Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Cody Rogers - Brussels, Belgium

Cody Rogers is a senior at the University of Utah studying Political Science. He is currently in Brussels, Belgium participating in an internship through the Hinckley Institute of Politics.

The Day Transportation Went Down

Public transportation is extremely convenient in Brussels and throughout most of Western Europe. I rely on it to get to work everyday and to and from various other activities- dinner, meeting up with other interns, and traveling to other cities. It's not always right on time and sometimes it even comes early, but in general the buses, trams, and metro in Brussels are pretty reliable. That is, until the entire public transportation network decides to go on strike and you realize just how much you and everyone else in the city rely on public transportation.

Last week, I woke up at 5:20 AM like normal. Working in the Public Diplomacy Division of the U.S. Mission to NATO means early mornings compiling and sending out news clips before everyone else arrives so that they know about the major issues being reported on. The earliest bus leaves at around 6:15 AM, and I try to make sure to catch that one when it is my turn to do the news clips.

As chance would have it, I slept through my alarm on Tuesday and had to rush out the door and make a mad dash to the bus stop. I still managed to arrive, I thought, before the bus. I sat at the bus stop for about 15 minutes and came to the conclusion that I had missed the earlier bus and was just going to have to wait for the next bus out to NATO headquarters, which didn't come for another 30 minutes. I am usually the only one crazy enough to be waiting for a bus that early, so it wasn't all that unusual that I happened to be the only one waiting at the stop.

I should also mention that I must either look like I know what I am doing (not true- I must fake it well!), or I look at least somewhat European (I think it's the scarf I bought in Luxembourg- all Europeans wear a good scarf!), because I get asked for directions on almost a daily basis. And on an almost daily basis, I let someone down when they realize that I don't understand them and can't give them directions in French or Dutch.

As I was waiting for the bus to come that day, a lady came up to me and started speaking to me in French. I thought, "Here we go again." I let her finish before letting her know that I didn't understand what she was saying...at all. I said, "I don't speak French, I am sorry." She looked a little frustrated and kept talking to me so I tried to understand what she was saying. She said something about the tram (think light-rail). I thought, "Hmm, she is looking for the tram stop. Lucky for her, I know where the tram stop is." So I said, "The tram stop is there" and pointed in the direction of the stop.

Again, she looked a little frustrated and I was doing the best I could but had missed something. She said (in broken English this time), "No tram. Bus! Bus!" I thought well the bus stops here and I told her, "Bus here" (pointed to the ground) "Tram there" (pointed to the tram stop). She said, "No, no, no!" I could tell she was getting even more frustrated and kept thinking that either this lady really needs to get somewhere and thinks that somehow I am going to be able to help her get to wherever it is she is going or she really wants to talk to me.

Finally, she said (again in broken English), "No Bus!" (waves arms back and forth) "No tram!" (waves arms again and pauses trying to think of a word to convey what she wanted to say) and shouts, "Aggression!" while waving one hand in the air. I thought, this lady is trying to tell me something, what is it? No bus? No tram? Aggression!?

Then it hit me. "There's a strike!?" I said and she got excited and said, "Yes...strike...no bus...no tram." I've heard of public transportation strikes before and this would be my first one. I realized I only had 20 euro with me and that wouldn't be enough to pay for a taxi into work. So I start to walk/run home to get some more money. I called my boss while I was walking to let her know what was going on and why I was delayed.

When I crossed an avenue, I looked back down the street only to see a bus coming. I turned around and made another mad dash to the bus stop, playing a human game of frogger trying to recross the avenue again, determined not to miss this bus now. As I was running, I passed the lady who had a confused look on her face and thought, "That lady lied to me!" I got to the bus stop and realize it's bus 64, not the 65 which is what I needed. I thought, "Well, maybe the lady was right. There is a strike, but only certain lines are affected."

So I hurried and checked out the 64 line on the bus stop's map and saw that it would get me going in the right direction to NATO. As I boarded, I asked the driver in English (really, most people speak English in Brussels, but I must have found the only two who didn't that day), "Is the 65 running today?" to which he responded, "This is bus 64." Ugh, just not my day. I got on anyway, thinking it would be better safe than sorry.

I rode for a while and forgot what stop I was supposed to get off on and ended up getting off at a stop which of course doesn't have a map next to it like most bus stops do. I was in an unfamiliar part of town, and I had no idea which direction I should head. I started retracing the bus's route, hoping I could hop on a bus that would take me back to the area I knew. Eventually, I came to another stop which had a map and realized I wasn't all that far away from NATO, so I decided to walk the rest of the way.

It took me about 30 minutes to walk the rest of the way, and I ended up getting into work just after 7:30 AM. At about 8:40 AM, we got an e-mail advising us about a city-wide public transportation strike...yep, after most people had probably found out on their own. As the public transportation was not running, traffic was awful throughout the city and it took some people a couple of hours to get to work -
even in taxis - and that was after they realized no buses were coming. The way home wasn't any better, but luckily I caught a specially scheduled transport van from NATO into the center of the city but it still took an hour and half to get even close to downtown and then I had to walk the rest of the way home.

The strike luckily lasted only one day and things were back to normal by the next. When I told people I had been able to catch a bus, they were shocked because it was apparently supposed to be a complete, city-wide strike. I don't know if the driver of the bus I rode just didn't get the memo or decided to do his route anyway, but I was grateful he decided to drive his route that day. I realized several things that day: 1- Maybe not everyone who is trying to talk to me in French/Dutch is asking for directions; 2- Public transportation strikes are why Europeans are skinny; 3- I really rely on public transportation as do most people in the city, whether or not they actually take it.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Mark Pittman - Melbourne, Australia

Mark Pittman is a senior studying Economics, International Business and Political Science at the University of Utah. He is currently participating in an internship in Melbourne, Australia through the Hinckley Institute of Politics.

A sudden drop in altitude was my wakeup call in the 747 I was flying on as it quickly approached the Australian mainland. The captain explained that the tropical weather was prone to creating periodic turbulences. The plane landed and I immediately felt the rush of warmth and humidity as the cabin doors were opened at Sydney International Airport. I stepped off the plane and saw the wide expanses of runway, above which were a clear blue sky and a radiating sun. I had arrived in paradise. A short connecting flight put me into Melbourne, and I had already met three people on the plane who lived in the area and had volunteered to help guide me through the airport. They made sure to leave their phone numbers and told me to call if I needed anything at all. I soon learned that this experience is not unique. The friendliness and warm hospitality of the Australian people is what had me contemplating what it would be like to stay and make a life in Australia, and I was actually considering it after only two days in the city.

I was greeted at the airport by the driver for Minister Mary Wooldridge, the Member of Parliament that I was here to do my internship with. My first fault was walking to what I believed to be the passenger door. I was quickly reminded that in Australia, everything is opposite. The drive to the office in the downtown area of Melbourne had me wincing more than once. I kept expecting to be facing oncoming traffic, since I’d usually be driving on the other side of the road. We went into the building and ascended 22 floors into a glass and stainless steel Mecca overlooking the entire city. I was greeted by a slew of staff from the minister’s office – all eager to meet me. Moments later, the minister herself interrupted a meeting to come and say hello. I spent the next few days getting set up in the office and exploring the hundreds of sights and marvels of the Melbourne business district. My first days in Australia were fantastic; it didn’t hurt that the weather in Salt Lake was right around freezing and Australia was still in the middle of summer.

Throughout the next week, Parliament was sitting, and I was in the House chamber watching an exciting and quirky event called question time. This heated exchange of insults and complaints is undertaken daily during sitting weeks of Parliament, each day members from the government and from the opposition get to ask the government ministers five questions each. Most of the time, the question is never answered because members scream insults and shout disruptions at each other. Parliament week was followed by a party function, in which I met many of the members as well as some of the government ministers. To top it off I explored the Melbourne City Museum – an amazing display of architecture, history and just plain cool exhibits. For a more local feel, I sat down at one of the hundreds of cafes that the city has to offer and sipped on an espresso and cooled off with an ice cream.

My most exciting adventure came during my second weekend. I had been invited to go on a camping trip to Wilson’s Promontory National Park, the southern-most tip of the Australian continent. We arrived after work on Friday, pitched our tents, set up camp and soon after called it a night. The next day I awoke to the sound of bacon sizzling in a pan, and sure enough breakfast was served. We spent the day hiking Mount Oberon, lying on the sunny white beaches, and enjoying the Kangaroo steaks and cold beers of an Aussie barbie (BBQ) while we watched the sun set over the ocean. That night we ran into wombats, possums and all manner of Australian birds. None of them seemed to care we were there – they were just looking for some scraps. The next morning, we discovered that there was a broken container on the ground and the birthday cake from one of our campers had vanished. The next day was warmer, and after getting a good sunburn on the beach, we took an afternoon hike and then broke camp before heading home. On our way home, we stopped for some Aussie fish and chips. It was the perfect weekend in paradise, and my only problem is that Australia has a paradise on every corner. My internship was facilitated through the Hinckley Institute of Politics but would not have been possible without the support of the University of Utah Study Abroad Office and a contribution from the student fee scholarship. Australia has become an amazing and defining experience in my life, and I can’t imagine what my life would be like if I hadn’t gone. 

T.J. Faherty - Brazil

T.J. Faherty is a senior at the University of Utah studying Political Science, Latin American Studies, and Speech Communication. He traveled to Brazil last summer with students from Utah Valley University.

During May and June of 2010 I had the good fortune of participating in a Brazil study abroad program with a student group from Utah Valley University (UVU).  Our group consisted of a mere five students led by a capable, Brazilian born, UVU Professor of Portuguese, Dr. Debora Ferreira.  Our small group size permitted a unique travel experience that would not be possible with a larger group.  In fact, this specific Brazil study abroad trip represented the best academic and travel value I have experienced in five distinct study abroad experiences in Latin America.  In addition to studying in Florianópolis, our group also visited the major southern Brazilian cities of São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro and the wonderful Foz do Iguaçu.

Florianópolis & Santa Catarina Island
Our UVU group studied Portuguese and Brazilian culture for four weeks at the Federal University of Santa Catarina.  The university is located in the capital city of Florianópolis on the southeastern coastal island of Santa Catarina in the state of Santa Catarina.  The island is situated about 12 hours south of São Paulo (by bus) and 18 hours south of Rio de Janeiro.  Santa Catarina Island is beautiful with mountains and hills, quiet bays, huge trees, lush vegetation, hundreds of kilometers of beautiful beaches, and rolling sand dunes.  This region of Brazil is not known for the white sand beaches and calm blue-green waters often stereotypically associated with northeastern Brazil.  Rather, the beaches of Santa Catarina Island consist of rugged surf, large rock formations, coastal forests that completely enveloped some beaches, dark sand, and miles of uninhabited beach.  The beaches and geography of Santa Catarina Island reminded me of parts of coastal Oregon.  Santa Catarina Island’s ocean currents and surf patterns are famous for the many excellent surf spots that thrill the native Brazilians as well as surfers from all over the world.
Our study abroad group enjoyed a boating excursion in the bay that surrounds Santa Catarina Island.  The excursion transported us to several historic Portuguese forts located on the bay’s small islands that were utilized by the colonizers to protect the bay from foreign invasion when they ruled the colony of Brazil.  The forts had centuries-old cannons and stone buildings that permitted students to visualize the former Portuguese colonial power.

São Paulo
São Paulo has huge buildings, boulevards, parks, and plazas in many distinct areas. Our study abroad group stayed in the tranquil Jardins neighborhood.  Jardins is one of the most affluent and walk friendly neighborhoods in central São Paulo.
São Paulo is also rich with culture.  Our group excursions took us to several museums in distinct sections of the city.  A cultural highlight included a trip to the Museu de Arte de São Paulo to view landscape paintings and portraits painted by European, Mexican (the Mexican muralists), and South American masters.
The Liberdade neighborhood of São Paulo is known for its huge population of Japanese descendents.  That neighborhood has a distinct Japanese heritage, including its commercial establishments and architecture.  Our study abroad group enjoyed a delicious lunch of sushi, Asian stir-fry and beer during our walking tour that day.
In the Luz neighborhood, our UVU group visited the Pinacoteca do Estado, an art museum that housed artwork by famous Paulista artists.  While in Luz, we also visited the Memorial da Liberdade museum which houses exhibits summarizing the imprisonment and torture of political dissidents by the Brazilian government during the military dictatorship.  The space included a representation of the cells where prisoners were kept with a unique audio feature that allowed visitors to hear the prisoners’ recorded summarized stories (in Portuguese) via headphones.

Rio de Janeiro
The natural landscape of the city’s ocean bay location is extremely beautiful.  The integrated bay, beaches, and rock formations that encompass Rio are perhaps some of the most collective beautiful natural landscapes on planet Earth.  However, humanity has destroyed that natural beauty.  Most of the hotels facing the ocean have facades that are outdated, rundown, and dirty.  A principal traffic artery paralleling the beach contour detracts greatly from the tranquility and serenity of the natural landscape.
Some in our group spent an afternoon seated at one of the many food and libation stands located on the wide pedestrian sidewalk at Ipanema Beach drinking inexpensive Brazilian beer and caipirinhas (the national Brazilian alcoholic drink – made with sugar-cane alcohol, sugar, lime, and ice).  We watched all of Brazil pass us by that afternoon at Ipanema, on the pedestrian promenade, including joggers, walkers, people strolling babies, entrepreneurial vendors, cyclists, roller-bladers, dog walkers, beach soccer and beach volleyball players, buses, cars, and taxis.  The full range of human beauty and human destruction was present at Ipanema that day.
Our UVU group visited the famous jagged peak at the top of Pão de Açúcar (Sugarloaf Mountain).  The 360 degree views from the peak are spectacular since you can see the entire Bay of Guanabara and cityscape of Rio de Janeiro below.  The natural beauty of the Rio landscape is spectacular from atop the Pão de Açúcar; the distressed human environment below is not seen, only an amazing confluence of natural landscapes:  bay, ocean, mountains, and lush trees and vegetation.  Rio is beautifully tranquil from that angle.

Foz do Iguaçu (Iguassu Falls)
If there is one place in Brazil to absolutely visit (even with the added cost and inconvenience of getting there), it is the Falls of Iguassu.  The falls are located at the confluence of the Rio Iguaçu and Rio Paraná (rivers) which create the borders of Argentina, Brazil, and Paraguay in southwestern Brazil.  The Brazilians have done an excellent job of creating a well-organized national park in their geographic domain which highlights the beauty of the falls while protecting the natural landscape and uniqueness of the falls site.  Cars are not permitted in the park.  Modern shuttle buses transport human visitors.  The park includes trails and boardwalks that permit visitors to walk directly over the falls and provide numerous vantage points to appreciate the enormity of the numerous waterfalls.
On the sunny day we visited the Foz do Iguaçu, a huge, perfectly shaped rainbow was ever-present in the sky due to the combination of bright sun and water.  Walking out over the falls affects all five human senses.  Seeing the falls visually is amazing.  However, by closing your eyes, you can feel and hear the power of the Foz do Iguaçu; taste and smell the water mist that enters through your nose and mouth (and ears); and feel the gentle kiss that the water and thick mist provide on your skin.
Our student group enjoyed a speed boat journey which took us out to experience the power of the falls from underneath certain waterfalls.  Heading directly into those powerful waterfalls was a great human experience – it was like speeding toward an abyss since the boat passengers could not see if anything existed behind the curtain of the waterfalls.  A powerful waterfall shower soaked the entire boat and all its passengers.  That natural setting and speed boat ride into the power of Iguassu Falls was a highlight of our trip to Brazil.

Brazil Study Abroad Summary
My UVU study abroad experience was a wonderful experience.   I offer my sincere gratitude to Dr. Debora Ferreira of Utah Valley University for leading our study abroad group and sharing so many insider secrets and personal knowledge of her native Brazil.  The diversity, culture, and warmth of Brazil and its people were wonderful to experience first-hand.  I recognize my 45-day visit to southern Brazil merely represented one specific view of Brazilian society and culture which does not define the entire nation.  It would require years to more fully explore the tremendous geographic, cultural, and ethnic diversity of Brazil.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Matthew Hansel - Málaga, Spain

Matthew is a senior at the University of Utah studying Economics and International Business Administration. He traveled to Malaga, Spain last summer with the ISA Program.

It was about 10:00 pm when I stepped off of the bus into a swarm of color and action.  Thousands of red scarves and sashes danced, flitted, and paraded across my field of vision; they moved randomly in every direction, contrasted sharply against the stark white of the shirts and pants worn by every person in city, like pure ghosts draped in red gore.  The crowed seemed to pulse and teem with a fervent vibrancy.  Everything seemed to have an intense glow of life about it, of raw energy, though it may have simply been the shadow of death that pervaded the festival, which threw the living into sharp relief.  Without a second thought we walked into the current of people, and life, and noise, and color, allowing ourselves to be swept up towards the center of the city.  After all, this was Pamplona, and it was the Festival of San Fermin.
My best friend and I had been studying language in Malaga, Spain, since June.  We had both been enthralled with the history, tradition, and passion of the country, and we had taken every opportunity out of class to traipse across Spain and meet people, see the sites of famous battles, and see the tombs of famous people.  We had explored caves, cliff jumped, and hiked through Park Guell in Barcelona.  We had mastered the bus lines of Malaga and the underground metro train systems in Barcelona and Madrid.  We had favorite restaurants, bars, cafes, and clubs in eight different Spanish cities, and had made friends in each one from Spain, Portugal, Morocco, Italy, Germany, Australia, the UK, and Serbia.  However, what we most anticipated was the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona.  It was with eager and nervous minds that we dressed in traditional white and red and boarded our first train to the northern Navarre region, taking only a bag full of “Bocadillas” from our senora, some money, a camera, and a beat up paperback copy of Hemingway’s, The Sun Also Rises.
It took us about an hour and a half to locate our friends from Barcelona, who we were meeting at the festival.  After eating a quick dinner and watching a crazy European rock concert in the park, we hopped in a taxi and headed to the hostel our friends had rented for the night, where we were planning to sleep on the floor until the Encierro. Although the first rocket that would signal the release of the bulls would not sound until 8am, we rose before the sun at 5am, so that we might have a chance to walk the street, and to come up with a plan to avoid being trampled or gored.  The Taxi got us as close to the center of the city as he could with the huge crowd. That’s the thing about Spain: 5am is a normal time to be out partying on a Tuesday, let alone during a festival. We walked towards the Plaza Del Toros, where the Encierro would end.  Starting from the plaza, we worked our way up the street, trying to talk to and extract any sort knowledge or advice from as many locals and knowledgeable foreigners as we could.  Eventually coming up with a plan of action, we began to feel less nervous about running, and settled in to wait for the rocket.
Our plan was simple. We were going to sacrifice a little pride for a lot of safety by starting after what is known as “Dead Man’s Corner.” From that point, we had about three to four hundred meters to run before we reached the bullring, and we would enter it just after the first group of bulls and well before the second group.  For those not familiar with the Encierro, or the “Running of the Bulls,” at 8am, from July 6-July 14, the first rocket of the Encierro will go off, announcing that the first bull of the first group of nine bulls has left the corral.  Several minutes later, another group of slightly fewer bulls is released, and when the last bull has left the corral, another rocket is set off. The bulls run down the street leading from the corral to the bullring, a distance of just under 900 meters.  Our starting point, just after what is considered the most dangerous part on the course, would leave us with just over a third of the total distance.
We were leaning, stone-faced, against the wall of a house just past “Dead Man’s Corner,” when a blazing rocket could be viewed rising above the tops of the buildings.  A deep boom echoed over the scene as the rocket exploded.  My heart began to race. The bulls where out.  The runners which were scattered across our part of the street began hopping up and down, craning their necks to see when the bulls would come into sight. An eerie silence hung across the street, like even the quiet knew that it would soon be shattered. As my friend and I jumped, we began to see people running.  It was just a few at first, but each time we were able to gain a millisecond of sight we noticed more and more people beginning to run.  The crowd that lined the rooftops and balconies all along the street was beginning to murmur, and further up we could hear yells, first of anticipation, and then of gratification. My next jump showed me a wall of frantically running men. My next jump showed me a forest of sharp horns.  I turned and ran.  Feet racing, hearts racing, feet really really racing, my friend and I careened down the street, hurtling fallen men, trying to stay together.  Thunder filled my ears, and the cobblestones seemed to shake under approaching hoof beats. We hugged the walls of the street.  I looked to my right, the center of the street, just in time to see the head of the first bull pass me by, an arm’s length away.  It was huge.  At 6’4” I was looking it in the eye.  The horns curved forward into razor points, elegant and deadly. In a flash, the first group was passed us and we endeavored to run even faster, not wanting to get caught in the bottle neck leading into the bullring as the second group of bulls came through.
Down the decline leading to the tunnel we ran faster and faster – finally emerging into the light and letting our speed and the strength of the crowd carry us into the center of the ring.  My ears rang as the deafening call of 20,000 Spaniards who lined the seats of the ring boomed “OLE!... OLE!... OLE!...” Confetti rained down as we moved to the side of the ring just in time to watch the second group of bulls enter the ring in a storm of dust, and pass into the corral at the other side.  I seemed to float off of the ground with relieved exaltation as both my friend I broke into huge smiles, shaking hands and congratulating each other.  OLE!... OLE!... OLE!…”

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Ian Hill - Cuernavaca, Mexico

Ian is a senior studying Spanish at the University of Utah. He is currently participating in an exchange at the Universidad Nacional in Cuernavaca, Mexico.

The weather was fine this morning in Cuernavaca, in the state of Morelos, Mexico.  There’s plenty of sun, it’s nice and warm, and walking back to mi casa after enjoying a cup in a local café, I passed a turtle sunning itself in the street. It’s the end of January. Life is good.
Despite the fact that it’s Saturday, I ran an errand to the Universidad Internacional to use the computer lab to get some correspondence taken care of. On my way back home for lunch, I had a nice conversation with my taxi driver. My accent is becoming decent enough that he was surprised when I told him I study Spanish at the school. He complemented me on my accomplishment and fell silent for a moment as he negotiated some traffic.
At one point we rolled alongside another taxi with a mustached driver lacking a fare.  My driver leaned across and called, “¡El francés!”
The other driver looked over and grinned. “Hola, amigo. ¿Vas a pasar?”
“Sí, gracias.”
The other cabbie waved us on, and we slowly changed lanes in front of him. The traffic moved along at a brisk walking pace as things bottlenecked a little at the mouth of a bridge over one of the many ravines that transect Cuernavaca. The tropical sunlight filtered through the leaves of the overhead trees and illuminated the bougainvillea growing in cascades over the walls along the side of the road. In a white, old school VW bug, to the left and slightly ahead of us, a man in the passenger seat cheerfully sang along with the radio.
“Shake, shake, shake . . . shake, shake, shake . . . shake your booty.”
The first thing that most people in the United States thought of when I mentioned that I would be spending the semester in Mexico was the “violence of epic proportions” that I would encounter. Indeed, the negative press against Mexico has reached such a fever pitch in the U.S. that I feel obliged to mention it in this blog. The land that is now Mexico has had a heck of a time, pretty much continuously, and a lot more so since the year 1519, when Cortés’ boots landed on the moist sand on the beach in Veracruz. The Conquest of the “New” World began in that moment, and it has really never stopped. The present conflict with los narcos is just one more link in a now more than five hundred year long chain, a constant struggle to have in a land of extreme haves and have-nots. Some of the poorest people in the world live in Mexico. On the other end of the spectrum, the richest man in the world is also a Mexican.
There are problems in Mexico. And violence. We have both things in adequate supply north of the border as well. Which stories sell in the media marketplace go a long way to emphasize certain developments around the world. In La Jornada, the independent newspaper of UNAM (Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México), I recently read a story about the rich upper class in the northern border states fleeing the country in panic to take up residence in places such as Houston and San Antonio. The story pointed out that all things considered, including the fighting with the narco, these families were moving to areas with higher homicide rates (La Jornada Domingo 26 de diciembre de 2010).
If you have anything to do with drugs, if you’re a user, buyer, seller, or “mule,” it’s hard to imagine a more dangerous place for you than present-day Mexico. If you’re anyone else, Mexico can be as safe as or safer than many other places in the world (shootings in Tucson, riots in London). Mexico is safe for both street-smart tourists and students alike.  I say street smart because if you act foolishly or irresponsibly, no matter where you are on the planet, chances are in favor of something bad happening to you. You can’t blame a country for that, or even a city. It’s a question of taking responsibility.
The general attitude in the U.S. concerning the narcotics problem is one of the more frustrating things to think about while being down here. When I talk to people in the States, the general sentiment is that “things are bad down there in Mexico” or “Mexico has a lot of problems” or “Mexico is a bad country to be in” or “stay safe until you can get back to America, where we don’t have that problem.” What people rarely seem to think about or acknowledge is that the narcotics problem is not a Mexican problem. It’s a United States/Mexican problem. There would be no narcotics trafficking in Mexico if the people of the United States weren’t eager to buy. All of the shootouts on the southern side of the border have been financed with American dollars and supplied with American guns and bullets. Narcotics-trafficking is our problem as much as it is theirs. We retreat into our enormous fortress on the other side of the patrolled fence and put our feet up with our recreational drugs at our side and say, “how fortunate we are to not be over there” as we blame Mexico for its problems. This is what it means to shirk responsibility and ignore the facts.
The Mexico I know is a wonderful place to be. There’s optimism and a spirit here that’s hard to find elsewhere. The people are open, hardworking, and cheerful, and they make you truly one of the family. I certainly hope more tourists and students begin returning to this amazing country. By not coming, they miss out on enriching their own lives, and the good, honest, regular people of Mexico feel the economic burden.
I hope the situation begins to improve shortly. As a friend of mine down here used to tell me – in accented English – “Don’t worry. Be happy.” It’s good advice.