It all began more or less as they (Enlace Civil) said it would. The army stopped the collectivo twice. The first time I had to get out, flap my arms and point at things in response to various repeated questions: where? Why? for how long? how did I know? and what for? The defenders of Mexican sovereignity soon got bored and sent me on my way. The second time my passport was requested and held onto for an uncomfortable period of time. After an hour and a half we sped around yet another of many bends and there it was the place in the photo, Polho. I barked at the driver to leave me off at the convenient road ramp. A brief chat with the guards, a brief clearance procedure and I was in the autonomous municipality of Polho being briefed & led to my quarters by Santana. Conditions were more comfortable than I expected: electricity, gas, running water and comfortable mattresses. I was staying in a solid dormitory building. Nearby were similar strong structures, a kitchen/mess, another kitchen, buildings that served as the school built about a plaza with a platform at the far end from which one cassette was played most of the day and night to keep up the spirits of the gate guards. Below this, 2 basketball courts and farther down, a large building for civil and religious functions and the church. About and below this central area the 6 or 7 camps where the people live stretch down the slopes from the main road and onto lower ridges - flimsy wooden structures perched upon poles, sunk into the steep slopes.
That first day was the longest, I was all anxious to get doing something physical or to have a good chat but neither option seemed open to me. Everybody was going about their business, throwing me brief polite glances or greetings. An overwhelming feeling of self consciousness overtook me. Spanish is the second language here (at least we had that in common) and I had not a word of Tzotzile or Batsicop as they call their native tongue. I did not know what to do or where to look. I was the only volunteer. What was socially correct here? Do I make the first move and sidle up to a group of men and comment on the weather? If I did would they understand my unique dialect of Spanish.
I walked along all the paths I could find as I debated my situation within my self imposed bubble. The area is beautiful - patches of maize and frijole cultivation between patches of oak and pine woods on little steep hills with mini cascades rolling down to brisk serpentine rivers. Earthen paths criss crossed this garden like foreground connecting little homesteads and camps while beyond rose more distant higher hills some with spectacular cliffs. I was passed by men wearing traditional white cotton tunics on horseback and convoys of burdened women all dressed in traditional coloured stripey blouses and navy blue dresses with coloured cross. One of the men, perhaps a little worried about the distance I was opening from the centre began chatting to me and gave me my first couple of words in Batsicop. Well before nightfall I had walked in all directions (or so I thought) and still had 16 days to spend here. How would the time go?
It was to go much faster than I thought. The next day began a three day fiesta during which, little by little, the ice was broken in many ways. During three days of basketball tournaments, fireworks, music and dancing, chance conversations developed into intercambios of Tzotzile and English. From the first smiles and winks at the children, developed many a game, a story, both or simply a shared bag of chilles. On the last festival night there were no barriers, we were all out dancing in the rain.
Making dinner one night I was watched closely by a group of eight women from the kitchen next door. To prove that men could cook I offered them some dinner. They took it and returned with tortillas, frijoles, lemon, salt and water for me. This and the company of several men became regular occurences. Augustin would sit down and we would eat or have a coffee together, sometimes talking, sometimes just sitting together in silent contentement. Meanwhile I was practicng the native words and phrases that I had just learned and getting mixed responses - peals of laughter or large smiling replies. I did not know that there are specific greetings for men, older brothers, women, or minors, etc. and I simply used the phrases I could remember or pronounce. In general though, my efforts were well received and soon I realised that my hosts are a good humoured witty lot who smile and laugh easily, much like the people from the villages of Ireland.
After the fiesta other volunteers arrived. Guided tours about the camps and basketball games followed by refreshments and shared meals brought new friends. The most important connection was getting to know the teachers such as Dulce Maria & Avero (MexDF) and Anita (Polho) who invited us into their classrooms to participate in all that the children were doing, from gluing paper feathers or chicken drawings to singing. Through a series of translators we explained who we were, where we were from, and aspects of our country and culture to the older ones.
Our daily rhythms adjusted to those of our hosts. Up at dawn, working unhurridly, stopping frequently to chat to passersby or each other. Such was the way of a group building a wooden house next to the dormitory. We spent our time washing, cooking, in the school, translating, walking, reading, or being hammered in basketball. The last few days in contrast to the first, were very busy, translating songs, presentations, preparations (farewell dinner). I found to my surprise that I had to prepare myself mentally to leave this place after two and a half weeks and was already missing the people and their world, right down to that long serving solitary cassette played for those at the gate.