Latin America

Maya Color

A portfolio of images from Jeffrey Becom's extraordinary new photo book, celebrating the colorful world of the Maya, past and present.

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“Color — and the symbolic ways that the Maya of Mexico and Central America use painted color on their homes, places of worship, and dwellings for their dead — has been my obsession for the past eight years. What began with simple curiosity — Why are so many Maya tombs painted jade green? — evolved into a long and intricate journey undertaken with my wife, Sally. Together we explored ancient Maya color traditions and their fruit, the painted villages of today’s living Maya.”

So writes Jeffrey Becom in the introduction to his extraordinary new photography book, “Maya Color.”

“As we scratched beneath the surface of their paint,” Becom continues, “Maya voices carried us forward in our search. ‘My house is blue, the color of water and the heavens. Without these the world would end,’ said Eliseo Uk as he gathered herbs near the Uxmal ruins in the state of Yucatan, Mexico. Ten-year-old Angel of San Andres Xecul, Guatemala, proudly declared, ‘Many visit our yellow church. They leave contented.’ And while weeding around her mother’s turquoise headstone in the La Palma, El Salvador, cemetery, Dona Candelaria explained, ‘We paint to honor the souls of our ancestors. One day my children will shelter my soul with color.’”

“I come to ‘Maya Color,’” Becom adds, “as a photographer and painter with formal training as an architect. These three pursuits inspire one passion: painted walls. As a boy growing up in rural Indiana, I remember painting local scenes in oil on canvas and wondering why my neighbors’ barns were nearly always red. Investigating this color custom, I learned that frugal farmers simply chose the least expensive pigment around — rust red — to best hide barnyard grime. To this day I remain fascinated by what colors a building wears and why. For the past two decades I have immersed myself in the study of painted traditional architecture and how its cloaks of color are embraced, altered, or abandoned over time. Painted facades offer me subject and palette from which to derive my own artwork as I , in turn, document their brilliance and power.”

This combination of passion and practicality, humility and humanity, infuses every page of Becom’s glorious portfolio. Focusing on the ancestral world of the Maya — encompassing southern Mexico, Guatemala and portions of Belize, Honduras and El Salvador — Becom shows how color is an intricate embodiment and revelation of everyday Maya needs and beliefs, one that powerfully and profoundly links the past to the present. In many of his photos, Becom isolates and celebrates great blocks of pure color; other images strikingly juxtapose colors, textures and lines — a stark doorway, a simple broom or chair leaning against a wall. The text accompanying the photos, written by Becom with his wife, poignantly recounts their travels and the colorful lessons they have learned through the years, layer by layer.

The portfolio of photographs we offer here represents just a small sampling of the book’s 160 images — and of its sumptuous, illuminating glory.

Don George is the editor of Salon Travel.

Newsreal: Once more to the death squads

The chief beneficiaries of America's latest "war on drugs" in Colombia will be drug-trafficking right-wing death squads.

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The Cold War may be over, but the United States is once again arming a repressive Latin American army fighting leftist insurgents.

This time the fight is in Colombia, and the fig leaf is the “war on drugs.” In fact, this is another war being fought primarily against civilians — and unless the Clinton administration changes course, or Congress moves to restrict the use of funds, our government will be subsidizing death squads and, ironically, narcotics trafficking.

The idea that the aid is designed to stop the flow of narcotics through Colombia is almost comical in its ironies.

For example, U.S. “drug czar” Gen. Barry McCaffrey recently met with Colombian President Ernesto Samper to seal the $50 million deal. This in spite of the fact that Samper’s former campaign manager and treasurer are serving prison sentences for their roles in accepting $6 million in campaign contributions from the Rodriguez Orojuela brothers, who head the infamous Cali drug cartel.

According to the cartel’s former chief accountant, Samper met with the brothers during the campaign to discuss the possibility of their agreeing to surrender in return for a promise of light sentences. In 1995, shortly after Samper took office, the Rodriguez Orojuelas did go to jail, sentenced to only five years.

McCaffrey justifies giving the Colombian army helicopters, surveillance planes, and ammunition for assault rifles by saying it will be used to fight “narcoguerrillas.”

That term parrots the language used by the Colombian armed forces to refer to the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC), the oldest and largest insurgency in Latin America. Yet the U.S. ambassador in Bogota, Myles Frechette, disputes that characterization, pointing out that while the guerrillas are “taxing” the coca leaf growers, they do just the same to other businesses in the zones they control.

The ambassador adds that right-wing paramilitary groups linked to the army are themselves engaged in drug trafficking. Earlier this month, paramilitaries killed 11 members of a judicial team sent to seize the estate of a convicted trafficker. The State Department describes Carlos Castano, who heads the paramilitary umbrella organization, as a “known drug trafficker.”

Supporters of the counterinsurgency package also point to the guerrillas’ campaign to disrupt local elections, and say it poses a threat to democracy. After all, they argue, why shouldn’t the Colombian insurgents be forced to do what guerrillas elsewhere in Latin America have done: Exchange guns for the ballots box?

Twelve years ago, another group of Colombian guerrillas did just that, forming a democratic political party, the Patriotic Union. Since then, more than 4,000 party leaders and members have been shot to death, and many more have been forced into exile. According to Colombia’s ombudsman, only 10 of these murder cases have gone to trial, and only four have resulted in convictions. It is not hard to see why the insurgents do not see elections as a viable option.

Proponents of the aid package argue that the guerrillas are largely responsible for the staggering levels of political violence plaguing Colombia. There is some truth to that assertion. The Center for Investigation and Popular Education, a domestic human rights group, says guerrillas carry out roughly one-third of all political murders — but the other two-thirds are the work of police, the army and paramilitary organizations. The latter, called “self-defense” groups, carry out three of every five political murders.

Human Rights Watch has charged that U.S. military advisors persuaded the Colombian armed forces to forge stronger ties with paramilitary groups in the first place. According to Amnesty International, equipment bought with U.S. anti-narcotics grants has been used by military units accused of direct involvement in the disappearance and murder of civilians. Furthermore, the military officers accused of directing such killings continue to be promoted.

None of this can be justified in terms of making a dent in the war on drugs, nor of serving the cause of democracy, nor quelling the Colombian insurgency. All this new effort will do is leave a trail of blood in a country that already has more homicides than the United States, with less than one-seventh the population.

Associating the U.S. government with paramilitary death squads casts a moral shadow over President Clinton’s efforts to project an image of a new deal between the U.S. and Latin America. If he doesn’t soon reverse course, the damage will become irreparable.

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Andrew Reding directs the North America Project of the World Policy Institute in New York.

The Surreal Gourmet

The Surreal Gourmet's cut-and-save El Ni

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Until recently, I wasn’t buying the pandemonium that linked every anomaly to the impending arrival of El Niqo. Then eight feet of October snow fell on Denver, the stock market took a major nose dive and a 5-year-old expansion team won the World Series. Now I sleep in a rubber dingy and brace for the atmospheric Armageddon.

Being on disaster alert is business-as-usual for residents of Southern California. We’ve seen just about everything — which is why the prospect of a new calamity is so seductive to our jaded sensibilities. We’ve also learned that mass destruction has a silver lining. After the ’95 Northridge earthquake, life-affirming casual sex was rampant, longtime neighbors finally met one another and everyone had a perfect excuse not to go to the gym.

Don’t let a little torrential flooding and a lack of power or running water ruin your day or come between you and a fine meal. When the big wave leaves you stranded, pay tribute to the El Niqo gods with a rice dish inspired by our neighbors in South America, the region most likely to bear the brunt of El Niqo’s wrath. The whole meal can be made over any makeshift fire using only a Swiss army knife and staple goods from your cupboard. Come to think of it, why wait?

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EL NIQO SURVIVAL RICE DINNER

(Serves 6)

Ingredients

2 tablespoons olive oil

3 cloves fresh garlic, minced, or 1 tablespoon dried garlic or garlic powder

1/4 cup of anything from the onion family, diced, or 1 tablespoon dried onion flakes

1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes

1/3 teaspoon ground cumin

1 tablespoon dried thyme

1 tablespoon paprika

2 cups any available rice

1 bottle of water

1 – 2 chicken bullion cubes

1/2 cup any available canned peas, carrots, beans, corn and/or raisins
Tabasco sauce, or any other hot sauce, to taste

Substitute any missing ingredients with whatever you can find in your pantry, or anything you can trade your neighbors for. If necessary, barter with items from your emergency kit (see below).

1. Heat oil in a pot over any handy flame. If you have fresh garlic and/or onions, cook them first for about 3 minutes, or until the first hint of gold color appears. If you are using dried garlic and onions, simply stir them in the oil for 15 seconds.

2. Add red pepper flakes, cumin, thyme and paprika. Stir for 30 seconds to release the flavors.

3. Add rice and stir thoroughly for 30 seconds.

4. Add 4 cups of water, bullion cubes, canned veggies and/or raisins. Cover, bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer for 20 minutes, or until rice is tender.

5. Serve immediately with hot sauce.

Le Secret: Stockpile raisins. They add a sweetness that makes the dish.

The Adventure Club: Invite some neighbors you have never spoken to.

Note: More is better. Add everything you can scavenge.

Music to Cook By: With no power, you’ll be singing the blues

El Niqo emergency kit:

  • A bottle of single malt scotch
  • Condoms (don’t forget to check the expiration date)
  • Chocolate
  • Candles
  • Matches
  • Cigarettes
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Bob Blumer (aka the Surreal Gourmet) hosts his own program on the Food Channel.
The Surreal Gourmet's Web Site is located at http://surrealgourmet.com.

The Awful Truth

Mexico City Blues

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a couple of weeks ago I set out for Mexico City, braving hail, plane delays and the constant tauntings of a muddy-mouthed group of East Indian children whose mother, during a five-hour stopover at La Guardia, felt it perfectly acceptable that they mock me wildly, repeatedly tear off my glasses with their teeth and claw at my eyes with their glutinous fingers.

Once we were in the air, I gave myself up to the pleasurable anticipation of a leisure-oriented four-day weekend, steeped in
mind-erasing frozen cocktails and the benevolently muted rays of a foreign sun healing me from its glazy socket in a damp grey sky. I would speak of great things from the comfortable curve of the rattan chaise lounge, my attractive friends would laugh and smoke, happy and well-fed children would bring us ceramic bowls of chilled fruit and mariachis would strum elegantly painful ballads in their rolling native tongue. It didn’t work out that way.

On the first day in Mexico City, my dear friend M. and I put on tight sundresses, high heels and movie-star sunglasses and set out for the center of town with our friend “Xavier,” who is a native Mexican and a long-haired, leather-jacketed type who resembles the archetypal Leisure-Class Druglord. As the three of us entered the old city, surrounded by collapsing churches of soot-blackened rock, we created quite a stir. It was as if we had been airlifted from a Lite Beer commercial wearing nothing but wet thongs and dropped in the middle of a militant Islamic religious ceremony. Catcalls and whistles whirled around us like a meaty typhoon of dark lust. Spite and envy curled out from behind brick corners and rose up from poncho blankets spread with plastic Jesus paraphernalia, the poisonous sparks swarming around us like a swarm of black gnats. M., a doctor of anthropology, glowered defiantly at the drooling scowls of the poor and restless men from her impenetrable fortress of large, safe, White Money, Intelligence and Entitlement. I just started giggling and smiling at people, hoping to shuck the whole experience off as a momentary channeling of the Goddess of Love.

As we walked along, men kept running up to us and muttering something in Spanish to Xavier. When we asked him what they had said, invariably it proved to be something along the lines of “You will lend them to me for several hours?” All comments on our appearance were directed to Xavier, who was perceived to be our owner and proprietor. Our high spirits began to sag as we realized that our glamour and prestige was directly related to the oppression of the men violently slobbering at us.

As I walked out of a terrible little restroom, my ass was surreptitiously grabbed by a stealthy hand. This let the last air out of my otherworldly balloon. I suddenly realized that we were inviting not admiration but violation. We were buckets of bloody chum dropped into a knot of sharks, USO showgirls performing nude in front of a group of speed-addled war prisoners. “It is simply not done,” the city intoned about our sundresses. We embodied everything nasty, all evil temptations: porno videos, dirty money, hard booze, crack cocaine and free time, all rolled up into two unsuspecting touristas. Get your rich honky tits away from our good Catholic men, who wish to smear you into the ground with open-mouth kisses and frot you limb from limb, came the hum from the cobblestones and the Che Guevara T-shirts pinned to canvas frames. Go back on the television where you came from.

That night, Xavier gathered a group of us together for a romp in the Wayward Mariachi Graveyard, another square in the city, where vast numbers of the famed roving troubadors go to beg and howl and drink and die. Groups of three and four men in identically brocaded toreador suits chased alongside our taxi like packs of dingos with fat guitars, inflicting angry spurts of song on us with the desperate aggression of panhandling window-washers. When we arrived in the square, Xavier’s friend Geraldo and I posed for a photo in front of a plastic box containing a Virgin of Guadalupe, within eyeshot of another slurry of feral
mariachis. Geraldo, a fan of the nation’s tequila, feigned licking my armpit for a quicky polaroid with the Holy Mother. He did not realize that the burly serenaders were in charge of protecting her honor and that they now intended to shoot us. Sweating with fear, Xavier desperately tried to explain to the mariachis that we were stupid Americans who didn’t understand that imitating armpit-licking in front of a religious icon was grounds for being executed by musical Christian thugs. Geraldo and I, oblivious to this interchange, skipped away with our lives and the oblivious luck of the drunk.

The next day, Xavier, M. and I set out for the charming little craft village of San Miguel de Allende to stay in the palatial home of a friend of my family. We were to be taken care of, said the family friend, by the capable cook and delightful maids. In fact, the aforementioned employees greeted our arrival with less than ardent enthusiasm, and the next morning we were nonplussed to discover that all of M.’s jewelry had vanished from her purse, never to return. This disappearance was clearly a miracle, because the housekeeper and the owners of the home regarded everyone in the house as so far above suspicion that the only possible explanation was a sudden ascendency to the heaven where good jewelry goes following the Rapture.

Having been warned throughout my childhood that vagabonds in any foreign country would cut off your index finger with a dirty razor blade for a Snoopy ring, I was a little surprised that M. had brought thousands of dollars worth of jewelry to Mexico, but we nonetheless all felt the loss sorely and left San Miguel at once with a cloud of distress over our heads.

Far from making me feel hostile toward Mexico or Mexicans, though, the entire experience seemed to have a great equalizing effect. It reminded us of the importance of humility. The flexing of our obscene power before the natives in Mexico City had been somehow paid for with M’s queenly gems. It could have been a lot worse: Judging from how badly we pissed people off, we might have paid with our lives. The moral of the whole trip was, “Don’t wear a little tiny sundress in Mexico City or all of your jewelry will be stolen in San Miguel.” Or something. In any case, we all learned some kind of valuable lesson — I guess we’re still trying to figure out what it was.

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Cintra Wilson is a culture critic and author whose books include "A Massive Swelling: Celebrity Re-Examined as a Grotesque, Crippling Disease" and "Caligula for President: Better American Living Through Tyranny." Her new book, "Fear and Clothing: Unbuckling America's Fashion Destiny," will be published by WW Norton.

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