Journal: The plenary zapatista meeting, Guatemala City
Thursday 15th September go back go home
I was planning on getting drunk and shouting viva in the square whilst wearing an enormous sombrero, but dinner with Trina became a lengthy civilized affair and we managed to miss “el grito”. After a bottle of wine though I did succeed in getting slightly drunk, and danced around to manu chau in the hippie dreadlock bar.
Friday 16th September
Off to another Zapatista meeting, this time with Trina. We parked the car near the garage and instead of driving took an interesting truck ride down the horrible road. We were standing amongst boxes and petrol cans with various locals; some entrepreneurial teenagers were on their way to sell frisbees and longlife milk and blankets to people in a far away village, and the men in the truck were drunk (this was at midday). After they filled up the petrol cans, and spilled a fair bit, one of them was sleeping with his head resting on the top of a can, and you could see the wet patch where the spilt petrol was gradually soaking into his t-shirt. After nearly three hours of getting dust in my hair and ears we arrived. This meeting is really resembling a festival, the entrepreneurs say “have fun at your party” and a drunk guy gets out of the front (NOT the driver) and staggers into a ditch before trying to charge a random passerby for the truck ride.
We arrive and discover that we are not late. Excellent. Kick-off is 8pm. This meeting is the “plenary” meeting and in journalist style I’m very interested to hear what people are expecting to happen. The general consensus seems to be that the type of organization and action they need for the “sexta” will be agreed on.
At 8pm several of the commandantes speak, including Ramona, which surprised me because the book I just read said she was dead. There is some serious media hype going on, and the tall cameras at the front are being shouted at by those of us that just want to sit and watch.
Then I witness something you would only see at this type of lefty meeting; the people around me write a petition asking for the lowering of the cameras!!! I sign it, as do about 20 other people, but I am very curious to see if anything comes of this little piece of lefty “action”. And does it? does it fuck!!!! Which leaves me wondering about the whole movement. I love the idea, I want these people to get organized. As well as continuing grass roots projects, maybe they will gather enough support to pull together enormous protests that may actually change a political decision (they have to be really big.. like the protests supporting Lopez Obrador ). But, as they say, it will take a long time and I really will have to see it to believe it. Everyone is prepared to wait, but I hope they don’t get bored.
I got a bit bored, or was it sleepy?, listening to the male commandantes speak. My Spanish just ain’t that good. The most important bit was Marcos announcing the dates for his countrywide tour next year. He will finish 10 days before the national elections. That looks stangely like an election campaign for someone who’s not interested in being a politician.
After the meeting Marcos (as usual) told us all to go and dance. And we did. To ranchero music. But , dare I say it, I miss the booze on occasions like this. (The Zapatista communities are “dry” and after seeing the guys on the truck today, you can see that is a really good idea. Alcohol is used in such a different way in the villages, men get drunk, and nobody goes out for a couple).
Saturday 17th September
“Oh my goooooooood!!!” No I didn’t greet him like that, but I was extremely surprised to see someone I knew here - Mateo Crossa, a mega fresa (posh) from Greengates school. A guy from the most expensive school in mexico has come to the jungle, to mingle with poor people, and listen and learn about leftist organizations. He came because he is working for a library in Xochimilco which runs programs to help indigenous people who have moved to the city. Excellent!!
So the meeting starts with some hands up voting, it’s chaotic, and with about 250 people voting, the counting of the hands takes some time. But this is only to decide the program of the day. When we get to proposals about who will be part of the campaign and the tasks they should be getting on with, there is no voting. In fact nothing is to be decided this weekend because that would exclude absentees from the process. Once again it is a discussion, and although people are supposed to be putting forward concrete proposals about specific points there is still a lot of waffle. One of the items on the agenda is to discuss the structure of the organization. Some people say vertical, some people say horizontal. I hope these people are aware that a completely horizontal organization cannot get anything done, there are always going to be some people who disagree. And I don’t know why people don’t just admit what they really want…let Marcos be boss! He has spent 18 years building the trust of the indigenous people, everyone thinks he’s a good guy, surely he’s the man for the job. But that would be too easy (and the few people that disagreed would make a lot of noise, and some people would disagree just to get to the microphone again).
So after a morning of trying to concentrate, I head over to the river to bathe a little, and am very surprised to find MY towel hanging in a bush. Some bastard has nicked it, used it, and left it in a tree. It is definitely mine because it’s from ikea and has a big brown stain on it (sand, I’ll have you know). I thought the people here were supposed to be nice friendly folk. How cheeky to rob my towel. (But on the bright side it is kind of handy since I had forgotten to go and get it myself.)
Later after more concentration, and trying to be a journalist with my rampant note taking, I have a list of the names of people who have spoken, but very little understanding of what each person says. The best source of information for me are the other spectators I get chatting to, the guys from Tepoztlan (an arty town near Mexico city) tell me it was autonomous from 1996 to 1999, and they want it back that way. (I never knew that! And I’ve been there). The Indigenous woman still thinks the Zapatistas are great even though they’ve changed to include everyone (they are not just about indigenous rights anymore). Several other people help with translating, but I’m disappointed really. I thought something would be decided at the meeting but it still seems like a fair bit of waffling and everything is going to be decided later on.
The love interest
Trina is blond, fair skinned and rather sophisticated. She always gets a lot of attention from men, but I kind of expected the clientele here to be a bit less drooling and a bit more honest. She was chatting to a guy at the café, I noticed after a few minutes he was asking for her email, she said no, and tried to explain why (“we don’t know each other” being the glaring reason). He was persistent and kept talking to her another five minutes before giving up. When I spoke to Trina about it after, she told me this guy had actually said “I love you” before he left. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH. How f ing ridiculous are these men?
I’ve started to wonder if it is because “I love you” in Spanish is “te quiero”, which literally means “I want you”- slightly different to being in love that.
The t-shirts
My other game at the meeting was looking at what I assume to be carefully selected t-shirts for the occasion. There’s a lack of Marcos t-shirts, (although I see one slightly overweight US looking woman with a bum bag, pink cap, pink trousers, a camera round her neck and a “Zapatour” t-shirt with a list of the “tour dates” on the back – from when they went to Mexico city in 2001) and a few of che. But here are a sample:
“fight the power”
“bajo un gobierno que encarcela injustamente, el verdadero sitio para hombre justo es la cárcel” Ricardo flores magon
pacifico (beer)
bbc world service
“chuzos de punta”
cruz azul (mex city football team)
“theatres against war”
“SCCA” and a ghandi quote
“I don’t expect to be patient until there is housing now for all”
Sunday 18th September
This meeting really is looking like a festival. There are hippies hanging around their tents doing capoeira and various circus tricks. The little local boys watching are stunned, they’ve never seen anything quite like this before. Mud is also adding to the festival atmosphere. There have been several massive rainstorms, and although there is plenty of shelter, the ground outside is decidedly soggy.
The meeting continues until 1pm ish, and many more people than last time stick it out to the end. We listen to some more people suggesting important tasks to undertake, but I’m still struggling to pick out the main points of each speech. By the last vote (the only thing people are voting for now is, at the end of each section, whether they are in agreement that the proposals should be up for further discussion in upcoming meetings) Marcos almost gets a no majority – are people a little frustrated?- but deals with it well by asking the question again in a different tone of voice. He is definitely in charge here. After his closing speech it is all over.
I have been offered a lift by some friends of Martin, which is very kind, but unappealing when I discover they are packing five people and luggage into a bocho (vw beetle). I opt for another truck journey instead and go to retrieve my bag from their car. By the time I get there they have managed to reverse into some local guys garden, get stuck in the mud, and are creating plumes of smoke as they are wheel spinning on planks of wood they have put under the car to try and get out. There’s a crowd of men offering advice, but I can’t see them getting back up the bank onto the gravel very easily. Why?? Why did he reverse down onto the muddy ground? They only had to back up a little way down the road and they could have turned round sensibly. I am wondering what the owner of the house is going to think when he gets back and finds a bocho in his vegetable patch, “bloody city folk”.
Anyway I have to interrupt the manly discussions of what to do next to ask for my bag, but to top off their car problems the boot won’t open. They give me a phone number and tell me I can pick it up the next day. I wonder if I should stay and help a while, but I don’t have any suggestions even if I thought for one second someone would listen to a girl.
The truck journey turns out to be fun (the hippies are there with a guitar),but a little frustrating (we run out of petrol). Unfortunately our driver was a bit of a bastard on the way (driving past stuck people, and annoying other trucks) so when we are sitting by the side of the road everyone pretty much just laughs as they drive past. After several people have abandoned the hippie train for other vehicles we get going again.
I pick up the car and rant at a guy called Mitch who gets a lift home with me. He wants to be a writer too, and he knows a lot more than me.
Monday 19th September
Cleared up some mud. Tried to be a journalist. I’m still living in the house of my lovely friend Martin, and he is still in the states.
Tuesday 20th September
I really must leave the house and go to Guatemala (I think I’ve had this problem before). I’ve downloaded a shedload of music though, and written an article which I will do nothing with.
Wednesday 21st September
I left!! A 10 hour minibus ride and I’m in the ever so scary Guatemala city. I wanted to stay in Zone 1, but everyone kept ranting about how dangerous it is.. (i´m like, dude.. i´ve lived in DF two years). So when a passenger got dropped at a hotel in a nicer neighbourhood they practically forced me to go there too. It was more expensive than i wanted and there was a cockroach in the bathroom. Then i wanted to eat but it was really raining and the woman was unhelpful about getting me a taxi and they told me I could get fried chicken delivered. I didn´t want fried chicken and I was tired and hungry and slightly pre menstrual so I watched the rain and was temporarily reduced to tears. In the end I got my coat and walked past the prostitutes on the corner to the nearest restaurant, a bloody expensive but bloody nice Chinese, where they looked at me strangely because I was alone.