June 20, 2016
Bloqueos, Part 3
June 19, Sunday afternoon:
Have you heard of the wonderful
one-hoss shay,
that was built in such a logical
way
it ran a hundred years to a day,
and then of a sudden ...
... it went to pieces all at once,
-
all at once, and nothing first, -
just as bubbles do when they
burst.
(Oliver Wendell Holmes)
That
helicopter was the giveaway. Like a dragonfly, working slowly down the valley
toward Mount Fortín and the City of Oaxaca. Then joined by another. The two of
them, back and forth, from Fortín up the valley to Villa de Etla, then the slow
turn and prowl back toward Fortín. Monte Albán on the west, green and gold in
the setting sun; the pyramid on the summit of Atzompa glowing like a beacon. Cumulus
clouds billowing up in the east over the Sierra Madre de Oaxaca, not dark
enough or low enough to promise rain. The “whssss-pop” of cohetes, fireworks bursting in the air, a hundred meters or so
below us in the valley. Puffs of white, slowly dissipating, and then the sound.
Every few moments one of them radiates sparkling red shards, that hang like
brief red chrysanthemums in the sky. Not a party because there are no umpah-ing
tubas, no blaring trumpets: another sign, not a good one.
Then
columns of black smoke curling up from the highway, from the Hacienda Blanca
intersection, from the Juarez statue intersection, from the intersection where
the cuota, the toll road to Mexico
City, ties in to the old Pan American Highway. The “pop ... pop ... pop” of
what sounds like gunfire. The lead helicopter hovers over the plume rising from
Hacienda Blanca. We are supposed to meet Evelyne and Bob in a half hour for an
early dinner —which for us will be a late lunch— at Mía Arroz, the fusion Chinese restaurant a couple of kilometers up
the highway, halfway between Hacienda Blanca and San Sebastián. The phone
rings. It’s Evelyne.
“Dinner is
off. Jimmie is closing the restaurant. Did you know that they have set up
barricades and they are burning cars down on the highway?”
“Yes, we
can see the smoke from our terrace. Sometimes a small flicker of flame, too.”
“Don’t go
down there. It’s too dangerous.”
I stand on
the wall that surrounds our terrace, binoculars up to my eyes. I count at lease
five sources for the black plumes. The phone rings again. It’s Deborah, to wish
me a happy Fathers’ Day and catch me up on her busy and increasingly exciting
life.
I didn’t even know it
WAS Fathers’ Day, but I am pleased to be reminded in this way, and to learn
about Tuly’s catching the big rat, and singing with the Portland Gay Men’s
Chorus and the Women’s Lesbian Chorus as part of Pride Day, running a focus
meeting in Spanish for Latino library employees. I intersperse a running
narration of the events that I am watching down in the valley, taking photos as
events unfold.
As it gets
dark, the “pop ... pop ... pop” subsides and the plumes of dark smoke merge
with the darkening background of the western mountains. I eat and Linda drinks
dinner (solid food again when the tooth surgery completely heals). After
washing the dishes, I go back out on the terrace. It hasn’t rain and there are
some stars visible among the clouds. No sounds come up from the Etla Valley,
and Santa Cruz is as quiet as on any other Sunday night.
June 20, Monday morning
In the
first light I peer from our terrace at the valley, and can make out nothing of
note. On the dog walk Qalba and I see nothing out of the ordinary, except that
the terracerías, the dirt roads of
the village, are empty of kids on their way to school. When I ask a neighbor I
learn that school has been canceled pending further notice.
Over
breakfast, and in phone conversations with friends, neighbors, and Lauro, who
gardens for us on Mondays, I get some idea of what’s happened over the past 15
hours.
* In Oaxaca
City at least 45 wounded. 21 arrests. 6-8 dead (another 2 in Nochixtlán). 22
unaccounted for. This tally courtesy of Sección 22; the government’s figures
somewhat lower.
* The
government denies that the police were armed. Some video recordings include the
sounds of automatic weapon fire.
* Several
stores have been sacked. Garbage is piling up. The acrid perfume of burnt tires
hangs in the air. New graffiti adorn the old buildings: “Muerte al estado!”
(Death to the State!). “Puto imperialismo” (Bugger imperialism!) And others
directed at the demonstrators: “Muerto el perro, se termina la rabia.” (Kill
the dogs and the rabies ends.)
* Downtown,
the occupiers initially abandoned the Zócalo and the Plaza de la Catedral. Many
tents remain. Some of the teachers return, slowly, to their plantón, and begin cleaning up the
detritus. The union has announced that the struggle will continue until their
leaders have been freed and the Reforma Educativa has been withdrawn.
So, there
you have it, as of 3:00 PM on Monday, in the bubble of tranquility that is
Santa Cruz Etla. We are safe and unworried. There is food in the house and gas
in the car. The sun is shining. Qalba and the cats are sleeping. Beryline and
dusky humming birds alternate at the feeder, and the background skies are empty
of both dragonflies and helicopters. Our Oaxacan one-hoss shay did not go to
pieces all at once like a bursting bubble: the crisis of confrontation was slow
in coming, the eruption of conflict was sudden and intense, but apparently
brief. But, if the past conveys patterns, probably not definitively over.


From the
top of the laurel tree behind our casita
a bright yellow, cinnamon, and white kiskadee is advertising his attributes at
the top of his tiny lungs: “Dee, dee, kis-ka-dee!” Linda’s dentist appointment has
been canceled pending further notice of the accessibility and safety of
downtown Oaxaca. The leafcutter ants are in their burrows plotting tonight’s
assault, and presumably the leadership of Sección 22 is similarly engaged. We
will concoct a dairy-less, saltfree moussaka for tonight’s dinner.
If you are
up to the journey, we’d be pleased to set a place.
[all photos from web except the helicopter photo]
David & Linda