Whose Guelaguetza is it, anyhow?

BY STAN GOTLIEB

lAs I write this, on Sunday, July 29, there is a current of tension in the air, here in my adopted home of Oaxaca, Mexico. Rumors are floating all over the place. Somebody called to ask what I knew about the report that all the major arteries into the city are currently blockaded by angry citizens. I asked where he heard it. From a friend, he said, who heard it on the street.

I told him I thought it unlikely, because I'd just checked my news sources and there was no mention; but that doesn't mean it isn't true. To keep up these days, one needs to check every few minutes; and to check multiple sources, since each appears to have its own axe to grind.

Oaxaca has been more or less in an open state of siege for well over a year now. Whether you think the siege is coming from the groups of teachers and social activists loosely agglomerated into something called the Popular Assembly of the Peoples of Oaxaca (APPO in its Spanish initials), or the forces of State power, depends largely on the philosophical and political baggage you bring with you to the subject. Among the expats – the ones who live here, as opposed to the ones who are just resting a while before moving on—opinion is about as divided as it is among Oaxacans.

The APPO strategy for getting rid of Ulises is to have him removed under the Mexican Constitution, for being unable to govern. To this end, they have blockaded, marched, demonstrated, occupied government buildings and public spaces, burned buses (although many say that was all the work of agent provocateurs paid by the governor) and generally carried on as if the government has disappeared.

In return, the governor (for the first five months, from exile in Mexico City) has put his police in plain-clothes and sent them out to terrorize the dissidents with drive-by shootings, and midnight kick-in-the-door arrests; killed some; "disappeared" scores, arrested more, seriously beaten more still, and injured hundreds; called in phalanxes of heavily armored federal cops spraying pepper fog to disperse crowds; and smiled a lot for the cameras while saying "no pasa nada" (nothing's happening; everything is cool).

Almost everyone—outside of a few apparatchiks in his own PRI party—seems to agree that the governor, Ulises Ruíz Ortiz, should resign; that he's made a horrible mess of things and is no longer a credible leader. Most folks agree that the analysis and the resolve of the APPO are admirable, but are critical of the way in which the fight has been waged. They want to live their lives and not be bothered by roadblocks, APPO or official; to collect their paychecks and watch TV; for the tourists to return and the stores, hotels, restaurants and other places of business to stop closing their doors for lack of business. However, this seems unlikely at least in the short run, since both sides of the conflict have made their demands non-negotiable.

The focal point of the struggle in recent weeks has been the Guelaguetza, an ancient celebration of abundance and sharing somewhat like the Potlatch in our country. Over the years, the Guelaguetza has become the major tourist attraction of Oaxaca, a festival of dance and music around which has grown a complex web of mini-festivals such as the Mezcal Exposition and the Artisan's Bazaar, all of which are meant to take the money out of the visitors' pockets and spread it around.

The APPO, composed in a significant part of people who do not live in the city of Oaxaca, and whose lives are not affected by the government-promoted simulation of their cultural heritage, argues that the money doesn't get spread around much anyway; that the big hotels and the tourist restaurant owners pocket the lion's share and that little finds its way to the people; that the huge profits the government makes selling tickets to the performances (tickets for 2/3 of the seats in the stadium cost around $40 dollars) never find their way to needed services. In a country notorious for official corruption and sudden enrichment of political figures, this argument resonates.

Hector, an old friend (in both senses of the word) told me that he has not been to the Fortín Hill performances since the stadium was built. "I remember going there as a child. There was a large clearing in the forest at the top of the hill. The dancers came. The people came. It was a celebration. Nobody paid. Nobody was paid. Sometimes the village would have to save all year to send their dancers, who traveled all day to get here. It was for the people. Now I don't go. It makes me too sad to see what it has become."

The current strife in Oaxaca is not really about the Guelaguetza, although it lends itself to the ongoing struggle. The real issue is institutional corruption and impunity, and the increasing gap between rich and poor, a situation that will continue to feed unrest and insurrection until a more equitable society evolves.