Spiritual Archive

Social Forum shifts balance in Paraguay, Latin America

Social Forum shifts balance in Paraguay, Latin America

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ASUNCION, Paraguay – It was an historic moment for Latin America, and perhaps for the world: A former guerilla, a former priest and a former coca grower, now presidents of their respective countries, stood together and addressed the continent’s largest assembly of social organizations.

Paraguayan President Fernando Lugo, a former Catholic bishop whose election on April 20, 2008, signaled the end of a six-decade dictatorship, welcomed the Social Forum of the Americas to his country as a much-needed show of international support for his country’s fragile democracy. In addition to battling his own right-wing legislature, judiciary and mass media, the country’s first progressive president just last week began chemotherapy treatments for a newly diagnosed case of lymphoma. In perhaps the most emotional discourse of the entire forum, Lugo spoke from his heart.

“This privileged social forum is one of the lights we can raise like a torch to light the road to change in Latin America,” he said. “For the Paraguayan people, this is a sincere show of brotherhood …your presence is the force that will sustain us for the irreversible road to change in Paraguay.”

Bolivian President Evo Morales, risen from the ranks of indigenous organizers and coca growers, called the moment a sign of the times. “Never in the ’80s or the ’90s would you have seen a president at any of these events – and now we are here to receive your solutions, to convert them into programs and projects to liberate our people.”

The relationship between the forum and the progressive governments of the South has been a reciprocal one, with presidents from Venezuela’s Hugo Chavez to Brazil’s Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva have used it to burnish their images with social movements. The World Social Forum was launched in 2001 in the neighboring country of Brazil as a counterpoint to the annual World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland, and as a meeting place and incubator for social movements across the globe under the theme, “Another World is Possible.”

Over the years the annual event has drawn upwards of 100,000 participants and has become so unwieldy that some have dismissed it as little more than a feel-good talk session or a left-wing carnival. But to many here, the social forum has become a force to be reckoned with, and indeed, a current that has nurtured and informed the continent’s leftward shift over the past decade.

“Critics have said all along that the forum is just a gabfest,” said Marc Becker, longtime forum observer and Latin American historian. “But there’s no doubt in my mind that it’s fundamentally shifted the discourse from neoliberalism and the Washington consensus to an environment that has permitted the rise of the leftist governments we have today.”

Since its inception, the WSF has spun off numerous regional and thematic versions. This week’s gathering, launched Aug. 11 and running through Sunday (Aug. 15), was the fourth hemispheric gathering, and it drew more than 10,000 from all over the Americas and beyond. Its slogan, “Nuestra America está en camino” (Our America is on its way), reflected the optimistic view that significant progress has been made toward achieving that other possible world.

This year’s themes were many and diverse, ranging from climate change and food sovereignty to the impacts of an increasingly industrialized agriculture and the growing number and strength of U.S. military bases throughout the continent.

Whether the forum will manage to shift the debate at the global level remains to be seen, but there’s little doubt that it has had significant impact at the regional and certainly at the local level, and within the movements themselves.

Peruvian anti-mining activist Lourdes Huanca actually credits the connections she made at the forum with saving her life and that of other activists during a violent confrontation with the Peruvian government.

“We sent out an e-mail to the contacts we had made saying, ‘Help, they are killing us!’” she said. Via Campesina, a global peasant organization, sent a representative and others responded by putting pressure on the government, and the situation was resolved, she said.

Groups as diverse as the Via Campesina and the Latin American Network of Women Transforming the Economy (REMTE, by its Spanish acronym), some of whose feminist leaders hold multiple academic degrees, come together across borders to strategize on their own issues, and reach out to learn about the struggles of other groups, as well.

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Sonia Alvarez of the University of Massachusetts attributes the forum with giving women a much more prominent voice within social movements in the South; Gina Vargas, a fellow member of the Network, agreed.

“When Via Campesina first began having a presence here, the men would say, ‘Here we’ll have our meetings, and there the women will do their cooking,’” said Vargas. “We said, ‘Wait a minute!’”

As the Via Campesina women began to interact with strong women leaders, the power balance began to shift. This year, one of the most dynamic speakers from the central stage was Magui Balbuena, a campesina leader from Paraguay.

Nobel Peace Laureate Rigoberta Menchu, who was received with perhaps even more excitement than any of the presidents, joined a panel defining the concept of “buen vivir,” or living well – a counterpoint promoted by the new Latin American left as a counterpoint to the individualist striving for the better life promoted by industrialist societies, a striving that speakers said impoverishes the planet through mindless consumerism.

‎”Our elders taught us that what we can take with our hands is ours; what doesn’t fit is for someone else. It’s selfishness that caused us to take the rest and put it in a bag for ourselves – and that selfishness is destroying the world,” she said.

One area in which the forum has the potential for a greater global impact is in the area of climate change. Groups preparing for the upcoming climate talks in Cancun, a follow-up to Copenhagen, have been working behind the scenes since April’s WSF-styled People’s Climate Summit in Cochabamba to further the development of an International Court for Climate Justice. Their sessions laid the groundwork for a multifaceted approach in Cancun.

Back in Paraguay, it’s hard to measure the impact on local social movements, but farmer Braulio Anibal Avalos provided a little insight when he stopped me on the stairs after a workshop to tell me how excited he was.
“This forum has completely changed my way of looking at the world,” said Avalos, whose family has been involved since before his birth in a fight to reclaim their cooperative’s land after it was seized by the Paraguayan government for supposed subversive activity.
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Paraguay’s difficult past – first, a war with neighboring countries in which it lost more than half its territory, followed by the dictatorship – has made Paraguayans insular and isolated, he said.

“I’ve always been extremely nationalist because of our history,” he said. “But today, as I look around and discover the thousands of people from other countries who are struggling for a better world, I realize the fight is not just ours. I realize we are not alone.”

Here are a few images from the Fourth Social Forum of the Americas:


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Mining Real de Catorce: To destroy the sacred is the strategy

Mining Real de Catorce: To destroy the sacred is the strategy

(Photos of Wirikuta/Real de Catorce courtesy of Lucy Nieto, via Flickr Creative Commons)

By Tunuary and Cristian Chávez
Translated by Ken Hoyt

Editor’s note: I met Tunuary and Cristian Chávez and their father, Carlos Chávez, in February and March, when I accompanied Cristian and Carlos to Huichol territory and worked on a documentary about their work. Their organization, AJAGI (Jalisco Association in Support of Indigenous Peoples) has been at the forefront of the struggle to defend indigenous and environmental rights in Mexico and beyond. Here I republish with permission a translation of this article, which originally appeared in La Jornada of Jalisco.

A series of events in recent months has attracted international concern from civil rights organizations, the National Human Rights Commission, academics and members of the National Indigenous Congress, regarding harassment and destruction that has been directed toward indigenous peoples over their ancestral traditions and their sacred sites. Such things are happening throughout Mexico and in an especially alarming way towards the Wixárika (Huichol) people, who have denounced a series of attacks against their “other” fundamental territory—that which is spiritual and gives meaning to the framework of their internal politics and the fabric of their social organization, and defines their relation to the environment and other peoples.

It is a large territory, stretching from the sea to the desert in San Luis Potosi, where a group of jicareros* from the Wixárika community of Tuapurie-Santa Catarina Cuexcomatitlán were harassed by state police and municipal police from Station Fourteen while performing ancient rituals at the communal land of Las Margaritas. This harassment was described by the Indigenous National Congress as “an aggression against all peoples,” because it was an assault against something very fundamental—the collective spirit of a people.

However, this harassment is nothing new. Six years ago the intentions of the government of San Luis Potosi were made clear to the public, with their development plans to create corridors for mining production, agribusiness and sweatshops, megaprojects entirely upsetting the pilgrimage to sacred sites in the desert of San Luis Potosi. In parallel the government launched a campaign of criminalization and regulation of the ancient practice of collecting Hikuri (peyote).

The disintegration of collective land ownership through the Certification Program of Ejido Rights (PROCEDE) played a key role in this plunder, handing over huge areas of this great plain to multinational companies for use in agro-industrial production. The unaccommodating climate and soil will necessitate excessive use of agrochemicals and the overexploitation of aquifers.

Recently a new threat to Wirikuta ancestral territory arose in the form of a document presented by the transnational Micon International Limited, who published the results of mineral exploration carried out since July 2007 by Norvec, a Canadian mining transnational that has 22 mining concessions adjacent to each other and joined 6,326.58 hectares (translation from Diana Negrin of the Micon International Report) The geographical center of the concessions is the Cerro del Quemado or Leuna, the place where, according to Wixárika worldview, the Sun was born in the first times, where the ancestors walked creating the world and where today, Wixárika communities continue to make their pilgrimage recreating this ancient walk year after year.

On Sept. 14, 2009, the rights of the 22 concessions belonging to Norvec were purchased by an even larger transnational, First Majestic Silver Corp., who is seeking a monopoly on the production of silver in Mexico. First Majestic currently owns three operating silver mines in Mexico, La Encantada, La Parrilla, la mina de San Martin Silver Mines, and a project known as the Toro Silver Mine, and is now ready to exploit more than 13 million ounces of silver from Real de Catorce mining district.

Totally irresponsibly, and with disregard to the official designations as a Protected Natural Area as well as a UNESCO designated Historic and Cultural Heritage Site, along with those who call the area sacred, the Federal Attorney for Environmental Protection, the National Institute of Anthropology and History and the National Water Commission have all granted permits to the mining company to make their operation possible and have promised to pay $7,500 a year to communities as compensation for access their collective territories.

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This is a major threat to the environment and cultural practices of indigenous people of Mexico. Among other issues, the projected operating method of “open pit” — distinct from drilled shafts for the use of dynamite on surface, destroying entire hills while the crater is washed of minerals.

While this happens, the state continues to restrict and repress the Wixárika pilgrimage citing “harvest cuotas”, while peyote dealers operate with impunity as they process large quantities of the drug known as mescaline with the active complicity or disregard of government authorities, who in the media maintain an alleged war against organized crime, which in reality is a war against the people and militarizes and paramilitarizes the entire country.

The government’s supposed “concern” about crime has led to many instances of oppression such as that denounced by autonomous Wixárika community Bancos de San Hipólito, Durango. Recently during their ceremonial practice of the deer hunt, which is of tremendous religious importance, the Mexican Army cited their concerns about small arms to interrupt the ceremonial practice and confiscate the low caliber weapons that have always been used for this purpose.

What about the destruction of the sacred site known as Paso del Oso due to the illegal imposition of the highway project-Huejuquilla Amatitán-Bolaños in Jalisco, which today continues to be halted by legal processes and strong community mobilization by the Wixárika of Tuapurie.

The plunder dresses in very aggressive colors, on one hand unprecedented pressure was exerted for the implementation of multinational megaprojects by way of development plans and land ordinances. The violent aggression of paramilitary and narcoparamilitary groups and (with protection from State bodies) only grows in intensity. This is an attack on those that have maintained their indigenous identity for thousands of years, that which is tradition, the sacred sites and traditional practices.

Maybe it’s because global capitalist power knows that if the indigenous peoples have 80 percent of the natural resources necessary for global industrialization it is because they are one with nature, with the universe. And so that unity must be destroyed — and that is the official strategy.

* Jicarero is the name for those who are chosen to perform the sacred ritual each year of the pilgrimage to Wirikuta and the other sacred sites, and the collection of the Hikuri, or peyote.

tunuaryycristian@yahoo.com.mx

Salvadoran environmental activists put their lives on the line

Salvadoran environmental activists put their lives on the line

(Above: “No to mining, yes to life” reads a poster commemorating the four Cabañas anti-mining activists killed last year: Marcelo Rivera; Dora Alicia Recinos; Manuel, her unborn child; and Ramiro Rivera.)


SAN ISIDRO, Cabañas, El Salvador – I came to this quiet mountain community last week for a commemoration ceremony for three anti-mining activists who were killed here last year in the wake of ongoing protests against the operations of Canadian mining company Pacific Rim.

Cabañas, the second-poorest department in the country, was a guerilla stronghold during the war and the site of several massacres. These days it’s a quiet backwater of subsistence agriculture whose barely pronounceable capital city, Sensuntepeque, is home to about 35,000 people.

That quiet was broken in 2005 with the arrival of Pacific Rim, which came bearing promises of economic development and something the previous corporate-friendly ARENA government termed “green mining.” The same party that had held power since the war, when it ran the death squads that imposed a reign of terror on the populace, granted the company exploration permits, provoking widespread dissent.

Tiny El Salvador, with the densest population in Latin America and a looming water crisis, is not an appropriate place for mining, opponents argued. The current president, FMLN leader Mauricio Funes, ran his campaign as an anti-mining candidate, and once in office, he declared the country off-limits to mining. Pacific Rim responded with a $77 million lawsuit against the country under the Central American Free Trade Agreement.

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I arrived in San Isidro to find Father Neftali Ruíz at the head of the march for justice, with Father Luis Quintanilla and Bishop Gabriel Orellana not far behind. They were wearing white robes with colorful scarves influenced by El Salvador’s indigenous past, much like the vestments worn by Archbishop Oscar Romero and the four Jesuit priests who were assassinated during the civil war for their defense of human rights. Those priests’ garments, some of them bullet-ridden and stained with blood, are on display in a museum in San Salvador. But these fathers showed the truth in the Romero quote on banners and T-shirts all over the country: “If I die, I will be reborn among my people.”

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Father Neftalí was an animated young man who rallied the crowds as they arrived at the Central Plaza. Later I was shocked to learn that he, too, has been receiving death threats.

“Que Viva Marcelo Rivera!” he cried. “Long live Marcelo Rivera, who still walks among us! Long live the martyrs of Cabañas!”

Marcelo Rivera was a teacher, an artist and a community leader who was outspoken in his opposition to Pacific Rim’s mining operations. He mysteriously disappeared a year ago, on June 18, 2009, and his body was found eight days later at the bottom of a well, with obvious signs of torture. Local authorities dismissed the incident as common delinquency, and to date, no one has been charged with his murder.
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The cultural center where Rivera once taught has been renamed in his honor, and repainted with a mural featuring his face and the words, “Those who die for life cannot be called dead.”

In December, following Rivera’s death, two other anti-mining activists were murdered in Cabañas, including Dora Alicia Recinos, who was eight months pregnant at the time.

Friday’s march culminated with an outdoor interfaith religious service officiated by Catholic, Anglican and Lutheran ministers. The service was held in front of the cultural center, with Rivera’s somber face in the background like a benevolent ghost.
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“We are here to honor the memory of our martyrs,” began Father Neftali. “They deserve all of our honor and respect because they gave their lives just like Jesus Christ, to defend their people and future generations…We are here to celebrate their lives and to bring together the people who believe in the God of life and who also believe another world is possible.”

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Lutheran minister Carlos Najera Medardo Gomez then came forward. “Satan is acting to destroy the plan that God has for each of us to have a life with dignity,” he said. “Destroying nature so that a few can fill their pockets with money is not justice… The only thing the poor have is the land, and if that is taken, they have nothing.”

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Father Quintanilla, whose life was also threatened last year by two hooded assailants, took up the words of the prophet Isaiah, who told of an honorable man who was murdered and his case was not taken seriously by the authorities.

“Marcelo Rivera was kidnapped, tortured, killed and then found, and the authorities say it’s common delinquency,” said Quintanilla. “But the antecedents that mark the disappearance of Marcelo are not being taken into account: that Marcelo confronted an imperialist system imposed on this place, governed by the right wing in service to Pacific Rim.

“Nevertheless the Word of God gives us the courage to continue in the struggle. They sacrificed the life of little Manuel, still in the womb of his mother, Dora. In the hole of a rock they have found gold and they want to worship it…. They want to destroy our environment. But we must be attentive to discover and unmask the lies that threaten our land and our people.”

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And Bishop Orellana of the Renovated Anglican Church read the story of Cain and Abel from the book of Genesis. The words of God rang out as an accusation to a modern-day Cain: “What have you done? The voice and the blood of your brother cries to me from the earth.”

After the Mass, I visited with Vidalina Morales, one of the leading opponents of Pacific Rim, who had marched in protests and raised her voice alongside Marcelo Riveras. Morales is no stranger to violence, having fought with the guerillas for 12 years, and her tiny frame belies the steely strength in her voice as she lays out her case against mining in tiny, overpopulated El Salvador. Wells and springs are already drying up in the communities uphill from the company’s exploration wells, she says, and the mining hasn’t even begun.
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“Most of us campesinos, we are barely growing enough food to survive,” she explained. “We can get by right now – but if they destroy our water, what will we do?”

I asked her if she’s ever afraid, and for a moment I saw the softer side of Vidalina.

“Of course I’m afraid – not for myself, but for my children, for my family, for those close to me,” she said, tears springing to her eyes. “In the end, if they want to do something to me, they’ll do it, and so be it. But I’ve seen this in the struggles against the people – they seek to hurt us in the deepest ways possible, so yes, I’m afraid. But at the same time the fear gives us strength to keep fighting – and we will keep on fighting because justice is on our side.”

Vidalina is one of the directors of ADES, an organization that was born of the need to resettle the people of Santa Marta, a whole town that fled to Honduras during the height of the war. Vidalina was one of those who, as a child, was forced to cross the border under horrendous conditions to save their lives.

ADES, the Association for Economic and Social Development, has expanded its mission to the whole department of Cabañas, and is involved in an impressive array of programs to improve the lives of its citizens. Resistance to the mining operations is something they see as key to promoting equitable and sustainable development.

“They say they are going to bring development, but development is a mirage,” said Nelson Ventura, another ADES staff member who has been active in the resistance. Ventura narrowly escaped an apparent attempt on his life when a man swung a machete at him from behind. He saw it coming in the rearview mirror of a nearby car and dodged the blow. But when he reported the incident to the authorities, they just laughed it off and said, “Oh, he was just trying to scare you.”

Despite the threats on his life, and the loss of his friends and fellow activists, Nelson, the father of four, feels more committed than ever to the cause.

“Sure, I’ve thought of leaving, but what would I do? I have to teach my children to walk in the road of dignity. They have the right to a clean environment. If you don’t stand up for your rights, you have nothing.”
He ends with a favorite quote from Bertold Brecht, made famous in a song by Cuban revolutionary songwriter Silvio Rodriguez:

“There are good men who fight for a day, better men who fight for a year, and even better men who fight for several years. But the ones who fight all their lives are indispensable.”


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Podcast: Oscar Romero lives on in anti-mining movement

Podcast: Oscar Romero lives on in anti-mining movement

(Above: An image of Archbishop Oscar Romero, slain by right-wing death squads in 1980 during El Salvador’s civil war. “If I die, I will be reborn among my people.”)

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SAN ISIDRO, Cabañas, El Salvador – Cabañas is the second-poorest department in El Salvador, at the heart of a region that was a guerilla stronghold during the war and the site of several massacres. I went there last week for a commemoration of the four anti-mining activists killed last year in the town of San Isidro, where the Canadian mining company Pacific Rim is planning an open-air mine.

Here is a podcast and images from my time in Cabañas – story to come.

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.


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Cultural Survival: Using radio to preserve endangered cultures

Cultural Survival: Using radio to preserve endangered cultures

(Above: Concepción Aganel of Radio Niña in Totonicapan, one of the community radio stations fighting for legitimate status.)


Mark Camp, Operations and Interim Director, Cultural Survival

By Tracy L. Barnett

ANTIGUA, Guatemala – Between trips to the Guatemalan capital to stalk evasive Congress members and strategizing meetings with community radio activists from Huehuetenango to Lake Atitlan, Mark Camp is a tough man to slow down.

But I managed to catch up with him just as he prepared to pack up his big red truck and head north in his annual migration to Cultural Survival’s headquarters and his other home in Cambridge, Mass., to hear a little about what he’s been doing down here.

Cultural Survival is going on its fortieth year as the leading international organization in promoting indigenous rights and the preservation of indigenous cultures around the world. Mark, as its operations coordinator, can talk for a long time about needs assessments, political strategy, organizational development and the like.

But when he starts to talk about Miguelito, he really comes to life. Miguelito is the 8-year-old president of the youth auxiliary of Radio Sembradora, the community radio station of San Pedro La Laguna in Lake Atitlan, and in many ways he symbolizes the future of community radio and, indeed, the future of indigenous Guatemala.

Camp met Miguelito in a recent visit to the station, where Miguelito and his group of 8, 9 and 10-year-olds had created an alliance with local NGOs to organize a campaign to clean up Lake Atitlan. The iconic lake, once celebrated for its crystal-clear, volcano-encircled waters, has suffered epic proportions of wastewater and agricultural runoff, as well as a more visible problem: floating masses of plastic trash.

Miguelito’s group was broadcasting every Saturday morning, putting on a full lineup of environmental programming, encouraging listeners to fill up and bring in their plastic bottles to be used in building ecological housing.

“This guy’s going to be mayor one day,” Camp recalls with a chuckle.

Community radio in San Pedro and in towns and villages across the country has been giving voice to indigenous people young and old who are trying to preserve their environment, their cultures, their languages and their way of life, and Cultural Survival has tapped into this movement as a high-power way of supporting indigenous communities.

In Palin Esquintla, community radio helped to revive a culture and a language that was on the verge of extinction. In Sumpongo Sacatapequez, it brought a local musical tradition back to life. In town after town, community radio has given indigenous communities information about their rights, about their health, about local political and social issues, about their traditional teachings and much more – in their own languages.

Camp came to realize the potential of community radio when he was working on a publication for Cultural Survival called Voices, a publication aimed at disseminating information about indigenous rights and culture to indigenous groups around the world. The problem, he said, was that even with foundation funding, they were only reaching about 30,000 readers – less that a tenth of 1 percent of the 370 million indigenous people on the planet – and only in colonial languages – Spanish, English, French and Russian – not in their native languages.
Cultural Survival Quarterly, the organization’s venerable award-winning magazine, is an excellent publication, but it’s in English, and it’s mainly geared toward non-indigenous people.

Once the funding ran out, Camp was looking for other ways to get the message out among indigenous peoples.
“After thinking about it a very short while, the obvious choice is radio – and very local radio, because language in lots of indigenous communities is very local,” said Camp. “The people in the next alley might speak a different language – or at least a very different dialect. So we started thinking about community radio and how we could work with community radio stations to put more information on the air for indigenous listeners that might help them defend their own rights.”

In 2004 he began sounding out community leaders throughout Guatemala, and by 2006 they had found funding for a full-fledged Community Radio Project.

Access to community radio stations was one of the rights guaranteed to indigenous communities under the peace accords, but the government never followed through by setting up a system that would really give access to the communities. Frequencies were auctioned off to the highest bidders, and commercial radio operators were willing to pay sums that indigenous peasants would never dream of seeing in their lifetimes.

So the campesino groups decided to operate their stations anyway, and hundreds of them set up pirate operations in whatever facilities they could find and with whatever equipment they could cobble together. The stations were not technically legal, however, and they endured harassment from local government officials, raids on their stations, confiscation of their hard-earned equipment and even, in several cases, imprisonment of the broadcasters. Several associations of community radio stations had tried to get legislation passed that would solve the problem, but had failed. This was the situation when Camp came on the scene.

Cultural Survival’s goals were straightforward. First and foremost, the objective was to get all the community radio associations working together on a consistent piece of legislation guaranteeing each community the right to a radio frequency; second, workshops to teach radio volunteers how to generate high-quality content; third, to help the stations become financially self-sufficient; and fourth, workshops to help them with the nuts and bolts of running a professional radio station.

Three years into the project, the goals are well on their way to completion; most importantly, all the associations have agreed on the same piece of legislation and are working together, alongside Camp, for its passage. Camp is optimistic; all the major parties and many minor parties have signed on to the legislation, and folks at the grassroots, like Tino Recinos (see “Ex-Guerilla changes gun for microphone), are working hard to persuade the last holdouts.

A vote in the Guatemalan legislature is scheduled for Aug. 9, International Day of the World’s Indigenous People. Stay tuned to Cultural Survival’s page at www.culturalsurvival.org and to The Esperanza Project for news.

For excerpts from Mark Camp’s interview in Antigua, Interview with Mark Camp

School for Street Children converts tourist dollars into miracles

School for Street Children converts tourist dollars into miracles

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Eco-evangelical Mayans work for a greener village

Eco-evangelical Mayans work for a greener village

PAXTOCA, Totonicapán, Guatemala – Martin Pedro Toc Sic is an eco-entrepreneur on a mission. Standing amid the green, forested hills of his native village, this young Maya marketing major explained why he left a good-paying job in the city to try and make his mark in his hometown with projects designed to keep those hills green.

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“My father told me a long time ago, ‘Martin, God wants a vocation for you.’ And I always looked for it,” he said. “Then one day, God touched me with fear. I was listening to a radio program about the way the climate is changing and it scared me so bad I ran to my room and hid under the covers and trembled. But then I realized I had to do something about it. Instead of hiding in the house, frightened, it’s time to find solutions.”

Martin is a curious mixture of many things that on the surface don’t seem to blend. He’s a business-minded environmentalist and an evangelical Christian working to revive the Mayan cosmovision. He’s the founder of Projuve, short for Youth Program for Sustainable Development (Programa Juvenil para Desarrollo Sostenible), and his enthusiasm for his subject matter is contagious. A youth leader in his evangelical church, he’s managed to attract nine others to the cause, including Carmina, now his wife-to-be, and they’ve all put their work aside today to meet with me at their new Forestry Center, a small protected plot of tree seedlings they are nurturing for a reforestation project.

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The youths begin with a brief and very professional introduction, each telling me which of the Projuve departments they belong to: environment, programs, fundraising and business development. The young women are dressed in corte tipica, the traditional Quiché Mayan woven skirts and lacy blouses. The young men are all business casual.

“Here it’s normal for the young people to wear their hair long and their T-shirts loose, but we don’t want to do that,” Martin explained to me later. “We want to have the respect of the community, so that’s why we dress this way – formally. We are trying to earn their trust.”

In the year since their founding, they’ve garnered the support of a local cooperative, which has given them the land and supplies for their forestry center. They’ve held a Christian eco-concert, Una Sola Voz por el Planeta (One voice for the Planet) to raise money for their cause.

They’ve established a recycling project in their town; in a place where the idea of recycling was once as far from most minds as the moon, villagers are now separating their plastic, glass, metal and paper from their organic waste and saving it for the Projuve volunteers, who collect them every two weeks and truck them to the recycling center in Xela.
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On an ordinary day, many of this dynamic group can be found hauling bags of rich volcanic soil and mulch from the surrounding forest to mix into the tiny nursery bags for the seedlings in their Forestry Center. Already they’ve got some 8,000 sprouts here, including white pine, oak, cypress and the endangered pinabete, or Guatemalan fir. Their goal is to plant 100,000 in the surrounding deforested areas by the end of the year.
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But this is only the beginning. Their long-range goals include an ecotourism program in the surrounding mountain valley, built around a spectacular waterfall in the forest near here. They’re collecting plastic and glass bottles in a warehouse near here that they plan to use as the base for an adobe Earthship-style ecological house, and they’ve enlisted the aid of a green architect to help them design it.
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The only thing standing between them and the conversion of Paxtoca into an ecovillage, it seems, is money – but they have faith it will come.

We took turns telling our stories, and each of the youths, from 16-year-old Nicolas to 24-year-old Carmina, shared their fears of a devastated planet and their dream for a green future for their children.

Martin and Carmina took me for a breathtaking hike through the village, up through the cornfields surrounding the forest and down a trail through the woods to the waterfall, which they’ve used as the backdrop for their stunning brochure and their power point presentation.
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Then, since the cooperative had loaned them the car for the day, they took me up into the mountains to see another ecological project in the region, the Aprisco Sendero Ecologico, an educational ecocenter in a virgin pine forest near the town of Totonicapan. The hike among the old-growth pines refreshed the spirit while learning stations along the way taught about the endangered birds and trees this forest harbors.

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Aprisco is an initiative of CDRO, the Cooperative for Rural Development of the West, an organization that has been promoting sustainable development in the Western Highlands for a generation. They took me by the organization’s learning center, where I had a chat with Ana Victoria Socop, one of the organization’s directors.

Here are a few comments from each of these young movers and shakers that will stay with me.

Martin:

“Jesus loved nature! Remember the story of how he released the doves from the people who were selling them in the temple? Remember how he said, the birds of the air don’t worry about where they will get their food, but God takes care of them. God gave us dominion over nature so that we would take care of it.”

“Our Maya culture is closely related to nature, but we’ve lost a great deal of that. So why don’t we go back and reclaim what’s ours? The Maya saying is, leave no one behind. This applies to nature, as well.”

“We created the concept, ‘empre-ambiental’ (empresarial plus environmental) because we have to have development, but it doesn’t need to hurt the environment. I said to myself, if they can do this in Xela, why can’t we do it here? Here we have the resources, the natural beauty. We should be able to make it work here.”

“I give talks to the young people and I say, ‘Kids, now is our time, it’s the time for us to show what we are made of.”

“If they support us from outside, that’s great but we also have to learn how to generate our own financing. A lot of times groups will arrive in the villages and the people will say, ‘What are you bringing us?’ We say, ‘what do we have to offer?’ We’re trying to change the paradigm.”

Ana, 20 – “We were seeing that the trash was collecting all around and it was really affecting us. Sometimes the grandfathers cut the trees in the mountains and don’t replant them. So we got together and we said, we have to make the change; if we don’t, nobody will. We want to have a beautiful place to hand down to the little ones when it’s their time.”

Jairo, 21 – “I’d been studying science and thinking already about the way the future is looking and feeling really scared about it. Then one day at church I heard a talk that Martin gave and I said, and I loved the idea, I was delighted to join this team.”

Pablo, 20 – “Now that we’ve been going around picking up the recyclables the people are beginning to trust us. Guatemala is changing and I realized, I wanted to be a part of it – we have to really put out the effort to make it better.”

Nicolas, 16: “Now is the time we can raise up a generation of change. Maybe the last generations believed that you could cut the trees down and they’d come back by themselves, but now we realize they don’t come back by themselves, and without trees there is no life, we can’t breathe.”

Josias, 20: “Sometimes we young people don’t really think about what we’re doing, just throwing trash and such. Now we’re beginning to realize what our environment really needs, and that’s why we’ve started all these projects, which are going to require a lot of work. And since I’m in charge of fundraising, I know we’re going to need some money to make it happen, and I’m not sure how we’re going to do it, but I know we have to.”

Jose, 18: “Up here in the highlands, the sun used to just warm us, but now it burns us. We have to do something for our planet. We can’t fix what’s already been done but what we can do is raise the awareness of our friends and neighbors, saying what are we going to leave our children? We can’t give them a destroyed planet. We want them to be able to have what we enjoyed.”

Carmina, 24: “I had the opportunity to work as a volunteer in an NGO, and I was sharing with many foreigners. I realized that the reality we were living – we went to many places where there were not more trees, the mountains were completely treeless. We saw places where there was extreme poverty. This motivated me to do something, but I didn’t know what to do by myself. I saw how the foreigners came to help, but when they extended a hand to help, the people would reach out and say, give us more.”

“Why do other people come to help our people when we can do it ourselves? But then a friend told me about Projuve, and at first it didn’t really convince me. The third time I said, let me see what they’re doing. Then it was Martin who told me the whole vision of Projuve. Then I said, I think I can contribute something here. So I decided to stay and see what I could do to realize the vision of a green Paxtoca.”


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Rasta Mesa: Earth Care and People Care, Garifuna style

Rasta Mesa: Earth Care and People Care, Garifuna style

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LIVINGSTON, Guatemala – Ecotour options abound in this offbeat Caribbean village; there’s Seven Altars, the spectacular series of waterfalls and pools; Playa Blanca, with its pristine white sands; Lake Izabal, the country’s largest, with a host of wildlife-watching, birding and hiking options.

I wanted to do something that would bring me a little closer to the local inhabitants, in particular the Garifuna people. You can see them everywhere, but to have an interaction that goes beyond “hey baby,” a musical performance or a pitch to have your hair plaited in tiny braids, it takes a little effort.

So when an earnest young man with dreadlocks and a rasta hat approached me in the center, handed me a flyer and invited me to come and check out his cultural center, I took him up on it. “We have cooking classes, vegetarian food, and live music every night,” he said. “OK,” I said.

That’s how I met Eduardo “Mega” Estero, a 20-something Rastafarian with a decidedly different approach to environmental education, and Amanda, his lighthearted, dreadlocked wife. Amanda, from Baltimore, met Mega on the beach in Belize and the two of them have been together ever since. In 2008, Mega decided to return to his native Livingston, and the two of them decided to start their own cultural center in the heart of the Garifuna community.

Here they conduct workshops and classes on traditional Garifuna cooking and art, for tourists and locals alike. They also host a range of activities for local children, teaching them about their culture and about the environment. A sketch of the solid waste cycle hangs on the bright-red wall.

“Our people been throwin’ our wrappers on the ground since the beginning of time, and it’s never been a problem – plantain peels and banana leaves and cassava peels. Now all of a sudden things have changed, but the habits have not,” says Mega. “I try to help them see the difference.

“I tell the kids, ‘It’s not trash until you throw it,’” he says. He teaches them to reuse plastic bottles to make seed planters, baskets, maracas and receptacles for other items.

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I came for vegetarian lunch – Garifuna food was on the menu, but they were out of ingredients, so I got a huge plate of Garifuna-style sushi – an Amanda fusion creation – with plantains, green bananas, pineapple and carrots in the place of crab and avocado.

I ended up signing up for the Garifuna ecotour, which was a daylong adventure with lively commentaries from Mega and Amanda, all for the rock-bottom price of $12. There was a hike and a swim along the coco-palm-lined beach to the neighboring village of Quehueche. There was a tour of the Garifuna temple with a glimpse into the Garifuna religion, a fascinating blend of African animism with Catholicism.

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Then there was a tour of the family farm and a hike through the rainforest, ending up with a back-door entrance to the Seven Altars.

As the grandson of one of the community’s spiritual healers, Mega has grown up learning about the traditions and the various ingredients needed to carry them out. He showed me plants along the way with various healing properties, as well as the ones he uses to make what he calls a “spiritual bath”: an herbal bath which is done for cleansing at the particularly auspicious hour of midnight, when the spirits of the ancestors are available to help with the healing work.

The Garifuna temple was set back from the beach on a hillside. A massive structure with a tall, double-peaked thatch roof, it was unlike any temple I had ever seen. First, there were the hammocks – strung along the front of the building to catch the breeze, and hanging from the rough-hewn rafters inside, as well. When the time comes for a ceremony, people come from all around and the ritual goes on for days, so the hammocks and nearby sleeping facilities provide a place for people to stay, Mega explained.

Greenish light filtered through the fiberglass skylights embedded in the thatch, casting an otherworldly air on the offerings below: Three massive drums, suspended over the floor in the center. On the soft dirt floor, interlaced throughout with the intricate pattern of chicken tracks, was an incense burner, a bowl of dried herbs, a glass of water and coals from a previous fire.

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Mega was telling us about the Garifuna belief in ancestor possession, when the elders come back to remind you of important things you may have forgotten.

“It’s like, you’re not even a fisherman and all of a sudden you’re out on the sea in a boat with a hole in it, catching fish like crazy, and you’re not sinking,” he explains. “That’s ancestor possession.”

He laughs when he tells the story of how it happened to him one time. It was the middle of the night, and he was going door-to-door, waking everyone up and urging them to the temple. Later, when he awoke, he had no recollection of the incident – but his neighbors did.

Such occurrences happen for a reason, he believes. “It’s to remind us that we’re connected to them,” he says. “Sometimes they’ll come to us when we’re not living the right way, just to show us that this is what life is about – to remind us, to get the bad energy out.“

But it’s not just about possession, he clarifies – one honors the ancestors by inviting them into one’s life. One does that by living according to tradition – cooking, playing music, planting in the traditional ways.

“When you’re cooking the cassava, you’re reenacting their lives, using the tools they gave us,” he said, referring to the tools he shows us in the kitchen – the giant wooden mortar and pestle, used for mashing plantain; the wooden grater, embedded with sharp stones, used to grate the cassava; the large wooden tray, used to roll out the cassava bread.

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“Playing music is a spiritual thing, so you want to get in touch with the ancestors before you do it,” he explained. “Their souls are not separated from this life. I can see that; you can see that in the temple. We don’t just give gratitude to Jesus; we also give gratitude to our ancestors.”

At the back of the temple, in an enclave set off from the rest with a lace curtain, was a room where two candles burned in front of a crucifix with a black Jesus. “We have a lot of respect for Jesus – he was a good example for us.”

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We visited with the temple caretakers and got a tour of the cooking hut, with its traditional implements and giant wood cookstove designed to feed hundreds of faithful. We learned about some of the many plants surrounding the temple, grown for their curative properties as well as to feed the faithful. Noni, a fruit now in vogue in health food stores, has been grown and prepared in juices here for generations for its healing properties. There’s basil and sweet potato and jackass bitters, used to prepare Gifiti,– sometimes served as a tea, sometimes as a rum tonic, but always with a potent kick.

The tour wound its way up a lush jungle path through massive palms, hanging vines, birds of paradise and ficus trees to the family farm, 500 acres divided among uncles and cousins. They opened out into a milpa, or a field of corn, furrowing the hillside to our right and the field to our left. This was a cash crop, as the Garifuna don’t traditionally eat corn, Mega explained. Cassava and yams, beans and squash, pineapple and plantain grew here in abundance, and we stopped for awhile at the local “bar” – a cluster of thatch huts where the Maya farmworkers live – to order a glass of fermented corn “wine” and relax in the shade under the drying laundry. The tangy white fluid was definitely alcoholic, but there the wine resemblance ended.

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The farm was full of life. A Maya mother and daughter headed across the field with plastic buckets to fetch water, while a boy trudged down the path with a bundle of firewood on his back. A cow grazed on lush grass while a sow nursed her tiny newborn piglets. The path meandered back into the forest and down the creek to Siete Altares, the Seven Altars. We were at the end of the dry season, so the normally spectacular waterfalls were not running. Still, the mossy green platforms leading down into darkly mysterious pools were peaceful and picturesque in a different sort of way.

The trip home was an exhilarating, bone-soaking, white-knuckle boat ride up the coast by one of Mega’s uncles. Dinner was traditional Garifuna Hudut, a mashed plantain dish served with a rich coconut broth, rice and chicken. The night included a cooking demonstration, a little shopping among Garifuna and Maya jewelry and clothing in the gallery, and a three-generation musical performance with traditional drumming and a punta dance performance by little Candy, Mega’s youngest sister.
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It was just another day at Rasta Mesa. But for me, it was a 12-hour trip to another planet – a full-fledged Garifuna immersion.

Rasta Mesa is a must-see stop on your Livingston tour. It’s a bit out of the way, but well worth the walk. Ask for directions to the cemetery and walk a few paces more, and you’ll see it on your right. Besides providing a full lineup of economical tours, classes and activities, nutritious traditional meals and live music at night, many take advantage of the volunteer opportunities and stay for awhile. There are rooms for rent, as well.

The couple supports the center and their work with the Garifuna community through sales of their crafts and the fees of volunteers. Learn more at Discover Izabal and at Rasta Mesa’s web page, and contact them through their Facebook page or at rastamesa@gmail.com.


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Evo Morales: A Plurinational President

Evo Morales: A Plurinational President

Forget Barak Obama – he’s so 2009. Evo Morales is the new rock star president, as I learned in Coyoacan this weekend. A sea of enthusiastic people of every ethnicity waited for hours in the hot sun to hear his plea for a more just society, one that provides a dignified life for all and respects the rights of the Pachamama, Mother Earth. His rousing speech was preceded with performances by indigenous dancers and musicians and a Four Directions ceremony.

Here are a few scenes from the rally on Sunday.


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At home with the Subcoyote

At home with the Subcoyote

Outside in the darkness, up in the hills not far from here, a chorus of coyotes is greeting the coming of the dawn. How appropriate, I think with a smile. Here in Huehuecoyotl, place of the old, old coyote, I’ve just bid farewell to the greatest coyote of all, Subcoyote Alberto Ruz Buenfil, who is letting me use his home as a base for a few days. Now it’s his time to head into Mexico City, where he is taking the lessons of the Rainbow Caravan for Peace into the barrios of that other place of coyotes, Coyoacán.

I’ve come to Huehuecoyotl to meet his family and some of the people who form this core group of world-changers. I’ve come to break bread, share stories, and glean advice for the journey ahead. Alberto has been in a whirlwind of activity since I arrived – he’s playing a lead role in a film about Fellini’s spiritual journey through Mexico, and the ghost-spirit of the great Italian filmmaker was just here to supervise from another dimension the shooting of some scenes; longtime friend Jose Arguelles, author and visionary, just spent some time here. During my two days here he’s just finished another book and sent it out to the reviewers, underwent a root canal and many hours of community meetings and obligations, and bid farewell to his daughter who is on her way back to Spain; now he’s preparing for a thousand-drum salute and fundraiser for the people of Haiti and a visit from Bolivian President Evo Morales, but still he took time to show me around, orient me to the solar shower and the composting toilet, share photos and reminisce about the incredible 13-year nomadic ecovillage whose trail I now follow, from Mexico to Patagonia.

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An old legend tells of a time when the Earth is in crisis, and life itself is in danger. In these times, the legend goes, a new type of warrior will arise: a tribe of all races, creeds and nationalities who will be known by the universal symbol of the rainbow, and driven by love, their mission will be to save the planet from extinction.

So writes Alberto in his book, “Los Guerreros del Arcoiris.” (Rainbow Nation Without Borders-Bear & Company publishers)-Alberto has dedicated his life to nurturing this tribe, leading the Rainbow Caravan of Peace on an epic journey through Mexico, Central and South America. This nomadic ecovillage traveled from country to country, led by Alberto’s old schoolbus, La Mazorca, colorfully painted to resemble the iconic ear of corn. The ever-changing tribe sought to connect groups active in resistance to the destructive corporate model. They set up camp in jungles and mountains, in indigenous villages and urban ghettos, sharing music, theater and seeds of practical eco-wisdom: green building techniques, simple alternative technologies, natural healing techniques and more. At the same time, they gathered up bits of local lore and wisdom and connected the disparate groups into a hemispheric network. In August of 2009, the tribe finally disbanded, each dispersing to different parts of the continent to continue the consuming work of social change.

Alberto returned to Huehuecoyotl, the picturesque ecovillage established in 1982 in the mountains near Tepoztlan by Alberto and his community of rainbow warriors. He is letting me use his home as a base for a few days as I organize myself for the next phase of my journey. The beautiful adobe-brick home is filled with light from the arching windows that look out upon the grassy valley below; out the front door, past a tall green row of fragrant hoja santa plants, limestone cliffs tower protectively beyond the beautiful home of his son Odin, a musician and one of Mexico’s leading permaculture practitioners.

I will see Alberto once again before I go, when he hosts Bolivian President Evo Morales for a brief visit to the city on Sunday. Meanwhile, here is a short interview I did with him recently, at his office in the Casa de Cultura Reyes Heroles in Coyoacán. His warning comes as a coyote howl in the fading moonlight.

“Like the Mayan Zapatistas said, we have had a long time to dream. Now is the time to wake up. Because any dream we don’t manifest becomes a nightmare, made by somebody else.”