Trigo Moreno, AFSC project 2001

Fred Allebach

PO Box 31931

Tucson, AZ 85751

4/3/01 Trigo Moreno, Sonora

The End of the Line

We drove from Hermosillo to Phoenix, taking most of the day, arriving way ahead of Mike at Hilary’s parent’s house. For all practical purposes, the trip was over, yet it wasn’t over. The trip is never over until the participants get on public transportation. We were in a gray area where people started to think the rules no longer applied. This was understandable, yet somewhat disappointing. I can’t expect teens to bring to bear my understanding of being loyal to the context. In the end, some chose not to accompany us to Meeting, some chose to break the rules, making a sort of broken feeling with the scraggly and tired remainder of our group. I can see both sides, and there was no meeting to explain to the participants what was expected, what applied until the end. 

In Meeting I closed my eyes and started to hear Spanish, a sort of light cacophony, many all talking at once, which echoed out into my mind space as representing the whole world, all of the Spanish being spoken now, all that ever had been spoken. I then imagined all languages, now and ever, as a continuous busyness, chattering far into the past, to the Neanderthals, Homo erectus, chimpanzees, all animals ever, cawing, singing, calling out. Then I saw eyes, ears, smells, touches, all the senses, all the things that could possibly represent communication, and felt a unity, of being on a continuum with all of life, filling the world with it’s noise and talk. Then, through a silence, a pause, a time out, a reflection, as if I was somehow suspended above the river of all life, a small respite from being me. It was the totally unexpected tangent that sometimes gives meeting a sort of X-chemistry.

I also thought of Diana’s message in the worship sharing in Trigo Moreno, how to walk the line of tolerating differences, seeing that what makes you happy is not necessarily what makes other people happy, what applies to you does not necessarily apply to another. It’s a fine line, to see one’s own sensibilities in a relative context, all the while knowing that to be true to one’s own self, those sensibilities have to be treated as more or less correct. What is true for you is not for me, as William Blake said:

The vision of Christ that thou dost see

Is my vision's deepest enemy...

Thine is the friend of all mankind,

Mine speaks in parables to the blind:

Thine loves the same world that mine hates,

Thy Heaven doors are my Hell gates...

Both read the Bible day and night

But thou read'st black where I read white...

So, I have to overlook the follies of youth, and my own folly, not get bent out of shape, see it for what it is, the end of the line, the parting of paths, the trajectory of youth and that of middle age, intersect, not good or bad, just different.

Back in Tucson, I realized I was volunteering to pick up all the people’s trash in the van and was impressed by the gum smashed into the carpet and the peanut butter smeared into the seat, the caked mud in the carpet, spilled soda, crushed chips, all thrown on the floor and forgotten by our intrepid travelers and me sweating in the heat to bring the van back up to code to avoid a fine. To each his own, but where does responsibility come into to play? When do you need to tow the line? We saw a spectrum of teen behavior, from totally plugged in, to fairly detached, lots of different ages, styles, personalities, all genuine and fun people. You could see the heart in these kids, real honest; experience is the next step, out of the nest, into being more than kid sheep.

We Will Be Waiting

At the end the people of Trigo seemed sad to see us leave, Lupeto had tears in his eyes as we said goodbye. Pina was downcast. Tene was all there with bright eyes and Wencho, the old man of 55 years, all busted up, crippled, teeth all fallen out, walks with a cane of re-bar and a bungy cord from his belt to the toe of his boot, to hold up his foot as his achilles tendon is torn. Wencho looked me in the eye with a true sincerity to thank me for being his friend and helping him out a bit in his small field. Last year a flood wiped out all his crops. His eyes glistened. He was all there. Tene said, “we will be waiting for you”. Then I went to say goodbye to Iréne and she was perturbed, as her booty box of nice clothes had bleach spilled all over it, (someone loaded in a bottle of bleach with the cap loose or broken) which also got my shirt, pants and Hilary’s dress pretty good, which we didn’t know at the time. Then I walked over to the school where all the kids were waiting out front to wave goodbye, shook all their hands, gave Miguel a slap on the shoulder. I saw the teacher had made Beto sit in his chair, not allowed to stand out front, and I walked in the school, over to his chair and gave him a good bye. Manuel had gone to the mine, Victor remained elusive, Chiri and Silvia were gone to Mayocoba, Pedro, Mercedes and family were gone to Obregón or broke down on the road somewhere, Pedrito had said goodbye earlier and I gave him his tapes back from the fiesta, Trini was gone tending the cattle, Soila was back making cheese. We pulled out to stereotype Dead jams, went to the Pima Indian section of Yécora, ate lunch at Agaujitos, and then the tough haul down through the mountains, 1000's of curves, into Hermosillo for some nice chatting with Pancho and Lucy, giving them the news, shooting the breeze, nice chat with David about human nature, a night on the town, to the Plaza Zaragoza, Cerro de la Campana, hot dogs on my old street corner and then to Manolo’s new house, as yet unoccupied, only a toilet and uncurtained shower stall and plenty of floor space, back door with big gap under, 100's of mosquitos, crickets under your pillow, tough night, early rise, over to Lucy’s, coffee, pack, chat, blow, we’re out of there busting for the border.

Can’t forget about Panchita’s generous hospitality when we first came to Hermosillo and her competition with Lucy to see who could get their crew fed and ready first. Panchita’s Mom is a big handful in more ways than one, her Dad is a homeboy.

Cargo Cult

We did the cargo cult scene and the people were ready to get what they could.  Miguel got a tent, Beto asked me for my little mag-lite, Lupeto scored with a sleeping bag, a pad, clothes, an American car battery, and all kinds of other stuff. Mike scored jocóte. It’s hard to be in a position to divi it all up and be fair, weigh which family has gotten what. I think we did pretty good, although I think a better organized giving would be of more benefit, account for all the five families and be more fair than a random passing out of goods. Perhaps a package deal for each family.

I had served food to Lupeto and Adéle the whole time, as Lupeto is shy and Adéle is almost blind from diabetes. I was their gateway to gringo food, which came in purposefully massive supplies. At every meal, kids would gather to get cookies or fruit. Other people brought some games, balloons (bombas), glitter and as usual, whatever we had, they wanted. The gringos are kind of like a huge fish, that always has lots of scraps falling away, which the little fish learn to be ready for.

When Are You Coming Back?

Everyone wanted to know when we would be back. I was surprised how much notoriety I had around town. Iréne told me that her daughter Dulce had been asking about me for two years, when I was coming back? All the kids wanted to play with me and Beto was especially cute, hanging around me all the time, wanting to hold hands, wrestle, fool around. Another girl, Nuvia, was terribly cute, with a smile so transparent with awe and interest that I was taken aback. We had a permanent magic marker and somehow it got started with people signing my pants and drawing pictures on them. Nuvia was quite a good artist, for around 5 years old and she delighted in drawing as many pictures as she could and also bouncing a balloon (una bomba) back and forth with me. I asked Lupeto to sign my pants, he said he doesn’t know how to write. When I was hanging out at Iréne’s, Dulce was very shy but still wanted to play, so we got a good game of peek-a-boo going with a curtain in between.

I had felt initially that I didn’t really want to go to Trigo, and was basically going to help Mike and to have a chance to go to Mesa de Abajo. I was turned off by the shady circumstances surrounding Hilario’s death. After being in Trigo for a week, I saw that I could not avoid people’s feelings and that they were attached, glad to see me, and that this was special. Where can a guy go two days drive from Tucson into the Sierra Madre and have a small village all tremendously glad to see him? That is worth a lot. I’ll be going back.

Tene explained that the work we had done in earlier years to make water holding tanks up in springs, and the piping in of water to her house and the other houses, had been a huge help to them. She was really grateful. “Why can’t you stay longer?” she asked, the others asked the same, “why so short a visit?”. I could only reply that I was not running the show and was a volunteer. Certainly a longer scene could be worked out. The AFSC- IMYM Joint Service Project would just have to pony up for another leader to go do it. There has to be a way to get people for a month or more. The context now is that it is just Mike, and he has a lot of balls to juggle, if the Project could have an additional focus on Mexico, then longer projects could be realized and the potential for deeper contact opened up. There has to be more people willing than Spring Breakers. The villagers remember the deeper contact and are basically unsatisfied by having a group of 19 come to town with the large bulk not being able to say a word in Spanish.  There is not much contact made with the groups in this context. Sure we work, but the whole ball of wax has a psychological end as well, and if groups all stick together, speak English all the time, then the impact of digging a few holes or trenches, is really not that great. It impacts the participants more than the villagers. Realistically, the villagers can dig their own holes, make their own holding tanks, and if they don’t, they have no but themselves to blame. The service comes in the contact, the sincerity, whiling away the hours together, queuing in on what they may really want, having the time to ease into it, rather than arriving in a whirlwind, putting on pressure to do something now, and then leaving. As it stands now, there is almost equal time spent driving to and from the projects as time actually spent there.

Hilario’s Receipt

One day I found a receipt blowing in the wind, April 26, 1992, Hilario López, 2 kilos of lard, 2 packs of flour, to make tortillas. I had walked past his grave a number of times and thought of him. I came to visit his grave just 2 weeks after I had last seen him in 1998, he was out hunting with Chiri, Pedrito and someone else, apparently drunk, fell off a rock ledge and died of a heart attack. There was bad blood between Hilario and the rest because he had a truck, was Dan’s foreman, was the mayor (comisario) and had way more power than any. I felt it was possible that they might have done him in, but I’ll never know. I remember his hospitality and sharing coffee and plates of food in his house, now empty. The night Hilario died, Manuel robbed his house and scared his wife and kid to death. Manuel went to jail in Hermosillo for a while and nothing has ever been said about it. Manuel is now 16, a pretty nice kid, made a bad decision, hope he doesn’t make more. I remember them all sitting around one time when I went out there by myself, they were stoned on mota, telling stories of how a gringo had been killed and thrown into a mine shaft. I had already seen that life was not what it was in the USA, in Mexico, life is ultimately cheaper. We here work a way, planning, saving, getting, consuming, are our own kind of mindless drones trying to eak out some security, putting up a barrier between us and fate. In Mexico, in many places, fate is always right around the corner. In the right circumstance, a guy is killed and his truck stolen, all his stuff, all he had and ever will have.

It doesn’t even have to be crime, guys fall, get in wrecks, gored by a bull, with a disease and no medicine, crushed by rocks, logging accidents, crossing the street, heat stroke and dehydration for the illegals, shot by the Border Patrol. People down there in the Sierra look twenty years older than people of the same age in the US. There is poverty and the poor health conditions that go along with that. There comes a kind of easy rapport to all hanging out, as the moments, while slow and easy, are precious and to be enjoyed.

Casual Talk

One evening around the fire, Arnulfo was telling me some logging stories and drug stories. My Spanish after two weeks had crossed a line and I was entering into the ability for small talk and chatting. Two guys had recently been in a bad logging accident, one died, they lost a loaded truck on a steep hill. Some other guys were running weed and the cops shot and killed one, the other got away. Manuel told me that Federales were recently up in the mines, looking inside to see if pot was stashed. Federales break into ranch houses, commandeer trucks, are mean and unfriendly teens with machine guns.

One day I was in Wencho’s house and a fellow named Miguel was there. I showed some pictures from the LaBrea tar pits museum, of 10,000 year old skeletons, of extinct giant carnivores. We were talking about wolf reintroduction in the States. I said two jaguars had entered southern AZ in the last 10 years and it was therefore, obvious, that there had to be jaguars in Mexico, and that almost everyone I asked about jaguars, seemed to clam up. Miguel said it was true, they were out there, he had seen one and heard them roaring. With cattle ranching being a major money maker and source of cheese, milk, butter and meat, and held in very high estimation by almost all people, respected with pride, any carnivores are shot immediately. Apparently a person who was advocating wolf reintroduction was shot as well in Chihuahua.

Mining

The locals go into the mines, break out ore by hand by the light of carbide lamps, bring samples out front and check the ore for gold, if it’s good, they bag it up and carry it back to their small mills on burros. At the mills, the ore is further broken with a hammer and put in, to be milled for a morning. At the end, mercury is added to the slurry, which binds with the gold and then strained out, put in a special holder, where the mercury is burned off over a stove. Mercury is very toxic, extremely toxic, and easy to get for pretty cheap. Mercury has to be all down the stream, into rivers and watersheds below, polluting the water, causing health problems of unknown dimensions into the future, not to mention the effects of the mercury on the people handling it on a frequent basis. Have a fish from the stream, it’s good.

There is a new silver mill in town, a big one, full of modern machinery, all driven from a big diesel engine, with drive belts everywhere. Lupeto and Beto, the owner, built it all, including a house, tool shed, settling tanks, fences, etc. It is set up so trucks can drive in at the top, dump ore and it all goes down hill through the shoot, into a tumbler filled with iron balls to break the ore, then into a series of tanks and grinders, where finally, the silver is extracted with a reagent. The mines are in Trigo Colón, just down the road. Everyone hopes to be working.

The older gold mines in town were active up until around the time of World War 1, and at that time, over 400 people lived in Trigo Moreno. The guys now work hard, maybe spend three days time for one guy to get ten dollars worth of gold. It is a little ball of gold, about the size of a pea, ten bucks.

Logging is the new game in town. The cutting is picking up more and more. Four or more flatbed trucks come through town daily, loaded precariously with log cuts of about ten foot. The trucks grind up and down, nearly tipping over on the rough roads. They are cutting the biggest trees first. The guys go out to the marked trees, two trees marked out of every seven by the Servicio Forestal. A traveling horse team follows the cutting, dragging the logs off the hillsides down to the road, where the cuts are loaded onto the trucks by hand. Apparently there is a big fine for cutting unmarked timber, but it seems to me there is plenty of room for cheating, it’s Mexico, and I expect that in twenty years, the area will be denuded. Conservation of resources is a bourgeois luxury. Mexico is dirt poor and you can see that the land is thrashed from overgrazing, polluted from mining, polluted by international companies coming for the cheap labor and lax environmental laws, over cut in the desert for ironwood and mesquite, trash everywhere, animals hunted to the edge, no bears, few deer, jaguars on the line of extinction, just to get by. When just eating and having clothes is a big deal, people don’t listen to conservation messages.

El Dan

A few years ago a gringo came to town and bought a house and some land. He proceeded to buy lots of land from everybody, giving the locals lots of cash, which they used to buy homes in Yécora, for trucks, and booze. Now, Dan is gone, no one knows where. He got in some trouble with the government for not paying social security to his workers. Now the folks don’t have their fields, don’t have livestock and are dependent on a cash economy. Dan is a big time boozer and the road is littered with beer cans whenever he goes to town. He bought José Juan’s spread and now José Juan is in Yécora, pining away for his former life as a self sufficient farmer and miner.

Dan quickly became a force in town, loaded with money, all the people were subservient, sucking up, borrowing money. He brought in lots of cattle, horses, built barns and outbuildings, bought a new engine for Hilario’s truck, had gringo friends come and occupy homes he had bought. Now he is gone, damage done. The new mine will be a surprise for him when and if he returns. I recall one day in Yécora, his ex-wife was there, they were fighting big time in the street, cursing, she crying, about custody of the kids, he pulled out a big wad of cash, put his son in a truck with Hilario, who drove off to Trigo, she a mess of white trash spewing profanity, paid off. Dan has woven his own peculiar tragedy into the local tapestry.

Genealogy

parents of Lupeto:

Antonio Celes Gonzalez (died at 76, family moved to Trigo from Chihuahua when Lupeto was 12)

Eva Estrada Coz (died at 75)

children:

Angel Celes Estrada

Ernestina Celes Estrada

Indolfo Celes Estrada (Lupeto, 53 years old)

Adele Miraz Lopez (50, wife of Lupeto, blind from diabetes, can’t afford any medicine)

Lupeto’s kids:

Arnulfo Celes Miraz (28, lives in Yécora)

Indolfo Celes Miraz (Chiri, 25, lives in Trigo)

Minerva Celes Miraz (22, works in El Comercial in Yécora)

Jesús Celes Miraz (16, working in saw mill in Yécora, not enough money to send him to high school)

Maria Guillen Espinosa (wife of Arnulfo, sister of Victor)

kids:

Horacio Celes Guillen

Arón Celes Guillen

Alondra Celes Guillen

baby has no name yet

Silvia Lopez Espinosa (wife of Chiri, sister of Iréne and Trini, daughter of Soila)

kid:

Graciela Celes Lopez

Wencho’s family

Laurencio Ochoa Aunavisca (Wencho)

Atenedora Miraz Lopez (Tene, sister of Adele)

kids:

Rafael Miraz Ochoa

Carlos Miraz Ochoa (husband of Iréne)

Laurencio Miraz Ochoa (Wenchito)

Telvina Miraz Ochoa (Pina, blonde)

Cruz Maria Miraz Ochoa (crippled but can walk)

Verónica Miraz Ochoa

Mercedes Miraz Ochoa

Iréne Lopez Espinosa (wife of Carlos, cousin of Victor

kids:

Marisa Ochoa Lopez

Dulce Ochoa Lopez (had asked about me for two years)

Karla Ochoa Lopez

Victor Guillen Espinosa (husband of Pina)

kids:

Manuel Guillen Espinosa (16, conceived when Pina was very young, raised by Tene, Victor is probably not his father, robbed Hilario’s house the night he died, went to jail in Hermosillo)

Miguel Guillen Ochoa (14, blonde)

Olga Guillen Ochoa (blonde)

Alberto Guillen Ochoa (Beto, dark)

Jesús Ibán Guillen Ochoa (blonde)

Ruben Garcia (husband of Cruz Maria)

kids:

Maria Elena (girl who always wants picture taken)

Nuvia (the artist with a smile from heaven)

Pedro’s family

Pedro Lopez Córdoba (local police in Yécora, brother of Hilario, Pedro and father of Irene are brothers, slept with Tene, caused scandal, said “me duele la panocha”,)

Mercedes Miraz Lopez (sister of Tene and Adele)

kids:

Pedrito Lopez Miraz (became “comisario”/ mayor after Hilario died

Lorenia Lopez Miraz

Heremita Lopez Miraz (about 16, recently married, has a baby)

Velma Lopez Miraz

Adrián Lopez Miraz (possible mixed parentage)

Leobardo Lopez Miraz (16, possible mixed parentage, very smart, no money for high school, moved to Ciudad Obregón to work in textile factory)

Hilario’s family

Hilario Lopez Córdoba (Pedros brother, former comisario, foreman for Dan, died in hunting accident in 1998)

Guadalupe Guillen Espinosa (sister of Victor, very shy, never left house, now lives in Yécora, remarried, some say too fast)

kids:

Lourdes Lopez Guillen

Angélica Lopez Guillen

Trini’s family

Eusebio Lopez Córdoba (brother of Pedro and Iréne’s father)

Soila Espinosa Gracia (works ranch down the road, makes cheese, butter etc)

kids:

Iréne Lopez Espinosa

Silvia Lopez Espinosa

Trinidad Lopez Espinosa (Trini, 16, works ranch)

Mari Lopez Espinosa (lives in Mayocoba)

Enia Lopez Espinosa (lives in Mayocoba)

José Juan’s family

José Juan Velásquez Andujo

Teresa Amalla (blond, second last name not known by Lupeto)

13 kids: don’t know all the names

Gabino Velásquez Amalla

Beti

Genaro

Edrén (around 12 years old, works in saw mill in Yécora)

Aracelli

Susanna

Ebríji

Fausto (deaf young man who used to live in a cabin in the arroyo at Trigo, rigged hydro powered mill, found mummies in caves above town, now married, in Yécora, working at saw mill)

History of Service Projects in Sonora

I don’t have the full story but I’ll give it a crack. In the 1950's or thereabouts a Quaker man named Norman Krekler came to Hermosillo and began doing service projects in the Sierra, in Mesa de Abajo, Trigo elsewhere and also with the Seri Indians at Desemboque. Norman was associated with Herberto Sein, a Mexican Quaker from Mexico City. Lucy’s father, Leo, was a school teacher in Desemboque in the 50's and he and Norman worked to build a school house there, now all that remains of the school is the chimney. Every one of Leo’s peers in Desemboque is dead except one, a fellow he called “bagre” or catfish. We visited the cemetery and saw the graves, festooned with fishing gear and even a man’s boat engine. Grown people recognized Leo immediately when I took him out there in 1998. Lucy and Manolo grew up in Desemboque for some years and also in the atmosphere of service projects.

Norman bought a house in Hermosillo, in the old section of town, a nice old adobe building of good size at the base of the Cerro de la Campana and within walking distance of the central market. His organization was named ASA, Asociación Sonorense de los Amigos or Sonoran Association of Friends. David Perkins of the Pima Meeting in Tucson participated in projects and married the sister of Lucy’s mother.

In my first project, in 1996, ASA was still a viable entity, even though Norman had died. Lalo and Sofía had volunteered to spend a year in Trigo Moreno doing adult education, where we met. I knew about ASA in 1978 when I first came to Tucson and had considered going down there, but never did. If I had, I would have met the whole gang almost 20 years sooner. After Norman’s death, ASA was run by committee, but with the son, Eric Krekler controlling the building. He charged twenty bucks a head, per night for us to stay there. There came a falling out between Eric and almost everyone else when he accused Panchita of stealing money from the till. AFSC had given money to support ASA for years and the funding was rapidly cut off when Eric could not account for some $15,000. Now ASA does no projects and the building is a boarding house.

That Eric had accused Panchita of stealing caused a rift so big that people still bristle when it is brought up. Pancho can go on for hours at how bad Eric is. Leo sees it differently, that all involved are responsible, and that it is a shame. The upshot was that Pancho, Lucy, Manolo, Panchita, Lalo, Sofia, Timoteo Krekler et al, severed themselves from ASA. The next year I went, we stayed at Lucy’s house, for free. Mike wanted to give ASA a chance, so we stayed there again too, but that was the last time. All the AFSC - IMYM projects now go through Lucy when we need lodging and logistical support in Hermosillo, with support from Panchita Maria and Manolo. Lucy is coming to Tucson next week to establish a joint US bank account with Mike, so it will be easier for her to manage the finances of her programs.

Mike had been working exclusively in Trigo Moreno and Lucy knew of Mesa de Abajo through Norman’s work and having participated in projects there in the past. She worked to introduce Mike to La Mesa and we went out there in 1998 to meet the people and try to arrange a project. Now Mesa de Abajo is a real gem of a place to go. Lucy is beginning her second year of 6 week summer projects there and she and her group are trying to crank up the service once again. Mike has la Mesa going for service projects as well. Manolo really dislikes Trigo Moreno, but he is somewhat of a whiner anyway, who has not had a job the whole time I’ve known him and has strained relations with his dad, Leo, because it seems to Leo, that Manolo is staying at home, just waiting for him to die.

Quaker work camps and service projects stopped during the 60's and 70's because of rampant drug use and rule breaking. The ball is being picked up again now. It sure is fun and a privilege to be involved and have this whole circle of people in Hermosillo, Obregón, the Sierra, on the coast, all waiting.