai that we experience the most amazing of all of our animal sightings. In Kwhai we see two different packs of African wild dogs. The African wild dog is basically the African wolf. It is the rarest of Southern Africa's animals. Only 3000 live on the entire continent and about 750 live in Botswana. Our interaction with packs is quite intimate. The first pack we see in the morning. Chatter about their presence had cackled across the radios in the cars. Johnno, my mom and I are the first car to spot them and have them all to ourselves for at least 10 minutes. They are beautifully speckled animals and totally indifferent to human presence. They walk right up to the car, sniff around and go on their way just as about 8 cars pull up.

The second pack we have entirely to ourselves. Our other guide spots them sleeping under a tree. They lazily get up, walk to the road and lay down in between our 2 cars. They lounge around for a while until the alpha female decides it is time to move. They walk right past our car and one stops to check us out. He sniffs the air and then rolls around on his back before following the pack. We follow them until they stop abruptly in the road. An impala is grazing ahead of us in the bush. The dogs stand silently, waiting. A breeze comes through and the impala perks up. The dogs are ready. In a flash, the impala is spooked and takes off. In the blink of an eye the dogs are gone after the impala. As much as I would like to see a kill in action, this will not be my day. I am satisfied all the same as we pull over. The sun is setting producing yet another spectacular African sunset. Our guides open the bottles of wine and we all marvel at our luck.

* * *

My mom always said that when people come back from Africa they have a glow about them. She wanted to go to Africa to see what that glow, that eye-twinkling was all about. We both admit that while Africa was amazing, we don't feel changed. Maybe it was the 30 hour trip home, CPT-JNB-IAD-DEN-ABQ that took all our energy from us. Maybe, for me, it's because I have seem too many places to be so easily awed. Maybe it's because I am in love with another country that I am not so easily wooed. I am happy I met Africa though and she deserves a second date, but I don't lust for her. Her animals, her falls, her bush are all intriguing, but next time I want more conversation, more culture, more intimacy.

Africa stays with me though. About a week after coming home, my mom and I are walking her dog through the bosque. We have walked through the bosque a dozen times, but this time it seems so very much alive. We see a shed snake skin, huge crickets and a hawk. I have a deeper appreciation for animals after being to Africa and a handful of new stamps in my passport. I also come home with so many more questions and an even grayer view of the world.

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.

Oaxaca y la Temporada de Lluvia

Oaxaca during rainy season is a sight to see. For about eight months out of the year, Oaxaca's climate is as unchanging as any other high-altitude desert. Days are hot. Nights are cool. Every day is dry. Many people think deserts are boring. The brown landscape seems to be dead and dessicated under the unmerciful sun. I lived in Oaxaca two years ago during the driest part of the year which is April and May. Water was scarce and the water company was saying the wells were dry. Everyone was waiting for the rains to come, but I didn't. I left to moist, cool San Cristobal. This year, though, I am here for rainy season and I am glad. Many travelers hear "rain" or "rainy season" and head the other direction. Oh, but to see nature rejoice in what it waits all year for is quite the event.

The mornings are fresh, chilly, yet steaming as the sun dries up the puddles on cobblestone streets. Afternoons heat up, dry and deserty, like the Oaxaca of other months, set below a white and blue calico sky. As the sun goes down, thunder cracks imitating the inaudible sound of breaking heat. First, faintly across the valley, the rumble rolls in ahead of grey-black clouds louder and louder as the day darkens. Amazing lightening shows can be enjoyed from any rooftop. This is life lived in a valley. It's like a natural stadium where the sky is the stage.

As the storm blows closer, thunder builds with momentum. The heat gives way to gusting winds bringing in raindrops refugees before the stampede. Drop by drop, tip-tapping the metal corrugated roofs, this is only the beginning. A small moment passes, minutes where the evening is shrouded in shadow and half-basking sunlight. Then, as if on cue, a soft shuffle explodes into a BOOM! so strong one's chest reverberates with the thunder's echo. BOOM! FLASH! As if waiting to be formally announced, the sky opens up to baptize everything with furiously happy rage. The rain is the main attraction.

All evidence of urban breath, smog, even urban noise cowers away in the face of the season's daily exercise. People run for cover, stay inside, give thanks as the rain falls hard. From under certain roofs the sound of a million raindrops falling on corrugated metal can drown out even wall-shaking thunder claps. Conversation is muted, TVs are silenced and the only thing to do is watch and listen with marvel. Life pauses during one of these storms. The pouring, drenching rain only lasts about fifteen minutes, climaxes and only a cuddling drizzle wets Oaxaca. Sweet dreams are had falling asleep to the sound of rain only to wake up to a sunny fresh and chilly morning in which the ritualistic ceremony will repeat itself once again.

Everything about the rain is truly magnificent. The smells it carries from the mountains on its winds, the immensity of its cacophony and release it abates. Oaxacans love rainy season. Rainy season is when a desert comes of age and presents its beauty, its charms and fertility. Dry river beds fill with muddy torrents. Dormant cacti lazily bloom into fleeting flowers. June bugs come out of hiding. And the hills cupping beautiful colonial Oaxaca appear to have been painted, reupholstered, every ridge, nook, cranny, and ravine is blanketed in the soft green fuzz of life.

Rainy season may not be the ideal tourist season nor may it be all that spectacular to someone who is not intimate with deserts' nuances. However, to those who live here or to those who know desert locations, rainy season can feel like the unveiling of one of nature's most delicate masterpieces.