Life in the eye of Pico de Orizaba

Pico de Orizaba is the third tallest mountain in North America and it is Xalapa´s patron mountain. I was lucky to get a photo of it from the open air, roof top laundry room at the Hotel Acapulco. Clouds usually cover the top just after sunrise. Mr. Lee tells me there is also a 3 day white water rafting trip people can take somewhere nearby. That would be an adventure.



I find Mexico exotic in any context. Yes, it´s part of America but, compared to the US, Mexico is as foreign as any place else on earth. Most importantly, Mexico is an escape from the standardized, soul-numbing, corporate environment that holds Americans hostage. There´s a lot to dislike about Mexico, including the suffering animals, trash, and pollution, but here my soul is bathed and restored in the muddy waters of humanity. Fetid waters. I know. This sounds really corny. You don´t know or miss it if you´ve never been in a place like this. Well, that´s inaccurate. Lots of people know they are missing "something". I always did. As soon as I was old enough to get away from my family I spend countless hours prowling downtown Seattle looking for "it". I spent most of my time exploring skidroad, the area in and around Farmer´s Market and the water front. I was looking for humanity. The collective. The world. At that time Farmer´s Market vaguely resembled The World of my imagination. I could get a cup of coffee at one of the sleasy restaurant bars tucked away in the market, look out over Puget Sound and watch the freighters and ferries come and go and write for hours without being hassled or hurried along because some yuppie wanted my table.

Mexico is still life size. It is a place to dream, wander, sit and watch, be invisible or passionate. There is plenty that needs to improve here or change completely but Mexico has heart, something the corporate world is so expert at stealing, copyrighting, and selling back to people, one sterile, expensive piece at a time. Mexico is also a place you can get your blood pressure read in the park or do your laundry at the communal wash tubs.



There is a seemingly endless number of wandering musicians and quaint stairways in Mexico but the streets are also places of open poverty and death. This morning, for example, I saw a man carrying a red plastic milk crate on his shoulder. It was full of something and on the top rode the large shinny head of a just slaughtered and skinned cow, her black eyes still looking wildly out at the world, her nose still moist and normal. The back of the cow´s severed neck was slick, pink flesh and red, open, drained veins. She was probably alive yesterday. A tiny, old woman wearing a flowered dress and wrapped in a black shawl sat nearby on the filthy sidewalk. As I passed, she lifted her open palm up to me and, in a pleading, childlike voice said, "Mujer pálida" (pale woman).