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Yucatan Diary Day 1
Progreso, Yucatan
(January 3, 2005).
Things are beginning
to heat up on the Mexican seismic front. Today journalists bounced
from back to back press conferences across the 16th century
city of Merida, the capital of the Yucatan province. First, they heard
from the government that the seismic experiment slated to begin this
Saturday out from Progreso represents a huge leap forward for
humankind’s knowledge of the Chicxulub Crater, combining the
intelligence of five countries of scientists. They were also told that
even though the tests do indeed involve pumping almost unbelievably
loud sounds (up to 255 db) every 20 seconds during daytime across over
3,000 kilometers for almost two months directly into the living
oceans, the experiment will do absolutely no harm.
As for the whales,
dolphins, turtles, fish and countless other creatures, the scientists
say they will just move on.
Only since actually
putting my feet on the ground here have I come to understand a little
of the human tragedy involved in this venture.
Here come scientists
from around the world in a ship owned by Columbia University through
the Lamont-Doherty Earth Observatory—the Research Vessel Maurice
Ewing. With bills paid by US citizens through the National Science
Foundation, they come here to the northern coast of the Yucatan to
make sounds so loud that they can penetrate many miles down into the
earth’s crust. Never mind the fear people have here that this kind of
repetitive shock waves could trigger another horrific earthquake
across this delicate peninsula of porous rock honeycombed with caves.
And never mind that
almost everyone along this coast fishes for a living, except for the
few who eke out a living from a struggling tourist trade. Twenty to 25
thousand fishing folk along this coast. All of the little villages
along the coast are fishing villages, or trying to be. Catches have
been down by more than half over the last two years. Catches of the
preferred fish are down more than that. One thing is for sure about
these seismic airguns- they do not benefit struggling fisheries.
One of the main
sources of fish is Scorpion Reef just offshore from Progreso. The
other source of almost everything small and essential are the endless
mangroves that separate the true mainland of Mexico from the barrier
beach strip where Progreso is located on the northern coast of
Yucatan. This vast experiment will affect both.
When I have talked
with people involved with seismic work about the consequences of their
work with local fisheries, they elbow me in the side, give a wink and
say, well it’s actually good for fish and bad for fisheries- we just
move them along. The fishermen shouldn’t be whining anyway because
they are the main source of decline of the fisheries, they say.
I wonder if they
would be so cavalier if they actually met these people. I come into a
little town absolutely raw—an old gringo in a jeep who speaks barely
acceptable Spanish—putting my flyers up on telephone poles and talking
to whoever will listen. A couple of old guys drinking beer in the cool
of a Sunday evening. I come over, greet them and hand the oldest one
my flyer with the big “ALERTA” across the top, telling of this killer
ship coming to the Yucatan. I tell them about it. More people gather
around us. Soon there are over a dozen. All the men are fishermen.
They have heard of this, a little. They have no doubt that the seismic
test is really for oil, not just scientific knowledge. They ask me how
the scientists know it won't cause a tectonic shift like in Asia. I
tell them I don’t know how the scientists can apparently be so smart
and so stupid the same time. I show them the number on the bottom of
the sheet where they can call if they see anything strange- lots
of dead fish or a stranded turtle, whale or dolphin. I say we really
need them to be our eyes along the coast. At this they smile big
toothless grins and promise to help. These folks have a visceral sense
of environmental awareness and kindness. They pray to the Virgin of
Guadalupe, the Christian counterpart of the Mayan goddess of the
Mother Earth. Unlike trying to curry support on an issue in the United
States, they instantly get it and are eager for information and
connection.
Now that we have a
date when the blasting is slated to begin—this Saturday—a million
strategic details must be ironed out, despite lacking large chunks of
information. According to press leaks, the Maurice Ewing is not even
planning on touching Progeso as planned and will be supplied totally
by helicopter or launch. Hmm, I wonder why? Too bad. I was looking
forward to the crew seeing all of the telephone poles along the little
tourist strip in Progreso papered with our alertas.
So now we have to
prepare a fisherman’s boat to take us out and find them. Food, fuel,
water, batteries, film. I went ahead and told the press today that I
am planning on jumping in the water next to the ship to force them to
turn their earth shaker off. Now a bunch of them would like to join
us. Looks like there will be a couple of Mexican lunatic volunteers
and myself to keep a human body in the water, one local fisherman
driving his boat with a son or two to help, and the rest filled up
with seasick journalists out on a mission to find the barco asesino,
as it is called here in Mexico, after killing two beaked whales in
Baja in 2002. I have arranged a small plane to fly out to find the
ship and relay to us the coordinates.
After this journal
entry is sent, I will go east along the coast road for a hundred miles
or so to paper the poles of as many little villages as I can find. The
sun is blasting, the iguanas and tarantulas are out, and the noreaster
still flaps the flags and shudders the palapas on the beach. And this
old activist is jazzed to be gearing up to battle again and happy to
be getting such a warm reception. Win or lose in this fight, the
argument will not be the same.
Thanks for everyone’s
good wishes. I wear them like magic amulets of protection.
Love and Revolution,
Ben
Back to Top
Yucatan Diary Day 2
Yucatan.
Long day. Fifteen
hours on the road. Yesterday I drove as far east as is possible along
the coast road that runs intermittently across the top of the Yucatan
peninsula, from Progreso to De Colores, stopping at each little
fishing village to put up my alertas and talk to fishermen.
Imagine it—on my left
is a narrow beach strip, first with fancy homes, then poor villages.
On my right are endless mangroves. The perpetual ocean wind rolls
across the road, thick with the smell of the swamp—salt, rot and
fecundity. Frigate birds sail above, stark narrow commas with nary a
flap. At one point I notice a pink smear against the dark trees above
the water, stop the car and pull out my binoculars. Sure enough,
hundreds of conch-pink flamingos, plus great white herons, cara cara
birds overhead, white pelicans and clusters of ibises in the trees.
The whole area looks like the Everglades did once long ago. Absolutely
precious and irreplaceable. And it runs the entire length of the top
of the Yucatan.
This time out I
refined my sales technique a little. Coming into a village, I hit the
little markets and chatted up the storekeepers, the nerve centers of
the communities. Then I posted some of the alertas on the telephone
poles. Worked like a charm. I realized that one of the reasons I am
enjoying this most basic of grassroots activism so much is that it
gives me a legitimate reason to approach these people who would
normally be a little reserved being approached by the likes of me.
I walked into one
place as a man was reading today’s Por Esto. When I started
telling him about the brochure, he lit up and said, “Oh, I was just
reading about this,” and turned the paper over to the picture of our
Monday press conference with Rosario, my colleague in Merida, and
myself pontificating from behind a table. Thus enshrined by the press,
I was suddenly a rock star.
In another place, a
tough old man sits in a dark corner of his store, his fisherman’s face
all sun leathered and wrinkled. I shake his gnarled fisherman’s hand
and give him a flyer. And he jumps up, tells me to wait for a minute,
walks into a back room and brings back a very tidy manila file and
opens it against the counter. Inside appears to be every article
written about the Maurice Ewing in Mexican papers for the last year or
so. You could have knocked me over with a feather. He then thanked me
profusely for standing up for the pueblos in fighting this monster,
grabbed my hand with both of his and asked for a bunch more of the
flyers that he could pass out to everyone.
Unbelievably, the
next stop was even better. I was working a zocalo, a village square,
passing out the sheet and talking to fishermen. With one sheet left, I
spied the local cop leaning against a pole talking to a middle-aged
man. Thinking that I should give him one of the papers to let him know
what I was up to, I approached the two of them and started my spiel.
The middle-aged man introduced himself as Victor, the local school
superintendent. “Would I be willing to talk to the kids at school?” he
asked. “Sure,” I said. “When?,” he said. “Anytime you say,” I
replied. “How about right now?” he asked. “Vamanos, y mucho gracias a
usted,” I answered.
Minutes later we were
at the school. Victor introduces me to the principal and calls all of
the kids to crowd into one classroom. The teacher looks less than
thrilled about Victor taking over his class, but the kids are happy
about something new happening. About a hundred packed the room, with
about 50 more giggling and shoving at the windows looking in.
I gave my speech,
which was then elaborated on by Victor, who primarily seemed to be
interested that anyone could actually make a living doing what I was
doing. Indeed, I, too, am surprised and thank my lucky stars that it
is so. Turns out the kids are the children of fishermen. All of them
were especially interested that we were asking for their help to let
us know if any stranded creatures wash up; that we need them to
be “our eyes” along the coast.
Now just about every
single fishing village from Celestun on the west coast of the top of
the Yucatan all the way to De Colores has been papered by the flyers,
and at least some of the people have eagerly taken the flyers. Every
single person I talked to thinks this seismic test is a bad idea being
pushed by arrogant scientists with the collusion of bought-off
governments.
Unh huh.
Much of this coast is
an ecological preserve. The villages of De Colores and Rio Lagartos
are smack in the middle of the mangroves and a big biosphere preserve
with signs up everywhere to not dump oil or cut trees or shoot birds
(and on how to avoid Dengue fever by controlling the mosquitoes). Many
make parts of their living taking tourists out in their little boats
to see the crocodiles, flamingoes and other swamp life. But all agree
the fishing is just not what it was, and often the boats go out and
return with only a handful of fish.
Now for the news, the
rumors and the baloney flying about the imminent arrival of the
Maurice Ewing. It appears that there are now serious concerns about
this seismic study within the Yucatan government, at a time when the
federal government is increasingly considered out of step with the
states. Turns out there is one more stamped document remaining that
the ship does not have. There may in fact be a way to stop this
legally through the maze of Mexican courts. So today we scurry to do
whatever we might on that front.
Now it is said that
the testing may not begin Saturday after all. Apparently there is
substantial concern that with an alerted coastal population, there
will most likely be bodies found that will make the whole thing very
embarrassing. The attempt is being made to pretend that this is all a
study by Mexican scientists, but the truth about the heavy US
involvement in the ownership and financing of the ship and the cruise
is coming out.
Today we meet in
Merida to plan strategy, see if we can find a volunteer pilot who
won’t charge us $700 for two hours of arial surveillance, see if any
local Mexican folks want to jump in the water in front of the ship
with me and make sure the fishing boat we are renting is ready to go
when necessary.
If any of you good
people know anyone who might like to help finance this effort, we
could use it. Any donation to AWI is tax-deductible. I estimate that
it will take about $15,000 to pull off this campaign, if we are lucky.
That comes out to less than a dollar per whale and dolphin that the
ship has a permit to “take.”
Thanks to all for
your help, for your prayers and for giving a damn.
Love and revolution,
Ben
Back to Top
Yucatan Diary Day 3
Merida, Yucatan.
Back to the big city
of Merida. Like going from the pine barrens of New Jersey to the Big
Apple. A turmoiled day full of good news, promises of breakthroughs,
collapses and sobering news.
First, though, for
the travelers among you, my hot hotel recommendations in Merida. My
requirements are simple. Ancient yet serviceable. An open inside
courtyard with lots of big tropical plants but no caged birds is a big
plus. Cheap is good. Ability to get phone calls and access to the
Internet is the holy grail.
Two places. The first
is the Casa Mexilio, a several-centuries-old home restored by its
North Carolinian owner to what it might have looked like then, with
the addition of lots more plants and winding stairways and rooms
tucked away on rooftops enwrapped with vines full of flowers. Very
cool. But what convinced me to book it on the Internet was the names
of three of their eight rooms: Chico Mendez, Rigoberto Minchu and
Frida Kahlo. I figured that this owner might just be a kindred spirit,
and he is. My only small complaint was the failure of the staff to
notify me of the large cat opera planned for the middle of the night
with lots of singers taking part in great emotional arias to lust and
unrequited love, or something.
But now I have found
a true jewel. The Gran Hotel downtown Merida, for about $55 a night. A
hundred years old, ceilings about 18 feet high, original tile floors
everywhere, a balcony facing the park where I can step outside and
pretend to be a dictator hoodwinking the peasants, big inside
courtyard, water warmer than tepid and even a reading light above the
bed—and a phone!
Okay, before anyone
gets worried that I am having too much fun, on to the scary stuff…
The good news from
yesterday was that there might be a way to file a certain type of
legal paper called a recurso in Mexico courts to stop the Ewing from
beginning. This angle is being pursued thanks to Juan Carlos Cantu of
Defenders of Wildlife de Mexico and my friends in Cancun with Grupo
Ecologica Mayab. But then I was told that the price of such a paper
would be for us to put up the cost of what the Ewing costs each day to
run, with no guarantee of getting the money back even if we win. The
cost would be prohibitive.
Speaking of high
costs, I also got a revised estimate of what it will cost to hire a
boat and hire a plane. The boat will run about $340 per day with
crew—$3400 for ten days. Even though it is more than I thought, I
can’t say it is unfair, especially considering the pressure the
captain is under not to help me. Then I was told that the price I was
quoted of $700 for two hours of flight time in a Cessna to find the
Ewing was a good price!
To rub it in, I spent
the afternoon doing print and TV interviews in the lobby of my new
fancypants hotel. With every single Mexican interviewer that I have
ever talked to, including those during the Solomon dolphin capture
struggle and the WTO meeting in Cancun last year, their primary
curiosity is how much our effort is costing, and who is paying for it.
They are so accustomed to looking for the graft that it has become
instinctive, I think. You have heard of this famous scam, haven’t you?
Environmental and animal activists, especially those who do direct
action, are just in it for the money. All that passion and stuff is
just a smokescreen.
Today Rosario, the
excellent animal activist here in Merida who I am working with, told
me that from everything she is reading, even though the Ewing lacks
one final official approval of their daily agenda, it looks like they
plan on beginning the blasting on this Sunday, the 9th. So, we are
laying the groundwork to leave with the boat on Saturday, take a
boatload of journalists along, go do an action and then bring the
press back to land. Then we will return for as long as it takes, or
until the money is gone.
The press has given
me a new title that I considered using today when I returned my
rent-a-jeep and had to fill out a form that asked for my
occupation—escudo human, human shield. I like it. Sounds like a useful
purpose for a body.
I realize that in a
way I am playing a game with the universe. If I act like I am not
worried about dying, if I can love this life and defend this world as
flat out as I can without worrying all that much about consequences,
maybe just to be perverse, the universe will choose to let me live
long. Sort of like interviews with guys 108-years-old or so who give
their secret to longevity: their cigars and whiskey.
Then I got another
call from a good friend down here saying that a wonderful thing had
happened and that someone important whose name she couldn’t say on the
phone was going to help us and that the Yucatan government was
starting to rethink their approval and that she was sure that we are
going to win. Yeah, well maybe. I take more stock in the prayers
raining down somehow making a difference.
It does appear that
the presence of the journalists and the publicity that we are getting
right now will prevent an exclusion zone from being imposed around the
boat. That means it is likely that I will actually have to pull this
thing off and get ready to jump in the water next to the boat and stay
there for as long as I can. If that transpires, and I am able to stop
it for the time I am in the water, I will be putting out the plea far
and wide for more people and more funding so we can last until the
Ewing gives up and, like good Yanquis, go home.
I hope one good thing
that might come out of the attention we are getting here is the power
of small groups of unarmed individuals to stand up to big
governments that have lots of money and still fight the right fight.
From talking to all of the incredibly warm fishermen and their
families over the last couple of days and observing how they treated
me, they seemed to like most that what I was doing was opposed by
their government (remember, there were small groups of Mayans still
fighting the federal government of Mexico into the 20th
century). I may have stepped into hot water on TV today when I was
asked what I thought about the governor of the Yucatan saying a few
days ago that he could do nothing to stop the Ewing. Stealing a line
from my own Green campaign for commissioner I said that I couldn’t see
any purpose for a government except to protect the people and the
earth. And if they were not doing that, what were they doing? The
interviewer smiled at that one.
Well, that's how
things are down here in Merida on this cool darkening evening just off
the town square, where some kind of long tailed crow-like bird
screeches in the treetops, where the sad horses stand in front of the
dolled up carriages waiting for tourists, where the Indians spread
tiny plastic sheets for displaying their kaleidoscopically colored
shirts, sashes and little hippy purses, where the guy with the little
stand twirls his orange peeler and fills the little plastic bags with
the sections, and the bums take up residence on pieces of cardboard
across the hard stone benches.
Keep them prayers and
good thoughts coming. Many thanks to all.
Love and revolution,
Ben
Back to Top
Yucatan Diary Day 4
Merida, Yucatan.
Today is both Three
Kings’ Day and the 463rd anniversary of Merida´s founding,
so the main square is gearing up for a major shindig. Kids are walking
around with cheap glittery paper crowns and costumes to represent the
three “bad” kings that, I am told, skedaddled when Jesus was born
(somehow we missed that part of the Christmas story when I was growing
up). A sound stage is up and they are testing big fuzzy bass notes
now, sort of like having one of those boom box cars the size of a
church go by, or hearing the Maurice Ewing ramping up.
Speaking of my
looming nemesis, rumors abound. The press has caught fire with the
subject now and apparently they just can’t get enough. The front page
story of the Yucatan papers sold at one of the innumerable corner
stands features a long article and picture of the Maurice Ewing
(peaking out from all of the rows of bags of chips and lottery
tickets). The article in the Por Esto from a couple of days ago
has four pages in the middle on what the scientists say, what the
government says, what our side says. It even carried the complete
lists of dozens of international groups that have signed onto our
statement opposing this seismic blasting of the Yucatan coast. Today
they carried a picture of one of our alerta fliers (designed and
rushed by Bryn Barnard) tacked to a telephone pole. Mexican activists
have long accused the press of being bought, and indeed there was a
time when reporters routinely collected checks from politicians and
labor union leaders for favorable treatment. But I find the Mexican
press 10 times more interested in environmental struggles than the
North American press (you don’t refer to the “United States” down here
because this is the United States of Mexico).
Some heavy hitters
weighed in on our side in today’s Tribuna de Yucatan (you know,
the side of the earth, of life, of the good red road, the side of the
greatest superpower on earth—the people not aligned with Bush). First
was the Director of Fish for the Government of the State of Yucatan
saying that the fishing activity for the entire fleet could be
affected by the activities of the Ewing. Then, believe it or not, they
asked Archbishop Emilio Carlos Berlie Balunzaran what he thought of
the big tussle over the Ewing. He said that the position of the church
was that all is well forever when we don’t cause harm to the natural
eternal. He ended with, “Great is the importance of preserving the
animals, and all that has life.” Couldn’t have said it better on
behalf of the Church of the Earth.
So the effect that
all of this press attention is having is to make those opposing the
test speak up while those who have had the unfortunate position of
approving it within both the United States and Mexican governments
appear to be scurrying for cover. The idea that we are all being asked
to swallow by these really smart geophysicists and officials is that
even though this is admittedly a huge amount of sound being pumped out
for a long time into a living system, it will cause no damage. Just
today, I got through to a friend of mine who works for Lamont-Doherty
Earth Observatory, the Columbia University research arm that owns and
operates the Ewing. She said that the difference between my position
and theirs is that I think that there could very likely be severe
damage and they don’t. So I asked if they think that there will even
be light damage. They will not answer this one because they must keep
the consistent line that it is harmless.
Today I went
shopping—an activity I usually despise, connecting the thought of it
with the dreaded mall. The back narrow market streets of Merida are
like an ancient grimy open air run down mall with 10 times more
people, color, passion and real life: orange slice in plastic bags
covered with chili sauce with a lime to squeeze over, carts full of
dulces—flat pralines, rainbow colored blocks of coconut and fruits
made of marzipan. Oh, I guess I am just mentioning the food. There was
also the lady with the beautifully (and expensively) embroidered
huipil dress, flowers across the yoke against pure white cotton, who
also had a baseball size goiter growing from her eyebrow that has
closed one eye. She hit me up when I first got here and I gave her 10
pesos. Now I see she is quite successful with gringos, going up to
them and leaning in real close with a kindly grandmother’s smile.
People can’t dig money out of their pockets fast enough. Then there is
the skinny scruffy guy who appears to be either enlightened or totally
nuts. He sports a pair of crimson sunglasses, a huge grin and a
double-A battery protruding from each hairy ear.
I went shopping for a
big picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe made of wood that might hold up
for a little while in the water. Took me about four blocks to find it.
I am going to make sure with my Mexican colleagues that I am unlikely
to offend folks by using her picture as my own shield and protection
when I jump into the water in front of the Ewing. As the Mexican
equivalent of Saint Francis or Quan Yin, the protector of all sentient
life, it would seem appropriate. The power of the image in arousing
powerful emotions of allegiance among those I am trying to reach is
also not lost on me.
Usually when I
travel, I try to cram my reading with stuff on the history of the
country I am visiting. Right now I am reading two very opposite books.
One is the History of the Alluxes, the mischievous gnomes of
the Mayan who apparently loved to cause havoc among the Spanish in the
17th century here in Merida and across the Yucatan. They
are all male, little guys made of mud, and really clever. You need to
put crosses into your windows made of wood and huano (the palm fronds
the old houses are thatched with) and blessed with holy water to keep
the little devils away when your town gets infested. Keep that in
mind.
The other book is
called Distant Neighbors and was published way back in 1986
about the government, economics, and social structure in Mexico. Early
in the book, discussing the national character of Mexican
people, author Alan Riding has the following description:
“Mexico´s mestizaje
(racial mixture) began with the mating of Spanish men and Indian
women, thus immediately injecting into the male-female relationship
the concepts of betrayal by women and conquest, domination, force and
even rape by men. Just as the conqueror could never fully trust the
conquered, today’s macho must therefore brace himself against
betrayal. Combining the Spaniard’s obsession with honor and the
Indian’s humiliation at seeing his woman taken by force, Mexico´s
peculiarly perverse form of machismo thus emerges: the Spaniard’s
defense of honor becomes the Mexican’s defense of his fragile
masculinity. In practice, this takes the form of worship of the female
ideal, exemplified by the image of the long-suffering, abnegated
and 'pure' Virgin of Guadalupe and personified by each Mexican’s own
mother, who is seen as the giver of life and therefore incapable of
betrayal.”
Now when I first read
this, I thought that the writer must be awfully negatively prejudiced
toward the Mexican people in general and I almost put the book aside.
But the rest of it is so balanced and apparently compassionate to
Mexicans it makes me wonder if his theory is correct.
Okay, here are the
latest rumors:
-The expected start
of the blasting appears to be pushed back at least two more days, from
this Sunday the 9th to Tuesday the 11th (fine
with me. If we get two days delay for each day that passes, we will be
in great shape).
-The ship is stuck in
Panama waiting for either permits or crew.
-Several more
documents must be completed with the government before the blasting
can begin (with the favorable press growing, so does the number of
documents they need. When was the last time you felt served by
bureaucracy?).
-All authorities
quoted are saying that apparently they do not have the resources (or,
I believe, the will) to stop this human shield guy. One article about
Semarnat, the Mexican office of Environmental stewardship, is entitled
“Lava Sus Manos,” which means “Wash Their Hands”— that in the conflict
between the Yanqui boat and the Yanqui human shield, they were just
washing their hands of it and not getting involved.
-It may be that just
the presence of the boat and a dive flag without someone actually in
the water will keep the Maurice Ewing from turning on their airguns.
Maybe, but it will certainly take an initial dive to get their
attention. I was also told that the Lamont Doherty is well aware of
what I have in mind and will turn off their noisemaker if I get
anywhere close.
So we are still
hoping for the best and preparing for the worst. I am feeling
increasingly convinced that through the resonance of our arguments
with the Yucatecan people, we are going to beat this sucker, one way
or another.
Goodbye all. Hasta
mañana.
Now Merida beckons.
Think I will get a cab like a big shot across town and have a bowl of
avocado soup at the Habichuela Restaurant. Hmm. Hope everyone sleeps
well tonight knowing that the bad kings have split.
Love and revolution,
Ben
Yucatan Diary Day 5
No entry.
Back to Top
Yucatan Diary Day 6
Merida, Yucatan.
Executive Summary
(for those of you without the time to wade through all the touchy
feely stuff): The Seismic Vessel Maurice Ewing is en route, expected
to round Cancun today or tomorrow. The government says all
requirements are fulfilled, but fishermen, enviros and local police
fight. We gear up for midweek confrontation.
Last night the kids
took over the makeshift stage below my hotel room’s third-floor
dictator’s window facing the park. Starting slowly, even quietly, with
some kind of traditional call-and-response song to call the crowd in,
the six drummers and the one guy with the shaker gourd, suddenly broke
into a furious polyrhythmic assault too fast to follow. Behind them,
up the marble steps and on the platform surrounding the pigeon
spattered statue to Señor Peon, wiry boys competed in break dancing
with impossible arm strength—handstand pushups with feet kicking wide,
leaning all the way
backwards
until feet almost
touch the ground behind their head and then being able to pull
back into a vertical handstand. Wow.
The drumming
intensifies. One by one solo dancers appear in the space between the
crowd and the stage, some just with all legs and arms flying at once
and some with those swinging fire slings. They danced with total
abandon, as if they were gathering the world into their bellies and
throwing it back out again. One of the lead drummers—shaved head, no
shirt, brown and muscled with drum suspended from his neck with a wide
sash—courts the dancers, male and female, drumming to their dance.
Drum and dancer, sound and fury, they play off each other. Faster and
faster the music spirals until the distinction of whether it is the
musicians making the music or the other way around disappears.
Drummers, break dance spinners, dancers in front, they are all riding
the snake—Quetzalcoatl lives!—moving to life, to sex, to freedom, to
eternal potential and to everything that isn’t dead and cold and
rigid.
I hope that force
will be with us over the next few days, because we are coming down to
the wire here. The bad ship, the Maurice Ewing seismic research
vessel, is slowly chugging around from Panama with a whole slew of
very important scientists from five different countries. Today or
tomorrow, we expect a patrol vessel from the Mexican
Environmental Agency Profepa to leave Cancun and meet the ship. when
it comes into the waters of Quintana Roo. There they are expected to
inspect the ship’s papers to make sure all of the conditions of the
Mexican permit have been met. It may be that all of the certification
for their observers is not in order. It may be that a paper filed
today from a Yucatan state representative asking for a delay might
grab hold.
But I am expecting,
one way or another, that the Maurice Ewing will be here tomorrow or
Wednesday. Interesting timing. About a week ago, my friend, animal
activist par excellence and Mayan high priestess Araceli Rodriguez,
said that we would be helped by a big wind. Tonight a powerful
noreaster is predicted to begin and blow for days. Hmmm.
Turns out one of the
scientists from Lamont-Doherty Earth Observatory (the owners of the
Maurice Ewing and part of Columbia University) has been visiting the
fishermen of Progreso and telling them not to worry: they will go out
first with a camera that looks below the ship and fire their smallest
airgun one time. If there is any damage whatsoever, they will pack up
their expensive guns and very important briefcases and go home. Sounds
reasonable, right? Precautionary? Well, not exactly. There are twenty
airguns measuring from 80 to 850 cubic inches. All together, whomping
away in a deadly chorus, all twenty amount to over 8500 cubic inches
of airgun volume. The little 80 decibel tweeter after one shot would
show no damage, everything would be declared ready to go and then the
array could go ahead and start smacking the surrounding water with
over a hundred times more power and pressure every 20 seconds.
Even though I still
expect a miracle (indeed there is little else), the ways that this
seismic blasting of the Yucatan coast will be stopped by reasonable
and legal and proper channels, are quickly slowing to a
trickle. Academics at LDEO have the permission of two countries and
the applause of their geophysical colleagues, so they will apparently
get the chance find out exactly how the Chicxulub crater was made, no
matter what the normal citizens or fishermen have to say about it. It
seems to me they have laser-like tunnel vision to so adamantly seek
information to salve their curiosity regardless of its effect on the
living world.
Scientists seem to
have become our modern equivalent to priests because they have shown
they can, thorough medicine and technology, save and extend lives. So
we have given them carte blanche to screw with the world however they
wish as long as they find us a free pass- a way for us to avoid the
consequences of our collective abuse of this place. It's a devils
bargain. In exchange, they are above us, with more latitude and less
responsibility for their actions than the rest of us mortals. You and
I are not permitted to play with brutal toys the size of this one.
Blessings on those scientist friends of ours with the courage to
challenge this moral corruption of their profession and stand up for
the whales at great professional jeopardy.
The boat is ready to
go. We are making the dive flag to fly and the pole mount for the
Virgin of Guadalupe. We may have other fishing boats along with us,
especially the first day. My daughter Julia is flying in tomorrow to
help hold the AWI video camera and drive away homesickness.
I know that this
confrontation will come out just fine. But even in the contemplation
of jumping in front of this boat, I start to see life as if it were
finite, just a temporary gift. The little detail we all successfully
forget. That makes ordinary color and movements and nuances stand in
relief. Makes me grateful. Makes me wish I spent more time with my
family.
Peace to all. Please
send good thoughts or whatever else you have lying around.
Love and Revolution,
Ben
Back to Top
Yucatan Diary Day 7
Merida, Yucatan.
Executive Summary:
The Maurice Ewing is coming, but not here yet—thumpa thumpa thumpa—like
the shark in Jaws, ever closer. It’s expected tonight or tomorrow in
test area north of Yucatan. Press coverage leaps international, thanks
to this diary. Alert grandmothers and their contacts. Still looks
like Thursday is Get Wet Day #1.
What is it about
color in the tropics? Is it just me or does there seem to be twice the
number of primary colors down here as in Washington state? Is it that
there is just 10 times more light in the Yucatan than the northwest,
and that it splinters into jillions of micro-colors upon striking the
hard ground and flies into the eyes of artists?
At the market, some
vendors sell nothing but habanero-almost-too-hot-to-eat peppers. They
sort through a huge pile of both green and orange ones and then build
these tall delicate pyramids of the fluorescent shiny orange ones,
looking like a psychedelic version of that dripping cathedral in
Barcelona.
All of the
traditional women walk about awash in colors all the time—little pools
of bright flowers across the front, back and shoulders of their white
outfits, with just their kind brown lined faces floating there,
graying hair back in tidy buns, tied with more bright colors.
I have been building
and translating a chart to give an inkling of the depth of our global
collective ignorance on the subject of what effect a pulse of sound
the volume of 255 decibels (like the Ewing hopes to hit the ocean with
every 20 seconds) would be expected to have on the creatures that live
within the big rectangular test area across the top of the Yucatan.
Across the top of the
graph, leaning to the right like dominoes about to fall, are the names
of some of these creatures. There are, of course, hundreds of species.
But lets say we pick 20: beaked whales, sperm whales, bottlenose
dolphins, boquilete fish, sea turtles, benthic organisms, rays, sharks
and on until we get 20.
Across the left side
of the graph are horizontal columns with questions. Like, at what
point does one hit with this sound cause a startle response? Injury?
Death? How about multiple hits? How many times might one creature be
hit by one airgun discharge as it bounces from the shallow bottom to
the surface and back again? What are the synergistic effects between
the seismic airguns and the two active sonar arrays the Ewing has also
blasting away at more than 200db?
It will be easy to
think of at least 50 of these questions. When you combine the
questions with the particular answer for each species, that gives us a
thousand things we don't know, just to begin with. And the answers to
any of these questions might take years to figure out even if we are
cruel enough to try.
But after this sad
exercise, the question that jumps out to me is why is the burden of
proof on us normal citizens of two countries and more to prove this
thing is unsafe, long after the bodies have been washing up? Why isn’t
the burden of proof on the scientists to prove their big whomping toy
is safe before being allowed to play with it outside of their sandbox?
In the realm of
governmental controls, they are allowed to do this stuff through the
smokescreen of the word mitigation.
The same word is used for why it is ok to destroy 2,000 year old
redwood forests in California as for why it is ok to put enough sound
to permanently shiver your timbers into the living waters around
Mexico. All they have to say is that we are going to do all this stuff
to minimize the effects, we are going to do absolutely everything we
can to be careful, except of course for limiting the amount, volume or
distance covered by our blasting.
Their (the bad guys)
entire claim to safety is based on a concept they know is wrong: that
the onset of problems with sound and marine mammals is at a minimum
180 decibels. They figure, with perfect concentric spreading, their
source diminishes to 180 after about a kilometer, and with marine
mammal “experts” looking hard into the waters, they will be able to
see any before they come into harms way. Baloney.
The US Navy and
National Marine Fisheries Service (NMFS) collaborated on a modeling of
the sound that killed the beaked whales in the Bahamas a few years ago
and came up with 138db as the median level of sound that hit those
whales. Many stranded. Not one of the population was ever seen alive
again. The sound the Ewing puts out is above 138db for far beyond the
horizon from the bridge of the ship. Plus, the people in the world
most expert about beaked whales say that with their inconspicuous
blows and dorsals, the chances of spotting them on a perfect day is
about 1 percent. It appears this detail didn’t overly worry the permit
givers in the United States (in the NMFS part of the Department of
Commerce), who permitted the ship to work at night, too. At least the
Mexican government stopped that.
You don’t have to
prove your mitigations work. You don’t need to do any population
studies before or after. You just state clearly your little fantasy of
how easy it is to clean up your big mess, how you are going to try
real hard to reduce mortalities (at least of the glamorous megafauna),
then you can blast away until you learn what you want to, and then get
your selves back to your nice homes in the States. Its the awesome
arrogance of the thing that gets to me.
In 1971, my teacher
Rolling Thunder told me that it would be okay to hang around him for a
while. I stayed for 18 months. When I first got there we were sitting
in ragged old overstuffed chairs in his living room. He made me
nervous by looking at me in a piercing way from under his huge wild
eyebrows, squinting against the tobacco smoke rising from his corncob.
Finally he said,
"You have an
inherited spiritual disease. Your people have already taken our land,
our health, our sacred things, our ancestor’s bodies, and now you want
our knowledge. You are arrogant and all full up with yourself. You
have to humble yourself and cure your arrogance before you will free
up space to learn anything. See that hill? I want you to go up there
and find the worst, ugliest, scraggliest bush you can find up there,
whatever is ugly to you. Then I want you to sit there and look at it.
Moving. In the wind. Drenched by thunderstorms, lit by lightning, and
stung by sandstorms. I want you to stay there until you honestly
believe that old bush is at least as good as you. See you later."
Arrogance.
Like an addiction, I
am still not healed. But one of my self-treatments is direct action.
To try to serve, stand under: understand.
I think about the
Mayans who live across this hard land. Many have lost their little
chunks of barren limestone where they could at least plant corn and
beans. Many have been forced into the cities to work at the lowest
wages in lousy jobs (a new friend here works seven days a week at the
fish market, 10 hours a day, for less than $50). But many still make
their living from the sea. And almost all are held together by their
rock steady devotion to the old ways, by the grandmothers and by the
ceremonies that connect them to the land and the spirits.
The Maurice Ewing has
every intention of coming and taking without asking or getting
permission from the people who will be affected, much less the whale
and dolphin or urchin nations. Then it leaves. With knowledge derived
by raping a whole sea. No. Unh-unh. Not this time, Maurice. Go home.
Call it a day. Figure out better ways to find out stuff.
We are all set, ready
to go. Tomorrow we buy food, take it to the fisherman’s boat that we
are using, pack some blankets and a couple of towels. What else? A
book, wetsuit, Virgin of Guadalupe, cameras, coat. Trailing all of
your prayers like flowers on the waves.
Ready to load up the
journalists early the next morning and head out. Anything can happen.
Stay tuned.
Love and revolution,
Ben
Back to Top
Yucatan Diary Day 8
Merida and Progreso,
Yucatan.
Executive Summary:
The Progreso port Captain changes his mind and declares Manuel
Jimenez’s boat, the Alacran Reef, prohibited to take human shields and
reporters out to confront the Maurice Ewing. Further, he sends a
message to all of the fishermen living along the entire northern coast
ordering them not to assist us. Maurice Ewing is here, but as far as I
know, not yet cleared for blasting. We explore alternative means.
This land has
suffered such a long history of successful brutality, only a fool
would think that the forces of life and beauty and wonder would
triumph today over pure brute power and money. Yesterday I
learned about the huge 16th century stone cathedral that
dominates the main square in Merida about 50 feet from where I now sit
typing. It was built on the same site as a destroyed Mayan temple.
Using the same stones stacked by Mayan slaves.
Last night we got the
word that Captain Alt Luis Isauro Contreras Garcia (capprogreso@hotmail.com),
the captain of the port of Progreso and all of the other ports in
Yucatan state, had decided to just say no. He refuses to issue
permission to fisherman Manuel Jimenez to take six journalists, three
human shields and crew out in his boat, the Alacran Reef, to meet the
vessel. Plus, he has ordered all of the collectives and fishermen
along the coast not to help us.
Then this morning,
gleaning the morning crop of newspapers, I discover that Captain
Garcia also was quoted as saying that the Ewing was, for the moment,
prevented in beginning experiments. So, for the moment, stalemate.
Except that I expect
the Ewing will be cleared momentarily. And the threat I have had
explained to me is formidable. The Mexican Navy is allegedly planning
on “protecting” the Ewing from the likes of me and my other mojado
(wet) brothers. If I jump into the water next to the Ewing, their
plans are to immediately haul me away. “To deport?” I asked. “No,” I
was told, “Just take and keep.“
I think about the
time we were trying to stop the cutting of Rocky Brook old growth
forest near the Dosewallips River in Washington, that last day when
200 of us broke through the police do-not-cross line to march to the
little 55-acre forest in jeopardy. Rocky Brook was a refugia, the last
area in the whole watershed with the original flora and fauna, to be
left for all time to re-seed the surrounding clear-cut National
Forest. This is what they were cutting, the seed bank of life, leaving
no trees, right down to the salmon stream.
Once through the
line, we started marching the five miles or so to the forest. Got just
far enough, rounded a corner to find a line of police dogs and a
hundred cops with bunches of those plastic handcuffs hanging like
garlands from their wide leather belts. We scattered. Pursued, I
climbed a tree, of course. They were able to cut Rocky Brook with the
might of lots of guns and dogs and cops. The armed might of the state.
Fight like
water. Water doesn’t fight back, but it surrounds its obstacles. All
those little drops of rain. Insignificant little things. One by one
hitting the ground, or the old buildings here in Merida with the
melting stone faces. Water perseveres. It never has to hurry. Water
always wins. We are as water.
Sometimes we win by
losing and our opponent loses by winning. If the Ewing and Lamont
Doherty Earth Observatory pull off this assault on the seas over the
objections of just about all of the Yucatan peninsula with the use of
the Navy and multiple flyovers, with the world finally paying
attention to the drama, they lose. They cannot put this particular
genie back into the bottle now.
I leave Merida
tomorrow to look for other boats we can use. I will go back to talk to
the fishermen in the little ports along the north to see if they have
been so pervasively intimidated as reported. I will not chose,
however, any action that could lead to an even tougher life for any of
them—if they or their boat is threatened. If anyone out there knows
someone with a boat in the Caribbean or Florida that they would like
used to protect the life of the Yucatan, please have them
contact Susan at AWI in Virginia at 703-836-4300. If prevented from
leaving a Yucatan port, maybe we can come in from somewhere else.
The news coverage is,
perhaps predictably, rising to a fever pitch, just as I wish they
would go away and let me figure out how to go around the obstacles and
carry on. Agence France, London’s Guardian, AP. Radio interview
tonight. Big press conference tomorrow. My picture is in the Por
Esto today with the headline, “BENJAMIN WHITE—YES I AM SCARED.” I
am weary of it all and just want to join this battle. But never before
has a seismic test anywhere been so hard fought, with the din of
battle being heard around the world. I see from the Lamont Doherty Web
site that the amount of seismic shots has been reduced 38 percent from
that “originally planned” in order to reduce the potential effects of
their sound blasting. We have the seismic industry scrambling to clean
up their act, which is highly in need of it.
I will do anything
that I can think of to get out next to that blasted blasting ship.
Even though I generally distrust true believers of any path, I have
not the slightest doubt but that this seismic experiment is a really
bad idea. But if I am unable to stop the ship with this mortal coil, I
will start patrolling the northern coast for bodies of my brothers and
sister critters who have no choice but to be too near to the ship. I
will increase my canvassing of the fishermen for their help. My
understanding is, with only an Incidental Harassment Authorization in
hand, the death of one whale, dolphin or turtle would exceed the
ship’s permit from the United States and cause the “re-initiation of
the public consultation process,” meaning the jig would be up. I
called the Office of Permits of the NMFS from Merida last week and
asked for an explanation of exactly the things that could shut down
this study. For example, if we find an endangered turtle dead from no
apparent reason on the beach, is this enough? Or will there then be a
big argument as to whether the Ewing caused it? I have learned not to
trust the process. We’ll get right back to you, they said. A week
later still no answer.
I am in this for the
long haul. After over 30 years of activism I shall not be daunted by a
bad day. I want to stop the Ewing from blasting these waters. But I
want more to get international regulation of the release of manmade
sounds from seismic, sonar and ship traffic. Weirdly, a brutal victory
of the Ewing here could generate such global antipathy for this
antiquated method of obtaining information that it will serve the
greater effort. I hope so. We will be going to the UN this year to
make our argument. Of course, it hasn’t escaped our notice that we are
stepping on the toes of the oil and gas industry as well as the
military industrial complex.
But what's the fun of
going after easy targets?
Mexican culinary
mysteries to close the page:
Why is it that
Mexicans only eat sea animals (fish and shellfish) during the day,
never at night?
What are those roots
for sale that look like giant garlic?
How does the twirled
leaf I bought from the Mayan grandmother cure nose and throat problems
when swirled around the mouth (but not bitten) 9 times?
Why is lime and
pepper put on everything, especially sweet things?
Like other tropical
places, the curtain of night doesn’t fall slowly but of a moment. It
is light and then it isn't. I give thanks for the lessons of another
day. Death has no struggle. Give this fool life.
Love and revolution,
Ben
Yucatan Diary Day 9
No entry.
Back to Top
Yucatan Diary Day 10
Merida/Cancun/Merida,
Yucatan.
Executive Summary:
Maurice Ewing is still frozen, rocking and rolling from noreaster. The
issue goes to Mexican Senate. Our side holds a little demonstration in
Merida center. Brer Fox? He lays low.
Not all of the
picturesque characters down here are Mexicans. I haven’t even touched
on the eternal primary source of amusement for many Mexicans—the bony
kneed, shorts wearing, oblivious, heavily drinking, money disgorging
gringos from the North.
The other day this
guy came roaring across the flat cobblestones of downtown Merida, frightening
tiny horses with blinders pulling carts wrapped with pastel plastic
flowers and dispersing flocks of children from Chiapas selling crafts:
He was an old geezer gringo riding an vintage Easy Rider-type
chopped Harley trike with the front forks raked way out in front, long
white hair and beard, the latter streaked with chewing tobacco juice.
Sunglasses, big round belly. But behind him his family, a lovely
Mexicana and two little ones, rode in cushy comfort under a very cool
curved metal canopy that sprouted from the frame and stretched above
and in front of their heads like a jack-in-the-pulpit flower.
He advanced with thunder, the lord of his domain.
Julia and I just
rented a jeep and drove the four hours to Cancun and back in order to
be filled with optimism by my friend, the Mayan shaman Araceli
Rodriguez. I came away as if I had feasted.
When I asked her
about what she understood to be happening with the Ewing, she told me
that the port captain (whose email address I may have
accidentally-on-purpose inserted into an earlier diary entry) had not
yet given permission to the Ewing and did not plan to do so until he
was sure it was safe for it to operate. Therefore, although the ship
can move around (and is now reported to be about 50 miles north of
Telchac, just to the east of Progreso) it still does not have
permission to begin. It is still, so to speak, frozen.
For what its worth,
it turns out that a bunch of Mayan practitioners of hocus pocus may be
responsible for keeping the Ewing frozen. This was accomplished by
taking pictures of the Ewing from the paper and putting them in their
icebox. But they didn’t want the people on board to suffer, they
wanted their experience, even though their work is frozen, to be
“sweet.” So they put some honey in with the picture. I am not kidding.
Aracelli gave me an
old Mayan frog whistle to blow for help, an owl feather for seeing
through things, and a piece of paper with a picture of the Angel of
Beauty to show me a way through. She gave me a primer on how to listen
beyond all of the static and attention and fear to my heart.
Okay now boys and
girls, we are going to try our own magic. A noreaster is now battering
the northern Yucatan coast and is expected to continue for a couple of
days. Meanwhile, hopefully, the Ewing can not let out their airgun
arrays in the heavy seas. The weather coming here comes from western
North America. But regardless of where you live, I need you to go
outside, face the Yucatan peninsula and blow. Nice long breaths, how
about ten of them. Imagine them rolling on down here, through the
Texas scrub, across the palmetto, over the heads of the dolphins (who
are in the loop) until it arrives to the Caribbean coast of Mexico,
where it disappears like a zephyr, except for keeping the Maurice
Ewing in a gentle state of rock and roll—just a little too much to
work in.
Tomorrow I will take
all of the details I have learned about this study of the Chicxulub
Crater and attempt to meet with port commissioner and Navy Captain
Luis Isauro Contreras Garcia in Progreso. Plus all of the studies I
have accumulated which document the problem with intense underwater
sound and living creatures. I ask for all of whales, dolphins, fish,
turtles and eels that could be affected by this blasting to speak
through me to this man. You be my muse and I will translate into
Spanish.
The whole fight has
now taken on more twists and turns than a DNA molecule. Greenpeace and
Defenders of Wildlife in Mexico City came out last week saying that
the real purpose of this experiment is to look for oil. When asked
about whether the information obtained from this study could be used
for that purpose, apparently the UNAM (University of Mexico) head of
the project, replied, “Pues, si” (“Well, yes.”). Personally, I just
don’t know.
It appears that
Greenpeace and Defenders had more than a simple reason for bringing
this up. Part of the Mexican Constitution (article 27?) says that
Mexican citizens are the owners of all Mexican resources. If the
Ewing, a US flagged vessel, is secretively looking for oil, it is a
contravention of Mexican law. Today’s Tribuna de Yucatan
carries a story that Senator Orlando Parades Lara is denouncing the
presence of the Maurice Ewing in the National Senate of Mexico and
will in the next few days present a notice of nonconformance
concerning the vessel because of the strenuous objections of the
citizens of Yucatan to the presence of the ship. This movement is in
addition to a similar one within the Yucatan Council of Deputies,
where five have now taken up this cause.
Rosario and her
group, Yucatecans for Animal Rights and their Habitats, held a rally
in downtown Merida this morning. When I asked her if she wanted me to
speak, she said no, I had better not. More noise is flying around
about the possibility of my being deported, and I couldn’t be seen
doing anything that might be interpreted as political. So, I was holed
up in an Internet cafe nearby, getting ready to write this, when she
buzzed my (much hated, infernal, brain irradiating) cell phone. “Come
over quick, okay?”
The press was hungry
and wanted new meat. Rosario warned me first to be careful and not say
anything about us protesting or about my plans to jump in front of the
Ewing to force them to turn off their sound because I would then come
across as a radical or a terrorist. Boy, we have really fallen into
the bottomless pit of newspeak if that T word has now been stretched
to include unarmed human shields trying to stop the use of tools of
unimaginable violence. And I don’t even use the word protest anymore
even in the states. I am never protesting. I am affirming. Life.
Personal responsibility.
So when one of the
heads looking out from the mass of arms and tape recorders and cameras
asked me what I was going to do now to stop the boat I said that I had
great faith in the leaders of the people of Yucatan that they will do
the right thing, stop the boat and protect their people and waters.
And that the purpose of my coming down to Mexico was to work with the
people here to stop the ship. I have no particular necessity for going
swimming if the ship can be stopped in other ways.
This whole project
has been jammed down the throat of the Mexican government and I think
they would be happy to find a reason to cancel it. For a country of
such size, importance and pride, Mexico has been treated poorly almost
automatically by a succession of US administrations. This seems more
of the same. We are coming. We want. Step Aside. Thanks (or not). See
ya.
Julia and I
went swimming yesterday in a cenote halfway back from Merida, just
outside Valladolid. Our little guide led us into a dried out cave, the
formations long since deprived of their lifewater. But then he turned
a corner and the big blue lake lay before us. The original cathedral,
the original kiva. Huge domed ceiling arching to the five foot
diameter hole in the center, softened with ferns. Tree roots started
at the ceiling small and then branched and branched until they became
a big root mass club right at the water, hanging down a good 50 feet.
The stalactites taper the other way, fat at the top and skinny at
their blunt bottoms, looking exactly like the suspended arches in the
Canterbury Cathedral ending in the incongruous pagan greenman faces
looking down at the faithful. The cenote is, of course, sacred, but it
had the atmosphere of a neighborhood pool with the local folks cooling
off in the clean sweet water.
Questions from the
peanut gallery:
This weeks winner of
a genuine magic AWI decoder ring is Mark Palmer from California for
his question concerning the use of crosses made of hueso (thatch palm)
and sticks, blessed with holy water to keep the mischievous little
Aluxes mud men from causing havoc with your neighborhood. Ever the
perceptive smart alleck, Mark asks whether the same can be used to
protect neighborhoods from Republicans. I certainly understand the
need and desire, but my understanding is that the specific remedy for
such a plague is different: Dreamcatchers soaked in patouli.
Folks, I never would
have believed how this campaign would have taken root with the
Yucatecan people or how this diary would resonate with anyone. Maybe
its easier for me to open my heart to all of you because I don’t see
you. But I sure do feel you. And I believe that one way or another, we
shall prevail. Please keep all of that good energy flowing.
A special hello to
Susanna and all of her students and 10-year-old Stephen.
All right now,
everyone go outside, face Mexico and bloooow.
Love and revolution,
Ben
Back to Top
Yucatan Diary Day 11
Merida and Progreso,
Yucatan.
Executive Summary:
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 a
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 was quoted in one of the local
papers as saying that this particular experiment is not a big deal,
that they have done 50 like it and that the only difference this time
is that they are working under the glare of those NGOs. That’s us,
folks. Stand up and take a bow ( and 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 United States. 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
blah-blah-blahing on TV and in the daily newspapers and greet me by
name as I pass. The shop owners 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 it’s because I grew up in Spain, but 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 45 minutes away, is almost exactly my age.
I sit with him on the iron railing surrounding the park trees as he
halfheartedly 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 10 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 elitist 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
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Yucatan Diary Day 12
Merida and Progreso,
Yucatan.
Executive Summary:
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