Cancun
Journal #11: Friday, 9/5/03
I wake up determined not to spend the day
in meetings but to actually do something.
I finish writing up some of the explanations
for our permaculture project and emailing
them to Rodrigo to translate, then head
down there for the morning meeting. Everyone
has already scattered for work. Most are
off getting supplies. Abby is directing
Cole and Rio who are putting in the lines
for the sink, made out of simple drip tubing.
Without tools or materials, there's not
much else to do so I decide to go work on
creating display materials. I could panic--we're
two days away from opening and not much
looks done, but I won't. I will trust my
teammates, the process, and the universe,
I tell myself firmly, and go away.
Delight and I go shop for art materials,
start laying out photos, and then she takes
it all to go look for color xerox options
while I succumb to our collective addiction
and drop into the direct action meeting,
which starts an hour late, and goes in detail
over all the pros and cons of all our options.
More cons than pros for each, but hey,
we didn't choose this site, the WTO did.
At any rate, I'm starting to think of this
as a very intensive Spanish immersion program.
Hearing the same discussions over and over
again in both languages, I'm really getting
the vocabulary down. And the intensity
of the situation, the potential consequences
of our decisions, the heat and humidity,
make for a whole new language-learning environment.
Spanish 3 was never quite like this!
After the meeting Delight comes back with
beautiful enlargements and we start to design
displays. Then I join Scotty who is carrying
pipe and a metal bin back to the eco-village
site in a taxi. And at last! Progress has
been made! The sinks for handwashing, made
of orange funnels, are up. The bio-filter
cells, made of the metal barrels which will
be filled with gravel, are installed in
a descending curve down the slope behind
the washing station. Erik is on a ladder
fitting a gutter to the edge of the canopy
to collect rainwater. The punks have arrived
and are explaining the whole system to some
young boys who have gathered. Rodrigo is
talking to the press. It's happening! I
am incredibly excited and relieved and moved,
to see this vision start to come to life,
and to see how interested and excited people
are by it.
The city has thoroughly sprayed the whole
area against mosquitos, nevertheless there
are more mosquitos biting us than I have
yet encountered in Cancun. A group of us
hop another taxi to go meet with the Pagans.
On the way, I get caught by a journalist
for a short interview and realize that I
can barely speak English any more, let alone
think of snappy ways to express why we don't
like the WTO. I'm about ready to settle
for: "It's really bad, they do bad things,
we don't like them." But I am able to dredge
up some actual facts and statistics about
lost jobs and agricultural subsidies, and
even a moment of rather sweat-soaked, sodden,
exhausted inspiration about the actions.
The group is eating at the local restaurant,
and there's a whole lot of us, with Pagans
and Green Bloc and Australians altogether.
A local vendor comes by making an unearthly
noise, as if a giant cat or parrot or monkey
were screaming at the top of their lungs.
It turns out he is selling little plastic
instruments you put in your mouth and blow
through, kind of like a kazoo. Lisa gets
all excited, jumps up and starts bargaining
for a whole lot of them to use in actions.
We share them around, adding to the general
noise level. Erik and some of the Green
Bloc are eating inside, exhausted but happy,
and very pleased with the press the eco-village
has already received. We've moved the media
here from calling us "globofobicos/globophobics",
to "globocriticos" to "globopropositos"--those
proposing a new globalization. "They want
a world in which people control their own
water, food supplies, and energy," one article
says. The eco-village has already been
a great achievement --instead of articles
focusing only on security arrangements and
broken windows, we've given them a positive
vision to talk about, and a vista of gringos
and Mexicans, punks and local citizens,
all working together.
Finally our restaurant group decides to
just hang out and meet later for a ritual
in one of the side parks to the Parque Palapas.
About fifteen of us gather in a circle,
including a couple of our Mexican friends
who have joined us. We breathe together
and ground and sink our roots down, and
sing in the elements in Spanish: "Tierra
mi cuerpo, Agua mi sangre, Aire mi aliento,
y fuego mi espiritu." We
share songs and visions and emotions, and
I'm really glad to just have a little space
for calm and quiet and nurturing in the
midst of the gathering chaos. In the ritual,
I sense huge forces pushing on us in this
action. The puppetistas have made giant
Mayan gods as images, each angry about a
particular aspect of globalization--and
they are more than symbols. They represent
real powers, and any of us who are sensitive
feel them like deep, internal pressure that
bursts out from time to time in a moment
of anger. By rights we should be sequestered
in quiet meditation for the next few days
before the actions, but we don't have that
option as the most sensitive among us are
in many cases the same ones who have the
most down-to-earth, technical and tactical
responsibilities. It's a whole new kind
of spiritual discipline, holding the energy
and the details all at the same time.
Afterwards, four of us decide to try to
go out to the island, to check out the Conference
Center and visit the sacred Ceiba tree that
stands on display. We drive out past many
police and military of different sorts waiting
by the roadside, but no one stops us as
we return to the beach near the Conference
Center to stand for a moment in the healing
waters. Then we circle the tree. An informative
sign says, "Touch a sacred tree!" and tells
us it is a ceiba. We lay our hands on her
smooth, green-veined trunk, closing our
eyes and feeling her distress at the noise
and fumes and cement all around her. Half
her top is dead, and she is not happy planted
here, but through her moves an energy of
green leaves and real, calling birds and
chattering monkeys, of ocean winds laden
with rain, of scented orchids and massive,
wild green nature. Through her moves all
that we are fighting for, our birthright.
Federal police hover around us, but no one
disturbs our communion. We leave with sadness,
as if leaving a friend in prison.
-- Starhawk
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Copyright (c) 2003 by Starhawk. All rights reserved. This copyright protects Starhawk's right to future publication of her work. Nonprofit, activist, and educational groups may circulate this essay (forward it, reprint it, translate it, post it, or reproduce it) for nonprofit uses. Please do not change any part of it.
