Additional excerpts from the journals of participants in the Puentes/Bridges annual cultural immersion trip to rural Mexico are listed below:
“There are two tours of Mexico. The first takes you to a five-star hotel, comfortable beach, and endless sun. And when you return to your home, you do not know Mexico or its people. The second tour is the Puentes/Bridges program, a road less traveled. I chose to follow that less traveled road and that has made all the difference. I have returned home with an education.
“Each day’s programs became part of the tapestry that is Mexico. Our first day included a tour of a state-of-the-art organic herb farm outside Cuernavaca. This enterprise, part of an effort to make Mexico a global competitor and provide employment opportunities for workers, was a pretty impressive introduction into the Mexican economy. With Italy as their principal buyer, the company has been certified as an organic grower. Their Web site boasts a guarantee to deliver fresh herbs in 24 hours.
“There are many small enterprises emerging in Mexico. One of them is yogurt production. We visited a mom-and-pop yogurt business in Miacatian that is creating many yogurt flavors unheard of in the U.S.: Cactus, carrot, and wheat in addition to more traditional flavors. These new business pay attention to sanitation issues. We had to wash our shoes before entering this shop and the shop itself was very clean.
“From Cuernavaca we journeyed back to Mexico City for a study of history and culture. This daylight trip revealed many of the beauties of the pastoral countryside. We gave a collective sigh when we began to see field upon field of grain stacks in the rolling hills, as though we had stepped back at least 100 years to the landscape of Monet or that of my own grandfather whose straw stacks dotted the fields of our Fond du Lac County farm a century ago.
“Mexico City is the largest city in the world, a great cacophony of people, cars, noise, smog, and bustle. What would we see next? A fire-eater walking among the vehicles in the streets, his face so close we could see the scars round his mouth. An enterprising child washing our bus windows while we waited at a red light. The mariachas booking engagements and drumming up business along the curb. . . .
“We were heading off to Buena Vista the next day, but first we listened to a sociologist who shared with us some of the great dilemmas of Mexico. We rely on these people to cross the border to carry out our manual labor that others decline. Despite the knowledge that they leave their families behind, perhaps for years, these workers come north. The money sent home by these workers represents the second largest source of income in Mexico. The impact on the Mexican economy is staggering, but perhaps no less staggering than the impact this export of people is having on their society. The roles of men and women, the impact of the extended family, and the future of a nation flutter with change.
“In the four days that followed, the fabric of Mexican life grew richer through study in Buena Vista, a city of 13,000 that seems like a village, sleepy and peaceful. The early morning clopping of horses on the stone streets signals the men and boys on horseback delivering milk to the cheese factory. A boy leads a bull through the center of the city. Yet, not far from where I stayed a pants factory stayed busy 24 hours a day; 1,000 workers in three shifts.
“I grew to appreciate the pace of this world as I immersed myself in Spanish classes for five hours each day. I lived and took meals with a native family, enjoyed cooking lessons in the kitchen of a woman who could have been the Julia Childs of Buena Vista, danced the salsa, sang songs of love and revolution, and rode a horse around the city. I hammered out a belt at the local leather shop, visited a local dairy where cows were milked under the open sky.
“The dairy was at the edge of the city. The work was done with a milking machine on a cart that could move back and forth between two milking stations. Milk cans lined the wall of the nearby building and the approximately 200 pounds of milk produced per day was strained into these cans much the way it was done in my father’s time. The local people who stopped by to purchase fresh milk were a bit surprised to see a group of Americans in the milk yard, but it did not deter them from buying their supplies for five pesos a liter. Every container produced by the locals was filled with milk right from the cans. The remainder of the milk went off to the cheese factory at 2 pesos a liter.
“We had a chance to visit the cheese factory later in the week. In the throes of expansion, it was also an open-air enterprise. All week the men and boys we saw on horseback with milk cans strapped to their saddles were heading to this factory that processes about 2,000 liters of milk each day. The cheese was being strained in bags along one wall, molded into forms on a nearby table. A heating vat was filled with another batch, and another operation was ongoing in a back room. With about 10 employees and several children in the midst of activity, this was a lively, steamy, hot place. The cheese factory was also a reminder of the precious nature of hot water: The daily laundry was hanging in the factory.
“I was part of a group that was going to visit the home of Roberto, a former employee of John and Nettie Rosenow. Roberto worked on the Rosenow farm for four years without once returning home to see his family. He told John that only one American had ever visited their village.
“It doesn’t matter now what I imagined this village would be like. Nothing would have prepared us for the journey. As with the best laid plans, everything went wrong. Roberto was not at the hotel at the expected time. He finally arrived after dark. The unexpected rains had washed out his road and his van was stuck. Despite the late hour, John, Stan, and Margaret drove back to the village with Roberto and his family. (We learned later that they had walked by flashlight into the village. One of Roberto’s relatives accompanied them with a gun because of trouble with ‘animals.’) Nettie, Shaun and I were to follow the next morning.
“It was still raining in the morning, but we headed out in the bus driven by our faithful and resourceful Marco. The journey to Astacinga was what I expected. Some good roads, some back roads, a worn out village, people on foot. We learned in Astacinga that the road to Roberto’s was impassible because of the rain. We could go only so far and then animals would take us the rest of the way. Animals conjured up a list of thoughts. Burros? Horses? Oxen? Goats? Wolves?
Roberto was with us, apologizing for everything that went wrong. I knew, no matter what, that we could not be anything but gracious no matter what lay ahead. Roberto wanted to show us the best of his world.
When we reached the crossroads, the rain was misting down, and out of the mist came three riders on horseback. As we began our ride down into the valley, it felt like we were entering a land time forgot. The sad road was really a recently dozed path cutting into the hillside. The mist gave surreal quality to everything we saw: The lush trees, huge calla lilies blooming in the wild, a tiny shack tucked into the cliff, goats and sheep along the roadside, men and women walking uphill, their ponchos and bright umbrellas bobbing in the mist.
“The heavy mist soaked through to my skin. Cold and uncomfortable, I imagined a warm fire ahead. A half hour later we descended into the village. The first thing I sighted was a basketball court. A basketball court? I had no idea where I was.
“We arrived at Roberto’s house, wet and cold. The rain kept up a steady downpour as we met his great, extended family. The word had been spread: Fiesta a Roberto’s house. In reality his house, which was new, was two simple wooden structures, one for cooking and the other for sleeping. At the center of the kitchen was a large table and in the middle was the great wood-fueled fire pot. This is where Roberto’s wife proudly did all of the cooking. She must have been cooking for days. I was immediately drawn to this room because it held fire to warm my frozen hands and feet, but no one was huddling by the fire. We were to dine in the other building.
“A great confusion of activity took place. Lessons in running the new microwave Roberto had brought home. Meeting so many children – I did not know who belonged to whom. A beautiful elderly woman wrapped in a serape gave me a big hug. I fixed a camera for Roberto’s 17-year-old daughter. Roberto passed out winter parkas from his Wisconsin days for all the Wisconsinites who could not take the dampness while all the natives walked around in summer clothing. The women in dresses and skirts and sandals. We dragged clay into every room. We visited the outhouse (built especially for us) on a treacherous, mud-filled path.
“Sometimes it is embarrassing to be an American and that morning at Roberto’s I was embarrassed because I was so cold. These people had opened their homes and hearts to us. They were so proud we had come. They prepared a feast. I confess I was miserable.
“The table was filled with chicken, lamb, port, ham, fish, salads, bread, and even mayonnaise. And we, the Americans, ate while everyone watched and took pictures of us. I knew I should not have eaten some of the foods on that table, but there was no way I could not. This was what we were preparing for during the previous week. This was their world, not ours.
“Before we left Astacinga, we took photos or Roberto’s extended family. I am so grateful for these photos now. They capture that moment in time with Roberto in the center. He is a man in full, a descendant of the Aztec. He went to the north and returned. Somehow in his absence, his wife oversaw the building of their new house and their business. Their home was filled with modern conveniences: a stove, a refrigerator, a microwave, a CD player. This is the story I will tell of this trip. A worker came north to make a better life for his family. Then he went home and was happy.
“This is the story of the Mexican workers who come to this
country. They are human beings with families they leave behind. We become their
families, their fictitious kin. We are more than their employers. We become
guide, pathfinder, trailbreaker, mother, father, sister, brother. We become part
of this humanity.”
- Maureen Bet
“The trip was a fun-filled, educational, and emotional ten days as we traveled through the Mexican states of Guerrero, Morelos, and Veracruz.
“The last few days of the trip were spent in the state of Veracruz, which is home to many of the families of the workers employed by the visiting producers. Shaun had made prior arrangements with the families for the producers to spend the night in their homes visiting with them and exchanging small gifts and photographs that they had brought from their loved ones. As I am not a dairy producer myself, I was very fortunate to accompany one of the other ladies as she visited with four or five different families of her employees. One of the misconceptions about Mexico that I have heard numerous times is that it’s always hot. I assure you that in the mountains surrounding snow-covered Mount Orizaba (the highest point in Mexico) it is very cold, especially when raining. I was amazed and moved by the extreme efforts these families went to in order to make the cold, muddy trek to meet with us. They were so grateful for the photographs and news of their sons, brothers, and husbands who they may not have seen in years.
“I have long had a passion for the Mexican people, the
language, and the culture in general. They are amazingly hardworking and
dedicated to their families and extended families. The Mexican culture is a
beautiful mix of old and new and one from which we can learn much. I have been
to Mexico on several occasions in the last few years, but this trip provided me
with a unique experience that I will never forget and look greatly forward to
repeating. My bags are already packed for next year!
- Susan Nagy
2001 trip
“I will never forget a couple things: First, Ramiro’s mother came up to me at one point and squeezed my hand and asked me to take care of her son. She did this through translation with Shaun. She was very old and I couldn’t believe she would make this trip from two or three hours traveling down a mountain. But she wanted to have a connection with where her son was working. Another thing that struck me at one point: I think we were doing pictures and one of Lamberto’s children said to me, “One day maybe I can work for you. It seemed like a goal he was making for himself. Today that young child is my main employee. His brother also is working here. Also, Lamberto has nephews and brothers that have worked for me. The Puentes program has really made my job easier because when one person wants to go back home to Mexico, they always have someone ready to fill in for them. I will be forever grateful to these families. I can honestly say that I consider them friends, not just employees.
“We had invited the families to have a meal with us, and the afternoon went so fast. As we finished we got pictures of every family with me in them. I felt pretty honored that they all wanted to include me. As the day came to a close and the people dispersed I felt a real connection with the new friends we had met. I was drained! I hope to one day return to visit.
“The Puentes program has helped bridge the cultural gap between Homestead Farm employees and employer through better communication and understanding.”
- Chris Weisenbeck