Yucatan Diary Day 11 - Merida, Yucatan-by Ben White

BY BEN WHITE

Yucatan Diary Day 11
Merida and Progreso, Yucatan

by Ben White

posted 01/19/05
Obligingly, the noreaster shakes the palms. The Port Captain still has not given the Ewing permission to operate. They wait, with permitted days running out, spending $30,000 of your dollars a day. I have meeting with Port Captain tomorrow to show harm.

The wind from the north is blowing and blowing. The local Yucatecans have bundled up in jackets and sweaters. Lovers huddle closer in the parks, pigeons grip their little positions on the facade of the old church even harder. Out in Progreso the waves come rolling in, all churned up with sand. And straight out there somewhere rides the crew of the uneasy Maurice Ewing, cooling their heels.

A middle-aged man grips the worn steel handle of the wooden cart, pulling it heavily laden with living plants, root balls swaddled in black plastic bags, palms and carnations and roses sticking out the top, buffeted by the wind. When the traffic stops, he stops, standing in line like a dray horse behind the motorcycle without a muffler blasting him in the face with a rat-a-tat-tat nasty leaded gas exhaust. He just waits, implacable. The traffic goes, he leans into his load, and heads towards the central market.

Really good news today, if it pans out. I have set up a meeting with the Port Captain of Progreso for tomorrow morning to show him all of the reasons I believe that the airguns of the Maurice Ewing constitute a legitimate threat to both the ocean life and the families that rely upon fishing along the northern Yucatan coast. This was the man who decided not to allow Manuel Jimenez, the head of one of the local fishermen´s unions, to take several of us out to go swimming next to the Ewing accompanied by the press. But he has also, so far, refused to grant a permit to the Ewing to work, saying he had not yet been convinced that it is safe. My mission tomorrow is to demonstrate that any reasonable person reviewing the history of the ship and the latest scientific studies would conclude that it indeed is not.

I will also suggest that if he decides to allow the experiment, he do it only after requiring the posting of a fianca- a bond- to assure that the ship does not damage the fisheries. This would involve the placement of a large sum of money- say sufficient to cover the loss of a year´s fishery- under the control of the Mexican government until a good while after the completion of the study and zero loss of creatures could be demonstrated.

A spokesperson for the Lamont-Doherty Earth Observatory (owners of the Ewing) was quoted in one of the local papers as saying that this particular experiment is not a big deal, that they have done fifty like it; and that the only difference this time is that they are working under the glare of those ngo´s. That´s us, folks. Stand up and take a bow. (For those of you who haven´t picked up on this acronym-speak, an ngo is a non-governmental organization.) He also said that the only way he can see the tests being stopped now is if some Mexican politician picks up the drumbeat from the local newspapers. Yup.

I am so psyched about my meeting tomorrow I am trying not to set my expectations too high. I know that still, anything can happen. I may sit with my translator all day like a potted plant. But I hope that I get the chance to lay out the argument. I have many doubts about many facets of my life, but not my ability to convince a fair minded person given the time. This man strikes me as fair minded. Just hope I actually get in to see him.

Even though I cannot complain about my living conditions, I wish this battle would end in victory so I could go home. What nut would trade lovely and sunny Merida for chilly and rainy Friday Harbor, Washington? This one. My home, my kids, my dog, my boeia plant, and the foundation of my future home to finish. Even the endless drip drip of the rain and running out to get firewood from under the tarp. But until the Ewing retreats northward like a cruise ship without a party, I will be here. Driving, walking, even sleeping, I wrack my brain for what detail I have forgotten, some approach I haven´t tried, some person I could meet with, or that one more document I need to translate into Spanish. Yeah, I know, obsessed.

I am hoping to hold another press conference this week with Rosario to give them the same translated evidence I am giving to the Captain (much of which can be found on the awionline.org website under marine mammals- noise- seismic.)

At the market, I sit talking to Veronica at her job selling mariscos (shellfish). Her friend is there too with her year old son. I am showing them how to use a digital camera. Veronica is taking pictures of the little boy and both of them are cooing and sighing over how he looks on the back of the camera. The boy has not only a severely deformed lip but the split also continues into his upper palate, pushing out his teeth in all directions. At his mother´s urging, the boy smacks his hand with his lips and throws a kiss at the camera. My heart breaks. Like in India and other poor countries, the plight of the poor is hidden less than in the US. There is no welfare or medical aid to the poor here. They are right out front, doing the best they can.

But my lord these people are kind to me. Many living around my hotel have now seen me bla-bla-blahing on tv and in the daily newspapers and greet me by name as I pass. The shopowners and hammock salesmen have even stopped hitting me up for a sale because I started teasing them that just because I am a gringo didn´t mean I was a tourist. I live here, I say. Maybe its because I grew up in Spain, I have always warmed to Latino people. Their faces are so open and their eyes such warm brown pools that I feel like going swimming in there for a while.

Luis, the hammock salesman from a little town forty five minutes away, is almost exactly my age. I sit with him on the iron railing surrounding the park trees as he half-heartedly tries to drum up business from the gringos headed to their hotels. If he doesn´t sell a hammock that day, he doesn´t earn the ten pesos needed to buy a bus ticket to get him home that night. I have told him if he runs short to let me know and one night he did. He catches the last bus home at 10:30 and catches the first one back in the morning. So much for the racist and elitest fantasy that the poor are just lazy. He tells me about his 11 year old son he lost two years ago. I ask him if he can at least grow a little food for himself and his family and he patiently explains that he could until his pump broke and he can´t afford a new one at 2,500 pesos ($250). He wasn´t hitting me up for the money, just telling the story of his life very matter-of-factly. Before I leave this hard and beautiful land, I would like to arrange to get a pump for Luis and his family if anyone out there would like to help me do it. I don´t care much for her music but Sheryl Crow is right when she says that, "Everyone has a story that will break your heart."

Please stay with me tomorrow (Tuesday) when I talk to the Captain. Bring me all the power of all of the creatures of the world to convince this man to take a leap of courage against very powerful forces. Sometimes words can be magic. If the good Captain decides to say no to the Ewing then we all get to go home. Otherwise, I continue to look for a boat that can take me out and prepare to look for bodies along the beach. Keep your fingers crossed.

Love and revolution,
ben

editor@sanjuanislander.com

About Us | Advertising Info | Contact Us | Privacy Policy

Related Pages

Yucatan Diary Day 11 Merida and Progreso, Yucatan

Yucatan Diary Day 11
Merida and Progreso, Yucatan