Water and Whiteness in Oaxaca

Water and Whiteness in Oaxaca

I am one of those oddball people who tend to travel only out of necessity, and feel ready to return home halfway through a vacation. Oaxaca is different, though. The first day I was here I fell in love, and as anyone who was on last year’s Bard CEP J-term trip can attest, I was vehemently opposed to the idea of leaving. So now I’m back.

I spend a great deal of my time here thinking about water – its essentialness, its seasonal temporality, its scarcity. The landscape is greener than it was in January since it’s now the rainy season. I was under the impression that this would mean rain nearly every day, but the raincoat and umbrella I packed don’t get much use.

"Houseplants" in Oaxaca generally kept inside - they're placed in a courtyard or terrace so that they will be watered by the rain.
“Houseplants” in Oaxaca generally aren’t kept inside – they’re placed in a courtyard or on a terrace so that they will be watered by the rain.

Whenever people hear that I am volunteering for an organization that is working to improve water management in Oaxaca, they are pleased. But until I explain further, most immediately think that I mean water purification. The water that comes out of the tap isn’t potable, which means that the city runs on 20 liter jugs of purified water, delivered daily to residences and businesses. Each jug costs approximately the equivalent of 1 USD, which seems pretty reasonable to me, considering one can easily pay double that amount for half a liter of water in the United States. But of course, that’s an outsider’s perspective on the issue.

There are several factors that easily identify me as “not from around here.” First, I am not only white, but blonde. Second, I always carry around my 32 oz reusable water bottle, since I’m not about to buy disposable bottles in a city with hardly any recycling infrastructure.

The "garrafón de agua" at the INSO office. It tips in its stand so you can fill up a bottle or glass.
The “garrafón de agua” at the INSO office. It tips in its stand so you can fill up a bottle or glass.

I get a varied range of reactions to this spectacle when I walk around the city. Some are friendly, some ignore me, as happens anywhere else, but in some cases people are enthusiastic about encountering someone who is obviously a foreigner. Sometimes men give me a wide smile and are eager at the chance to say, in belabored English, “Have a nice day!” One day a little girl ran up from behind me on the sidewalk to wave and say, “hi,” then turned back to her father for approval.

Other times I’m met with hostility. It’s not uncommon for people to glare, especially when I’m walking around areas far from the main tourist strip. Once when I was walking home with groceries in two reusable shopping bags I received an exaggerated eye-roll from a woman around my age.

I often feel self-conscious about the big water bottle I carry around. I don’t want people to think it’s supposed to be some kind of trophy: in a place where the provisioning of water is so broken, I, the white girl, get to carry around clean water with me wherever I go. But in fact, being here has only made me appreciate the privilege of clean water in new way. Take, for instance, the day that everyone in my house neglected to buy water and we ran out. I sat at home for most of the day, unable to get a drink or brush my teeth and too stubborn to go buy a disposable bottle, waiting for the banging on the door and the shouts of “el agua!” from the street. I certainly have never valued water as much as the moment I finally was able to fill up a glass and make myself some tea.

I was so happy that day when water was finally delivered that I took a picture (after chugging half the bottle, as you can see).

But I am also aware that I will never be able to truly understand the reality of life in Oaxaca – life where water isn’t taken for granted. I have only been here a month, but I have the sense that no matter how long I were to stay here, no matter how good my Spanish gets, I would never be able to shake my foreigner status.

I went to a restaurant and was served by a woman from New York, who chatted with me briefly in English. When she brought the check, she said to my companion in Spanish, “It’s been a pleasure serving you.” She turned to me and added in English, “Enjoy your vacation!” Even a woman of the same origins as me, who now lives and works in Oaxaca – has made it her home – couldn’t conceive that another girl from New York could be here for any other reason except to wander the city temporarily, water bottle in tow, and leave with scarcely more understanding than she had upon arrival. How to make her and others understand: no, I’m the girl who doesn’t like vacations, I’m here because I love this place, and I want to learn. I want to make this place, different as possible from the one I came from, a new home.

One comment

  1. Vanessa Kichline

    Yesterday I was on my way to the market and some guys started yelling “American! American!” after me. Not as bad as some of the things I’ve heard from men in the street, but for some reason it was more embarrassing for me. Sometimes it feels like the blonde hair is a spotlight that I can never step out of. I definitely understand the uncomfortable, vulnerable feeling of living in a place where I will never really fit in. A new job is scary even without having all the extra layers of language and culture that come with working abroad.

    I’m still fascinated by the whole water situation there. Jinotega is a lot like Oaxaca in that the main urban area is surrounded by mountains with smaller, poorer communities. And of course there’s also a long history of political corruption in Nicaragua. However, it doesn’t seem to have impacted the water infrastructure. I wonder what other geographic and political features are behind the difference.

    Creo que estás haciendo un buen trabajo. Es muy duro, pero vale la pena. Lo que con mucho trabajo se adquiere, más se ama.

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