Alfonso

Fri, August 12, 2005 - 2:45 PM
Uruapan is definitely a city, dirty and overwhelming, but I'm enjoying myself nonetheless. I've noticed that there are a lot more tall folks in the cities and I don't stick out so much. After exploring the plaza, I wandered down to the Fabriqua in the afternoon. I had a hard time finding it at first and a nice young man gave me directions when I was a few blocks away.
I came into the Fabriqua compound from the back as a heavy rainstorm let loose. The compound is enormous and I walked through two large empty warehouses before coming to the rear of the building I recognized from the day before. I came in through the bottom of the building past some workers who looked suspicious or surprised to see me, past countless textile machines and up into the upper level, finding myself in a large room full of paintings.
I later found out that a painting class is taught there. It is taught by an Iranian refugee who is one the greatest living painters of that nation. He has been living there for five years and teaches painting to the local youth.
I took a handful of photos in the fabriqua and looked around. I waited a long time for the downpour to cease, feeling awkward every time a worker, Walter, Bundy or Rewi walked by. I'm uncertain as to whether I'm welcome or not and feel that I haven't made a great impression.
I've maintained a lot of silence in the company of these people. They know nothing of me except that I don't speak Spanish and they seem perhaps annoyed at that. Well me too. Walter and Bundy have a lot to say and I haven't room to say much so perhaps they mistake my silence for stupidity.
I could understand such brilliant people having little patience for a stupid tourist who doesn't speak the language arriving at their doorstep expecting a welcome.
I purchased some things from the Fabriqua and left after the downpour stopped.
I found a cafe and had a great dinner. The restaurant was closing but they motioned me in anyways. My waiter proceeded to introduce me to every young waitress in the restaurant as if they had all been asking to meet me. They each embarrassedly shook my hand and smiled shyly in that confidently flirty shy way that Mexican women are so skilled at.
On my stroll back to the fabriqua I ran into the young man who had given me directions earlier. He was building doors and window frames in a garage and after I fetched my grip from the fabriqua he and I and some neighbor boys made fast friends. I played some banjo for them and he and I had a ball attempting to communicate. His English was only marginally superior to my Spanish.
After my new friend Alfonso introduced me to half of the neighborhood he said, "Okay my friend, lets go!" And he and I walked down to the plaza with no particular plan (or at least not one we could communicate).
Alfonso and I went into a fancy bar and I bought us a couple drinks. He is twenty five years old, a petite short man with a lazy eye and a very gently innocent manner about him. He talked about how much he enjoys the company of women as frequently as other Mexican men I've met do, but there is a gentle sincerity that set the conversation in contrast with my previous brushes with Mexican Machismo.
Alfonso speaks two of the native languages in Mexico, Purhepechan being one of them. He expressed a strong desire to also become skilled in the English Language. We said goodbye and I told him I would send him a copy of my new album once it is out.

My Friends Bundy and Walter

Fri, August 12, 2005 - 3:43 PM
When I got back to Walter and Bundy's they were at the table with the lamp on. I sat down and Walter asked after my day. I recounted it and they both seemed tickled that I had made a friend. The conversations turned to music and travel and we had an excellent conversation.
Bundy grew up knowing Happy Traum (a major figure in education tools for folk musicians) and we talked of him as well as Pete Seeger whom she also calls a friend. She even went to a few parties that Leadbelly attended.
I began sharing my perspectives on music and Walter became excited and said that he should organize a few of his workers who are musicians into playing while I am visiting. He and Bundy both suddenly lamented the fact that I would leave in the morning.
Walter and Bundy have done just about anything worth doing in their lifetime. I gather they both speak a multitude of languages (Walter speaks English, German, Spanish, Danish, Swedish, Chinese, and Purhepachan at the least). They both tell fantastic stories and have a library I could spend a lifetime reading, digesting and discussing.
Walter was a principal teacher and organizer of the co-operative schools in China prior to the revolution and his mind clearly contains invaluable information for those who hope to build a cooperative community anywhere. The communities he lived in were completely self sufficient and had an enormous output of goods in addition to being a center for learning. He has endeavored to create similar communities in many different places, and he and Bundy's Fabriqua is the current culmination of their efforts toward that end. Their son Rewi and his sister run Mexico's only fair trade avocado packing business.
Walter told a story about leaving Sweden (I believe in the forties) in the winter by crossing the frozen river. His visa had expired and it was time for him to go to Finland where he had a visa that was not expired. The Finnish refused him and he traveled back and forth across the frozen river until the Swedish authorities allowed him to stay in the country...in jail.
His cell mate was a Laplander. Because there existed no kitchen in the jail, it was one of the officers duty to take Walter and the Laplander out to eat everyday. They would usually patronize a fairly upscale restaurant, presumably because the officer wanted to get a good meal for himself. Once their documents had gone through, the Swedes gave Walter a basket of food and paid for his train ride out of town.
Walter wandered off to bed while Bundy pulled down cassette tapes, excited to show me a few certain recording. We searched through the recordings until fairly late and then said goodnight.
In the morning, they fed me orange juice and oatmeal and I talked about the countless hummingbirds I had just seen when at my mother and pop's cabin in Western Colorado. They enjoyed my retelling of the birds antics and Walter told me about going to stay with the Quakers in Costa Rica (the Quakers had fled there before WW II in order to escape the US's increasing militarism). The vast amounts of land the Quakers purchased are home to countless flora and fauna and Walter's description of traveling across the treetop cables painted a beautiful picture of birds and flowers beyond compare.
They both seemed truly sad to see me go and welcomed me to come back anytime. They both were sorry they hadn't heard me play music and I was tempted to stay a little longer and play, but I had set my mind on leaving. They both hugged me and Bundy kissed me, Walter wishing me well in Spanish as I left.
I marveled at their change in behavior as I waited for my bus. Perhaps I was too intimidated to open up quickly. Once I had an opportunity to share a bit they both seemed pleased to have me as a visitor. They were definitely quite busy with their work while I was there and I sensed the timing must have been intrusive. Whatever the reason, I left feeling inspired by two incredible folks who I feel welcome to visit again. I would love to visit again as I recognize an incredible chance for learning in my association with them.
My bus ride to Patzcuaro was beautiful and relaxing. I could ride the buses here all day long. It gives me a chance to reflect, write, and study.
Perhaps nothing noteworthy will happen today and I will have chance to catch up on some entries I haven't transferred from my notebook to this posting. Saturday I play music in Copandero again and then go to the Rodeo (to play music) in Moralia with Pancho.
Today I recieved an email from Flora. Unfortunately all the pictures she took (and allowed me to take for my own) on her digital camera were set on the lowest definition so the photos leave something to be desired. Ay Caray!