An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 12

Posted on July 5, 2004 by admin

Leaving San Miguel
By Cherie Magnus

If you don’t know where you’re going, you’ll end up somewhere else.
–Yogi Berra

That terrible ache and nostalgia for home when home is gone, and this isnt it. And the sun so white like an onion. And who the hell thought of placing a city here with no large body of water anyway! In less than three hours we could be at the border, but wheres the border to the past, I ask you, where? Sandra Cisneros, Caramelo

In the evening flocks of grackles wrote Vs against the mango sky. The setting sun shone through the dusty dome windows of Las Monjas one block west, and I could see the towers of five more colonial churches from my rooftop. Almost every day beneath the windows of my apartment passed processions of pilgrims, celebrants, or mourners. The Virgin sat on the back of a pickup truck or thirty schoolchildren carried an enormous Mexican flag or peppy tuba bands and old men, hats in hand, walked behind a hearse.

Even so, after two years in Mexico I had overdosed on the traditional fiestas that used to enchant me. As someone who enjoys the Latin passion in the cultures of France and Cuba, I couldnt find the same joie de vivre in Mexico. Mexican allegre was not a moving, pulsing force, but comfort and relaxationabundant good food, bright and happy music, flowing beer and tequila, family togetherness and church. The sole ecstasy I witnessed was in the many fervent religious activities. I missed the zest and energy on the street and in the music that I found so compelling elsewhere.

I enjoyed greeting friends and acquaintances whenever I stepped out my door, yet the population was transitory, and new friends were hard to keep, often leaving after a short stay to return home to Canada or the United States. Real relationships had little time to develop. My circle of friends had changed. My favorite bar had closed, and even before that I stopped going out in the evening. I found that without realizing it, I was drinking too much, too often, as a way to be with people. Lately I might go to Harry Bissetts on Martini Night, and after two Cosmos, the smoke and the cackling Texas laughter would drive me around the corner and home. I read, worked on the computer, wrote articles and emails to the world out there, and watched Mexican TV. The folks I counted on were the women in my cancer support group, my friends at church, the group of writers who met at my house weekly, my fellow flamenco students, as well as the two or three friends I made at the bars when I first arrived. I had some Mexican friends by now, too, yet somehow there was always a gap between us which wasnt a problem of language. I guess it was cultural differences, although I hated to think that was possible between people who cared about one another.

There were several different social groups in San Miguel, and I didnt fit into any of them: the cocktail party circuit; the landed house builders, remodelers and decorators who had inexhaustible discussions on whether to paint the sala saffron or aubergine; the old hippies in beads; the Texas Junior League women with perfectly streaked blond hair and chunky silver jewelry active in charity fundraisers; the gringa owners of boutiques and businesses; the newly reinvented artists; and of course the Mexicans who had little time to spare away from their work and families.

Where I felt empowered, at my best, and at home was with dancers. In San Miguel I had searched out dance in studios, schools, clubs, theaters, parties, and discos. I tried Sweat Your Prayers on Sunday mornings, folk dance at the Bellas Artes, contact improvisation, Mexican folklorico, salsa in classes and clubs, and took the bus to Mexico City in search of tango, the immigrants dance. More than a hundred years ago in Buenos Aires, the lonely porteno, far from his loved ones in Europe, was drawn to the connection and nostalgia of tango. In Mexico ones family is large and ubiquitous, and people live for the moment. Unlike me, the Mexican has no need to search for a family in a milonga, and Mexican tango is almost an oxymoron.

Finally it was flamenco that saved my body and spirit. And after a student flamenco recital in which I did a solo belly dance, opportunities presented themselves to teach La Danse Orientale, to perform, to collaborate creatively with the flamenco teacher and musicians. But then what? I couldnt afford to keep going in the financial hole every month and manufacturing my own artistic outlets. I knew I couldnt live forever in the expensive Brigadoon Gringolandia that was San Miguel. If I did, I’d soon be one of the crones sitting in doorways with knarled hands outstretched to passing tourists.

The view from Cherie’s roof
Much of the Happy Hour conversations now centered on how the town had changed and how expensive it had become. I had done my best to live within my budget, moving three times to cheaper and smaller San Miguel apartments, nevertheless from the beginning it had been an impossible dream in the most costly place to live in Mexico. I had increasingly gone into my savings, and soon they would be gone if I didnt do something drastic. San Miguel de Allende had been my home throughout three icy winters when I wore dance tights 24/7 and my electric throw over my shoulders on a long extension cord, heating my apartment with pots of water boiling on the stove. And during two hot and breathless springs, when dusty winds covered the town filling my lungs with desert sand, bus exhaust, and dried dog and burro dung. The weather-perfect months in between I revelled in the afternoon rains, the ideal temperature, and the dazzling colors of the bougainvillia-bejeweled colonial architecture. Now the pleasure I found in San Miguel was no longer enough, and not for the rest of my life.

I learned a lot in Mexico, I had made friends I cherished, I loved my apartment and the beauty of the town, where, like at Chateau Rodney in Los Angeles, I heard church bells and train whistles calling me to places far away. It was time to move onto someplace where the cost of living was less, where there was symphony and ballet and art museums, to someplace where I could dance more than solos. I yearned for the embrace of tango.

After more than a decade of searching, it looked like my future would be in other places, other hemispheres. I missed Los Angeles and the United States, and if wishes could make it so, I would still be living with my family in our house in Los Feliz under the Hollywood Sign. I had twice paddled in the River Styx, and now Ive been blessed with the chance of forging another life. I would have designed a different path for myself, but my life unfolded without consulting me.

Once again I had to bid a painful farewell to good friends, a mixed group of beloved people who had welcomed this stranger into their homes, lives and hearts. I was going to miss the man selling cigarettes and sodas on the corner, the flower seller who made the rounds of all the bars and restaurants every night, the girl who practiced her cello while working in the gallery below my apartment. I was worn-out from the partings and leave-takings of the last twelve years. But in Mexico, where nothing was as it seemed, manana didnt mean tomorrow, and Adios! was not goodbye.

View down from Cherie’s Balcony

Phoebe’s Tail at home in San Miguel

About this author: With degrees in English, Dance, and Library Science from UCLA, Cherie has published many articles in professional journals and magazines. Her solo travels to Europe and Latin America have inspired several pieces published in Skirt!, PassionFruit, Moxie, JourneyWoman, Dancing USA, GoNomad, Open Spaces, Porthole, The Cusco Weekly, the-vu, and various online magazines. She was the dance critic for the Cerritos News in Orange County, California before moving to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She is currently at work on a novel situated in France, when she’s not out dancing. Follow her blog at http://tangocherie.blogspot.com/

An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 11

Posted on July 3, 2004 by admin

The Worlds of Xochimilco
By Cherie Magnus

A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable. ~William Wordsworth

In gardens, beauty is a by-product. The main business is sex and death. ~Sam Llewelyn

Xochimilco, the place of the flower fields (in Nahuatl), is at once an ancient Aztec dream, a modern Mexican fiesta, and an eccentric eerie nightmareall in one glorious experience and all in one day. Imagine in one short Mexico City afternoon floating between two cultures centuries apart, with the added fillip of a hidden island of ghosts and dead dolls.

Very little remains of Aztec daily life and splendor. Aside from the pyramids, and artifacts displayed in museums, we can only guess at the wonders of Tenochtitlan while we stand in the middle of Mexico Citys Zocalo and stare at the cathedral sinking slowly into the ooze of the primordial lake below.

In pre-Hispanic times the Xochimilcas built rectangular soil-covered rafts (chinampas) in Lake Xochimilco, which with time became islands rooted to the bottom and separated by water-filled canals. Perhaps because the Floating Gardens of Xochimilco were built on the eternal lake, they still exist. Thankfully they have been restored and reclaimed from the pollution and neglect that almost caused their extinction, and Xochimilco was declared a UNESCO World Heritage site in 1987. Not only do the floating gardens enthrall visitors and tourists, but they are still used today as they have been since the Tenth Centuryto grow plants, vegetables and flowers for central Mexico.

You feel like youre at the seaside as you enter one of Xochimilcos many embarcaderos filled with the colorful flat-bottomed boats called trajineras. Now duplicated in crepe paper, in times past the multicolored designs with girls names on the front and tops of the boats were made of fresh flowers. Still for special occasions, arrangements can be made in advance for real floral decorations to cover the boat and to spell out the name of the honoree. There are so many crafts waiting that you can walk from deck to deck all across the landing to the one of your choice. You hire a trajinera by the hour, and unfortunately most tourists opt for only one hour, imagining that they have seen what there is to see and rush off to the next attraction on their Mexico City list. For such an extraordinary historical, cultural, and natural site, there is little hype in the travel media. But the local Mexican people know how to party and enjoy themselves, and on weekends the smaller, higher section of the canals and gardens are jammed with vessels and competing floating mariachi bands, stern to port, starboard to starboard, at times resembling bump em boats at a carnival.

Like in Venice, the gondolas are propelled by one man (and here sometimes a strong woman) standing on the back with a long pole. Our boat with a long narrow table and twenty yellow straw-bottomed chairs, contained only my friend, myself, and a plastic bucket of iced beverages, but even when a boat is party packed, one person provides the power. The only mechanical sound on the canals is from the occasional police motor boat. The trajineras move in silence, but the happy people on them are loudly partying as Mexicans do better than anyone.

The fiesta boats generally have refreshments brought from home, but if anything is forgotten (and for the more casual cruiser who is less prepared) vendors conveniently drift by selling flowers, drinks, candy, souvenirs, fresh hot snacks and main dishes, blankets and rebozos, as well as floating photographers to commemorate the moment. There are boat after boatload of uniformed mariachis and vessels containing only a single mirimba, which tie up to the party boats during the short concerts paid for by the song. Our gondola barely squeezed by a flotilla of six tied together two by two, plus the required aquatic mariachi attachment. Women were dancing on the three feet of deck when we collided, spilling beer and flowers into the canal, but the fiesta continued with even more laughter as we passed them by. People wave and call out to each other. Several parties had family members regaling their captive partiers with jokes, and we laughed as well.

Homes and plant nurseries and green houses of roses line the upper canals; floating bridges are hauled by ropes into place when necessary for crossing. The islands have no cars, and there are small private gondolas used by residents for transportation. The Aztecs brought in everything to their city on boats such as these, and today the canals are used in much the same way.

Soon we arrive at the lock and descend to the lower and larger area of islands which are pastoral cornfields, farms and pasturelands of grazing animals. We pass indian children in green canoes filled with flowers, and two small boys paddling home with their bicycle on board. No mariachi boats, only the quiet kiss of the water as the gondolier poles us forward. Lazy trees lounge on the banks trailing their limbs in the water, bright red bougainvillea punctuates the green stillness, an occasional mudhen navigates through the waterlilies, a salamander suns on a rock, fish disturb the waters satin surface, insects and birds sing. Another worldmystical, serene, timeless. Our festive trajinera seems anachronistic, but we are too blissful to care.

The mood changes when we land at the Isla de las Munecas, the Island of the Dolls. Don Julian lived there for fifty years, and for the twenty-five before his death two years ago, sought to appease the ghost of a drowned child with the dolls he pulled up from the depths of the canals. Dead dolls of all kinds hang from the trees and vines and rafters, their eyes bewitching and disturbing the visitors who have come to gawk and photograph in this surreal sanctuary. There is an altar to Don Julian, and in an open shed, a kind of museum. As the fame of the Island of the Dolls spreads, people all over the world send their own dolls to be displayed and to disintegrate, covered by cobwebs and dust with all the rest. It can be disconcerting to see your favorite Betsy or Ginny naked, muddy, missing a limb, and hanging by the neck. While bizarre and off-putting for some (one woman tourist refused to get out of the boat), the island is in fact a kind of work of art in the realm of other one mans fantasy environmentsEdward James, Simon Rodia, even William Randolph Hurst come to mind.

Don Julians family is carrying on the tradition, and the creepy feel of wandering among childhood toys once beautiful and cherished now tainted by evil and death, is balanced by Don Julians jovial nephew barbecuing fresh corn under the palapa and laying out juicy limes and chili for the tequila he proudly serves us.

Even so, one journeys back to the lock and to the parties and festivities in the high canals and then to the busy embarcadero and home, wherever it is, changed. Some voyagesthe best onesare like that.

An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 10

Posted on July 2, 2004 by admin

Tango Magic in Oaxaca
By Cherie Magnus

Imagine a large leafy square with fountains and huge trees, surrounded on four sides by the colorful arcades of ancient colonial buildings. Imagine the kiss of a chocolate scented breeze on your skin. Imagine a concert band playing a classical concert with elderly couples rising casually from their benches to dance an elegant and sophisticated Danzon.

I didnt have to imagine it, because I was in Oaxaca, a state capital city in southern Mexico that is as breathtaking as everyone says it is. Oaxaca is the second poorest state in Mexico but one of the richest in tradition, cuisine, culture, and natural beauty. I could have chosen no better vacation spot for the week I was away from my home in San Miguel de Allende, twelve hours north by bus.

Although a large city, it felt small and accessible, and it seemed I could walk anywhere I wanted to go. I did get into a car to visit the ancient ruins of Monte Alban on my second day. I booked a tour through my hotel, but it would have been just as easy to go the 6 km on the public bus. The guide, Guillermo, explained to our little group of four the history, poetry and romance of the sacred historical site from 500 B.C. His English was eloquent and his knowledge of Mexican pre-history vast, as he had studied archaeology and anthropology at the university.

I also wanted to visit the Monte Alban City of Death, or Mitla, which was 50 kilometers along the Tehuantepec road, plus some stops at craft villages. So the next day I wandered into a tourist office and talked to Jorge Jimenez Rodriguez about a trip for the following day. Jorge didnt have Guillermos expertise at explaining ancient archeology or even English, but he did have the gift of gab en espagnol.

Mitla is an unique archaeological site with Mixtec buildings of great artistic beauty. This is where the priests of Monte Alban lived and died, and some of the tombs may be visited.

After Mitla, we made an unscheduled stop at a mescal factory by the side of the road, and toured through the many steps from maguey to bottle, I tasted some of every kind. Who knew there was cappuccino and coconut flavored mescal? I bought what tasted the best to me, but also because of the worm in the bottom of the bottle.

The various craft villages all specialize, and you can meet and purchase directly from the artisans. San Martin Tilcajete in the Valley of Oaxaca is where you find the woodcarvers whose colorful fantasy animals are famous around the world.

At the weaving village, Teotitlan del Valle, the little shops of the many different weaversall women–were set cheek to jowl, meaning you didnt have to cover a lot of territory to do a lot of shopping. I wanted to buy everything just because it all was beautiful, the weavers themselves were so lovely, and the prices after good-natured bargaining, seemed like stealing.

One of the weavers I purchased from was a young girl with beautiful braided hair. When I asked her if I could take her picture, she requested copies and I took another picture of her writing down her address in my notebook. She spoke Zapotec, Spanish and English.

We also visited the Casa Rosa pottery factory in the village known for its black pottery, San Bartolo Coyotepec, and watched a demonstration by Rosas grandson, himself an old man, who made an exquisite jar of the local black pottery using the ancient Zapotec Wheel, meaning no wheel at all but a saucer turned by one hand as the other shaped the clay.

We had lunch in a restaurant near the Tule Tree, a immense cypress supposedly 2,000 years old. Its easy to disparage such a tourist attraction, but actually it was awesome. The entire town of Santa Maria del Tule appeared to have been built around the tree with tourism in mind, with flower beds and elegant walkways. Theres a fence around the tree, so that you must pay the 2 pesos entrance fee to get the closest look at the allegedly biggest tree in the world, at 53 meters around and a little more than 41 meters tall.

Thrilled by the gorgeous work of the local artisans I had seen in the villages, I found my way to the Mercado des Artesanias, just a few blocks from my hotel. It was hot and close inside, as well as dark, not like the cheerful outdoor shops in the villages. The wares were superb, and I shopped, but I remain haunted by the sight of a young boy of ten or eleven selling an armload of very wilted white flowers. He had exhaustion in his eyes as he shuffled through the stiffling airless mercado, slumped like an old man. His skin was blotchy with patches of white on his brown face, and his eyes were weary. How I regret not buying his flowers.

That night I went to El Sagrario, a three story café-restaurant-pizzeria-nightclub close to the zocalo. Good thing I got there early, because by ten thirty there was standing room only. Two live bands alternated, so there was constant music but little dancing until a group of three young men from Veracruz arrived. Luckily they sat near me, and once the band got their salsa groove, the three of them alternated dancing with me. Soon I was invited to join them at their table, and I thought I had died and gone back to Cuba. Juan Carlos, one of the most handsome men I ever met, danced like a Cuban.

Sunday I went to mass at the elegantly rococo Santo Domingo church. The inside is dazzling gold leaf, the outside a gorgeous green limestone. Later that evening I returned for an outdoor chamber music concert by the Mozart String Sextet with the full moon rising behind the church as a backdrop.

After mass, I headed back to the zocalo for the noon concert of the Oaxaca State Concert Band. I had attended the previous nights concert, and was impressed with the professional sound and lighting, as well as the musicianship and artistry of the performance.

Today they had set up under the large trees instead of in the art nouveau fantasy bandstand, the plazas centerpiece. The many folding chairs were already full of Sunday best elegant locals, European tourists, gringos, indigenous folk in their ethnic clothes, children and babies and grandmothers, teens and the many shoeshine men, who kept on working during the 90 minute concert on customers happy to listen as they sat in comfortable padded chairs on wheels. The eclectic program included Bolero, Granada, and Deep in the Heart of Texas.

A little boy selling Chiclets stops in his tracks, enthralled, a foot away from the first trombone player and appears hypnotized for the length of the piece. Another Chiclets vendor, a middle-aged indigenous woman, stops working the crowd when the band strikes up the Pineapple Dance from the local Gueleguetza folklore, and claps joyously with the music. Everyone jumps to their feet and sings the final piece, Oaxaca Linda, the state anthem, with love and pride. I had never seen such a magical blending of an audience, although I know music does that.

I was so filled with joy that after the concert I couldnt do anything but relish it. And so took a table at one of the many zocalo cafes and ordered a cup of chocolate and watched the parade going by my table.

Good natured vendors of small wooden toys plied their products to us sitting ducks at the outdoor cafes. To the contrary of being bothered by the vendors, it was a pleasure to sit in that lovely spot and have the wares come to me. And if I refused (how many chicken paddles can you use?), the sellers continued on with a smile.

A beautiful dark and slender young woman balanced a huge basket of red roses on her head as she crossed in front of me like a dancer. A candlelight peace vigil was making a presence in these last days before the Iraqi war. A mandolin quintet, with claves, was singing everyones favorite songs for a price.

The many colossal balloon clusters of invisible vendors seemed like eerie, silent witnesses to the life in the plaza. They bobbed, pulsed, breathed, appearing to me like living plastic and mylar beings of great wisdom. Zocalo life could come and go, but the balloons saw it all and werent telling.

Returning to my hotel, I glanced into the courtyard of an ancient building and saw dancers moving together without music. Stopping I looked harder because what they were doing reminded me of tango. A closer look told me it was tango, or was supposed to be.

Drawn like a magnet, I went in and asked a seated woman if this was a rehearsal for a dance performance. No, it seemed this was a tango class! Well, I said, I am a tourist here, but I am a professional tango dancer.

The class came to a sudden halt, and I was swept toward the teacher, a skinny toothless old man. Someone punched play on the boombox, and nothing would do but the old man and I had to dance a tango together for the camcorder! After what was a very painful experience because he hadnt a clue how to dance but must have picked up some choreography from Rudolf Valentino movies, they turned the video camera on me and asked me to dance solo! I danced a solo tango which is now preserved on video in Oaxaca, Mexico! I talked to some of the students, danced with young Alejandro and exchanged email addresses, and I sashayed on my way feeling like a movie star.

Sad to be leaving the next morning, and challenged to get all of my purchases packed for the bus, I put off thinking about it and went to an internet ice cream store. I ordered two scoops of nieveZapotec Dreams and Tamarindo with Chileto refresh me as I pounded out descriptive email to my friends who had never had the good fortune to visit Oaxaca. And I stayed for quite a while, having another iceMescal this timeas the internet cost only 8 pesos per hour (about $.75).

Maybe Ill postpone my return to San Miguel and go back to that fabulous museum in the Ex-Convento of Santo Domingo, and while Im at it, revisit the Tamayo Museum, too. And since there are seven types of mole and Ive only had two of them, some more meals on the zocalo also seem like a good idea. There is so much to see and doand eat!in Oaxaca.

An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 9

Posted on July 1, 2004 by admin

Dancing Down The Aisle
By Cherie Magnus

I would believe only in a God that knows how to dance. ~Friedrich Nietzsche

I dance down the aisle of Saint Pauls Anglican Church in San Miguel twice a month, carrying my cross. Like most people, Ive always had a cross to bear, except for that brief perfect time of my marriage. And now I have a literal one. Im a Crucifer.

The cross I carry is very beautiful, made of stained glass and Tiffany jewels. And I do dance with it, the processional step-pause of a wedding, and always in time to the hymn being sung. I wear a white alb, usually my San Miguel cocktail huaraches and a small ruby and silver cross made by a local jeweler.

It is such a blessing for me to serve in this way. I feel proud and humble and thankful. The Mexican people are accustomed to physically participating in their religion on a daily basis, unlike the Protestant gringo and Northern European. Ive felt so envious of all the processions and the full-blown, emotional festivals Ive witnessed here, longing to be a part of them. In my own quiet gringa way Ive built altars in my apartment, and lately in the business offices of my busy Mexican friends. Im always in the streets for the processions on feast days, I walked all night the 17 kilometers from Atotonilco at Easter time, and Ive gone alone late at midnight to the Panteon on Day of the Dead, wishing I could join a family celebration on the grave of a loved one.

What an exquisite and moving tradition to have a special day to honor ones dead with remembrances and fiestas. It is so healthy for the living to remember their loved ones and to contemplate their own mortality in a personal way. My husbands grave in France is a plot leased for only twenty more years, my mother is buried in an old graveyard in downtown Los Angeles, my fathers burial place is in the Valley with my grandfathers, and my grandmothers ashes were scattered at sea before she allowed me or my children to be notified of her death. No one visits, and certainly no one parties on their graves, bringing their favorite foods and drink and flowers to lure their spirits back for that night, unless its a Mexican familys overflow. But now Ive learned how to lure their spirits back to me once a year.

Here in Mexico religion is everywhere, and I am thankful I have one too. Maybe Im not a Catholic, but it doesnt matter. I understand the sufferings of Jesus, and his mother, Our Lady of Sorrows. I pray to the same God, and the complicated legends and stories that Mexicans grow up with now enrich my faith too. Im moved to touch the old beloved images the people kiss and adore even though it is not in my culture as a Lutheran, but I am blessed just the same. All the thousands of saints and the Hosts of Heaven and the Orishas of Cuba look after me too, and Im thankful I at last found out about them.

Last Easter season I made the midnight pilgrimage from Atononilco, a beautiful old church (called the Sistine Chapel of Mexico) in a village 17 km from San Miguel., an annual tradition for over 250 years–carrying a sacred image to San Miguel for the Easter season. About 6,000 people walk along in silence behind El Senor de la Columna in the light of torches, with rockets going off at the head of the procession to announce our arrival. Then at six on Sunday morning, when we entered San Miguel on Independencia, thousands more people lined the decorated streets in welcome, offering the pilgrims hot food and drink. We stopped there to unveil the images, and then continued on to the church of San Juan de Dios, walking through the mint and manzanilla and elaborate designs in colored sawdust covering the cobblestones, our footsteps scattering in an instant the beautiful patterns incorporating Catholic and indigenous designs that took all the previous day and night to make.

My personal cross has been heavy at times, with all the illness, death and loss of the past decade. But Ive always had help in carrying it, and now to lead the procession to worship in a beautiful little church in Mexico is my blessing and reward.

Neohygiene Excerpts

Posted on July 1, 2004 by admin

By Dan Hall

The following are excerpts from Dan Hall’s new book, Neohygiene

Neohygiene (Part 1)

Do bacteria cause disease? Do viruses? What if I told you that they didnt? Does HIV cause AIDS? Do immunizations prevent disease? Does anthrax, Ebola, E. Coli, the Hanta virus, smallpox, influenza, the West Nile virus, or any other so-called deadly pathogen cause sickness or pose any deadly threat whatsoever? What if I said the answers to all of these questions was no? What if I were to tell you that no matter how many sick people you come in contact with, you cant catch disease? Am I insane? Crazy? Nuts? The truth is, weve all been duped into believing a theorythe germ theory of diseasethat just isnt true. Weve all been tricked since birth into embracing the idea that when we are around someone who is sick, we can also become sick, regardless of how healthy we are at the time. Call it what you will brainwashing, hypnosis, or whateverthis trickery runs so deep until we never notice all the times when we are around sick people and we dont catch their illnesses. We only remember the times when contagion appears to occur, and this only strengthens our belief in disease transmission. This belief, of course, is not true. We have been convinced of the existence of vampires and ghosts, and now, more than any other time in history, we must open our eyes and stop embracing the lies we are being told.

Scientists since the late 1800s, including Louis Pasteur, have all been part of a rather disorganized conspiracy to convince the public that the true cause of disease is pesky germs. Of course, there was no real conspiracy. Medical practitioners have also duped themselves into believing these deceptions just as much as theyve duped us into believing their irrational propaganda. The germ theory of disease came on the heels of the Middle Ages when people believed that demons and evil spirits caused all diseases, so it wasnt that big of a transition to go from demons to microscopic bacteria. The belief in viruses came later, but they dont cause disease, either. Wait a minute! Am I saying that Ebola, HIV, and other viruses dont cause disease? Am I saying that anthrax, pneumonia, and other diseases are not caused by bacteria? The answer to both questions is a resounding yes! Viruses and bacteria cause disease about as much as trees cause the wind to blow. It might look like this is the case, and thats why scientists have duped themselves into believing such a fallacy, but in ruth, health is caused by healthy living. I cant transmit my bad health any more than I can transmit my good health. Its easy to blame germs, but what we should be doing is blaming ourselves when we get sick. Were responsible, and thats something a lot of people just dont want to hear.

I know what Ive said so far is pretty hard to swallow. After all, youve believed all of your life that diseases are caused by bacteria and viruses. Youve believed that the common cold is contagious, that the flu can only be prevented by vaccination, and that Ebola, AIDS, anthrax, and other dreaded diseases are highly lethal and to be avoided at all costs. But youve been tricked into believing all of these myths by a medical establishment that has been built upon the shaky foundation of the germ theory of disease. Combine this with the fact that the business of medicine is just thata business, and a rather large and profitable one, to say the leasttheres no mystery as to how an entire establishment of medical practitioners could fall prey to the same deceptions they have used to deceive us into believing in their scare tactics and lies.

Neohygiene (Part 2)

It wasnt that long ago that a guy by the name of Louis Pasteur convinced an entire nationand eventually, the entire worldto believe in his germ theory. Most people think of Pasteur as the guy who invented pasteurization, but he was responsible for so much more. Men like Pasteur, Edward Jenner, and Robert Koch are among those responsible for the perpetuation of both the germ theory of disease and the theory of immunizationtwo ideas that have set the foundation for the vast majority of todays medical establishment. With so much resting on the backs of these two outdated theories, it is interesting to note that they are rarely tested under strict scientific scrutiny; instead, they are oftentimes believed to be true without question, making the belief in the medical model more a religion than a science. Whats worse, the germ theory of disease as well as the theory of immunization are both outdated, erroneous, and unnecessary in todays world. Both ideas were even questioned and opposed at their inception, but dissention fell on deaf ears. The truth is quite the opposite from all you have ever learned, and slowly but surely, the truth is making itself knowntruths such as the AIDS hoax, the lie of childhood immunization, and most importantly, the myth of contagion.

In case youre wondering, I am not a medical doctor, nor do I insult myself by claiming to be one. My advice comes from years of experience and knowledge, but no claims are made that this advice is based upon so-called clear medical evidence as would be embodied in the writings of a person with a medical degree or license. I do not claim to be an authority on curative medicine, but as you will soon realize, prevention is the key to health; however, there are times when you should visit your doctor. As aforementioned, if you have a medical emergency, you are encouraged to consult a physician.

Many years ago, I was like most people in America: overweight, unhealthy, and completely ignorant of how to live disease-free. I had a grandfather who died of lung cancer, a mother who developed chronic fatigue syndrome and diabetes, a grandmother with emphysema and arthritis, an alcoholic father, and numerous other family members and friends with a variety of health problems. When I would develop cold or flu symptoms, they would last for weeks at a time, and no matter which medicines I took or doctors I visited, my wellness was on a steady decline. I suffered from severe stomach cramps, had canker sores on a regular basis, and it was very rare for me to go a single day without mild aches and pains throughout my body. When I sought the help of doctors, they rarely did anything but medicate, medicate, medicate. Sometimes, I was given prescription medications from relatives who were just too lazy to take me to the doctor. My health waned because of these so-called standard medical procedures. Unfortunately for me, this type of health is what most people consider typical. Most people expect to be in ill health, and they fully believe that whatever their doctor tells them, it has to be true! What I now consider to be poor health is actually considered normal health by the medical establishment, because with the current medical model being based upon the germ theory of disease, medical practitioners must assume that if only germs cause illnesses, then illnesses can only be cured by medical means and rarely prevented. This type of thinking has duped our entire mainstream world into adhering to ideas that have put our collective and individual health in jeopardy. We go through life fearing bacteria and virusesthings we cannot seeand we trust the opinions of people we do not know without ever questioning what they have told us to believe. We strictly adhere to the idea that the symptoms of disease mean that there is something wrong with the body, and we are quick to go to the doctor or pharmacist to get medications to relieve our symptoms without ever wondering what caused the symptoms in the first place.

Did you know that over 100,000 people each year die of properly-used prescription medications? But because the media, the medical establishment, and most people are under the impression that prescription medications are both good and necessary, we rarely hear of these deaths. Regardless, adverse reactions to prescription medications are high, but instead of hearing about these deaths on the nightly news, we hear about anthrax, the West Nile virus, and other such diseases that take as many as a whopping few dozen lives per year! More people die each year of fluoride poisoning from drinking tap water! More people die each year from routine vaccinations! But we dont hear about these deaths. They arent sensational enough, not to mention the fact that if we were privy to such information, many medical industries would fail in their attempts to medicate the entire globe. And thats not good for business. You might think youre in good hands with your friendly neighborhood physician, but what you have probably never realized is that the sole purpose of the medical establishment is medicine! It would be called the preventive establishment if its purpose was to prevent disease, but medicine, by its very design, is curative, not preventive. You take medications to relieve symptoms. With the exception of the occasional routine check-up, doctors rarely see patients before they are sick, and whats sad is that when they do, the patients are often sent home with a clean bill of physical health and a mental diagnosis of being a hypochondriac! We have been taught to go to doctors when were sick. We have been taught that sickness is caused by germs; therefore, prevention doesnt matter.

Dan Hall is a teacher and author living in Georgia. Visit him on the Web at http://www.neohygiene.com.

Your Crowning Glory

Posted on July 1, 2004 by admin

A new awareness to the causes of hair loss in women
By Diana Dudas

Summertime can have a nasty habit of making us sit and notice. We suddenly have anew self awareness. Wintertime can have a definite adverse affect on both your hair and skin. This is aggravated by an over indulgence of rich nurturing foods, caffeine and alcohol. It sometimes takes spring creeping over the windowsill to give you that extra wake up call, and a new self awareness. It is during this time that your old summer wardrobes may look sad, due to extra poundage gained over the hibernation season. Skin may appear dry, and your hair can appear to seem limp and lifeless and in extreme cases hair loss may be apparent.

Hair loss in women is becoming more prominent, and this has persuaded doctors to take a closer look at the problem. It has been proven that poor diet can play a big part in promoting hair loss, especially in women, whom already have to contend with hormone in balances, which also contribute to hair loss.

What causes hair loss in women?

DHT

95% of hair loss in women is cause by androgentic Alopecia ( female pattern baldness). This may be inherited from your parents. What causes the hair loss in this condition is a chemical called DHT (dihydrotestosterone), which is hormone that all men and women produce) .People that make more DHT have a lot of the enzyme called 5_alpha reductase. An excess of DHT may cause hair follicles to the hair become increasingly thinner, until the follicle will eventually stop producing hair at all. The baldness will be predominantly over the front and sides of the head and not in the crown area as with men. This will get worse with menopause.

A women’s biochemistry if often out of balance, and this along with poor diet can create a toxic environment and un acceptable amounts of copper and salt in the system.

Oily Hair

As hair thins the sebaceous gland that secreted sebum the hairs natural oil, will stay the same size and continue to produce the same amount of oil. This can make thinning hair overly oily, flat and lifeless. This makes frequent shampooing vital for hair loss cases with oily scalps. Sebum also contains DHT which can clog pores and deter healthy hair growth.

Hormones

Hormonal changes are a common cause of female hair loss. After a pregnancy, or when taking birth control pills, many women experience hair thinning to varying degrees, but only on a temporary basis.
While a woman is pregnant, and hormonal changes are occurring, more hair follicles enter the growth phase than normal. About two to three months after childbirth, the normal hair cycle returns and many hairs re-enter the resting phase, which causes excessive shedding to occur. If the condition does not change after six months, a woman may be experiencing hereditary hair thinning or maybe be lacking in certain nutrients to an unbalanced diet.

Unbalanced Diet

What you eat is reflected in the health of your hair. Your hair as well as your body needs a balanced, nutritious diet to stay healthy. Making a conscious decision to eat an abundance of fruits and vegetables that are loaded with vitamins and anti oxidants is essential. whist, whole grains , nuts and seeds will provide minerals and vitamins. A lean protein will add sufficient iron to the diet and a fortified cereal breakfast will complete the nutritional pyramid. Of course drinking plenty of purified water will give your hair maximum hydration.
Eating organic, will help deter the body from becoming toxic, especially from copper, and steering clear of processed foods will prevent a high sodium intake.

Salt and Copper wreak havoc

Unhealthy tissue concentrations of copper, can cause hair loss. These amounts would be below 1.7milligrams or above 3.5 milligrams. Copper toxicity can vary from person to person, and can depend on the individuals metabolism and diet. Vegetarians for example are not always able to retain copper, which means they are more susceptible to hair loss.

How does copper get into our system

Drinking water that comes from old copper pipes is prime. Also the food that we eat. For instance copper can be included in animals diets which in turn is then passed on in our daily regime. It is also not uncommon for farmers to incorporate copper into their anti-fungal and algae sprays. Birth control such as the pill and IUD both use copper, making women more susceptible to copper imbalances. Swimmers are also at risk sue to a popular algaecide used in pool water.

Salt Savvy

It is common knowledge that too much sodium or salt is not good for us, But even if we are salt savvy and do what’s best by avoiding salt. Our bodies can still produce too much sodium due to too much stress, which will naturally increase sodium retention.

What to advise!

If you have a client suffering with hair loss, it might be a good idea to mention the above and advise the following:

* Drink Bottled Water
* Avoid foods high in copper, such as milk, chocolate, oysters, nuts, high fat meats and salmon.
* Avoid salt and eat a low sodium diet ( steering clear of processed foods is a good idea as they tend to be high in sodium
* Try to stay stress free. If a stressful lifestyle is on the agenda, then relaxation techniques such as yoga and meditation will help to reduce sodium levels.

Other causes of excessive hair loss.

* You should normally shed on average between 80-100 hairs each day, however any more than this and you might want to re-think your diet or lifestyle.
* Chemical treatments done in correctly , or excessive pulling on the hair due to over tight ponytails or braids, are also likely to cause hair loss.

If you follow a healthy lifestyle or do not fall into any of these categories and you are still experiencing hair loss, you may want to consult with your doctor or trichologist. As a more serious health problem may be the cause!

Author Diana Dudas G.C.H.S.R.H. is an expert with more than 28 years experience in the beauty industry. She has answered over 2000 questions for allexperts.com and has had her work published in many well-respected beauty magazines both online and off.

My Unfulfilled (and Unfulfillable?) Fantasy

Posted on July 1, 2004 by admin

By Mark Bernstein

Last Fall I spent a month as a volunteer neurosurgeon and teacher in Indonesia. I went alone; my wife and three daughters remained in Canada. It was a fabulous experience to leave my privileged world in Toronto and do some philanthropic work with those less fortunate and I will be doing it on a yearly basis. I didn’t have a lot of time to do much sightseeing but my hosts took me on some short excursions. One turned into a memorable event.

One weekend one of the senior residents, “L”, took me to his family’s country home – a simple but lovely bamboo home in west central Java, nestled in rice fields and small mountains near a town called Garut. On the way we stopped at a hot swimming pool fed naturally by a hot spring. On the way out of there, L chatted up a fellow in the parking lot and then whispered to me: “We’ll get a massage”. I love massages but my initial suspicions quickly turned into worry as we followed the man down long narrow alleys. I felt like I was in a “B” movie, and one that might end badly for the protagonist. I whispered nervously to L: “This is just a massage right?” and he waved off my concerns. The man eventually led us to an open-air room crudely furnished with an old couch and a television. It gave onto two small rooms each with a bed and a bath. We were handed off to another young man who made a call on a cell phone and beckoned us to sit down.

Three minutes later two attractive and seductively clad young ladies appeared. I asked L to explain to them that a regular massage was the order of the day and I added a few graphic hand gestures to clarify for good measure. L went into one room with one young lady and left me with the more exotic and beautiful of the two. She called herself Mickie and I found out she was 24 – the age of my oldest daughter. That’s about all the verbal communicating we could do.

Mickie was quite gorgeous. She had a tight little body, a very beautiful face somewhere between Chinese and Philippina, and mid-length black hair. I found myself tantalized and drawn by her enigmatic beauty and it reminded me that I have always been more than a little fascinated by Asian women. My first wife was the middle daughter of a Japanese father and Irish mother and her delicate elegance and beautiful but understated sexuality was a magnet, along with her gracious personality. My many travels to the Orient and India in the last 20 years have reaffirmed my attraction for Asian women. And every day in my hospital I work in intimate life and death situations with a large number of skilful, compassionate, and ineffably sexy women who have emigrated from the Philippines and China. So the sexual tension was already high when I walked into the little room with Mickie and the door closed behind us. I was both nervous and excited but I knew the only outcome there could be.

The room had peeling paint and was about 95 degrees Fahrenheit with no air movement. I asked for a towel and she giggled as she handed me a washcloth and closed the door. I carefully undressed in front of her and flopped onto the bed on my front with the tiny towel on my buttocks. I heard a belt buckle rattling. I peeked over and saw her shedding her clothes to reveal a skimpy translucent black bikini-style bra and panties.

She poured herself onto the bed and gave me a body rub with a cheap cream. But it was clear this was not her primary area of expertise. When she did my legs she sat between them and the leg she worked on was supported on her thighs as she was in a sitting crouch. The small towel over my genitals slid around precariously. When she did my back she crouched facing my feet so her tight little bum was six inches from my face. Once or twice she made suggestive glances and gestures and almost touches but when I waved my hand “No” she respectfully complied. Being disloyal to my commitment to my wife has never been an option for me, and that combined with the fear of communicable disease shoved any thoughts of “I wonder what it would be like?” out of my mind. But I certainly wondered for a brief moment and I enjoyed every second of the delicious sexual tension that filled the room like the hot humid air.

But besides these good reasons for not having sex with Mickie there was another important reason. I would have had performance anxiety. I was alone with a beautiful young Indonesian woman less than half my age that had been with countless men and I was afraid I could not measure up to her expectations. Here I was a 53-year-old uptight Canadian neurosurgeon with all kinds of insecurities about myself and even if I had been an unfaithful type, I probably could not have gotten it on with Mickie if I had tried. In fact, while I was incredibly turned on during our entire time together (and still get turned on just thinking about it again), not once did even the beginnings of an erection try to emerge.

After about 30 minutes of what was supposed to be a one hour session, I thanked her awkwardly in Indonesian and after I declined an invitation into a bath, she got dressed, then left me alone to do so. Afterwards I joined her on the couch to wait. Every so often she smiled at me and sweetly caressed my thigh or arm as if to say: “Thanks for not being another one”. It was quite touching because instead of seeing her as an experienced prostitute, I saw a vulnerable young woman, someone who could have been my daughter. I thought of the numerous physical and psychological violations she had suffered by strange men entering her body, using her only as a means to an end.

L eventually came out and we paid the bill. Both girls giggled and Mickie hugged me warmly and kissed me gently on the cheek. As we walked to the car, I did not ask L what sort of “massage” he had received. I did not want to know the answer. Many people had told me that marital infidelity by males is extremely common in Indonesia, especially among members of the medical profession.

That day I felt happy to escape but now I can say something that many men may secretly fantasize about: “I’ve been in the company of a prostitute”. But the afternoon graphically reminded me of my fascination with Asian women and it also made me confront my sexual inadequacies and even cowardice. I can tell myself and others that I didn’t fuck Mickie for fidelity reasons and health reasons till the cows come home (and its absolutely true!) but in the final analysis I couldn’t have fucked her even if I had wanted to. Is that pathetic or is it a good thing? I think I’ve figured out the answer to that question but I’ll never be sure.

Mark Bernstein is a neurosurgeon at the Toronto Western Hospital and Professor of Surgery at the University of Toronto. He and his wife Lee (a native Los Angelina) have three daughters and two pet labradors. He has written extensively in the medical literature for over 20 years and for the last few years has been trying his hand at non-medical writing. He is the world’s second worst saxophone player.

Curbside ethics around an injured skunk

Posted on July 1, 2004 by admin

Curbside ethics around an injured skunk: what would you have done?
By Mark Bernstein

Recently one beautiful late spring morning I turned south off a side street onto a busier street which takes me right downtown to my hospital. Even though it was 5:00 a.m. I had to wait for about five cars to whiz by me before I could turn right. After I had completed the turn and was headed south I immediately noticed the car 100 yards in front of me suddenly swerve sharply to the left as if it were avoiding something in the road. I slowed down as there was no-one behind me and there in the middle of the road was an injured animal. It stunk to high Hell and I immediately recognized in the luminescence of early dawn that it was a badly injured skunk. It was squirming around without making any forward progress flopping pathetically from side to side with each effort to move. It had presumably had an encounter with a car in the dark. I parked by the curb 10 yards away from it with my hazard lights flashing, staring at the poor beast, and contemplated my options.

I figured I had four: 1) I could stop and pick it up and drive to an all-hours veterinary clinic (I knew the whereabouts of one due to a recent illness in one of my two Labradors); 2) I could keep driving and forget about it; 3) I could call 911 or information to get a number for the Humane Society (assuming they have an after-hours number); and 4) I could try to somehow put the poor thing out of its misery.

Number 1 didn’t seem doable or safe as skunks have sharp teeth and claws and are carriers of rabies. Furthermore its pungent scent would ruin my nice suit of clothes and the inside of my car and I had no blanket or box anyway. And was I prepared to pay a ridiculous amount of money (trust me, I’ve been to that clinic) to help a feral skunk? Number 2 crossed my mind (as it obviously had for other motorists before me) and was certainly the easiest, but it just didn’t sit right with me. Number 3 seemed impractical. What could the police do? And the animal was likely fatally injured so I strongly doubted the Humane Society would be interested in spending time or resources on it. So I chose number 4 and decided to end the animal’s suffering quickly using my car as a lethal weapon.

I put the car in drive and slowly drove over the poor beast in my heavy Toyota Four-runner truck. I felt the front wheel roll over the animal and a second later the back wheel. I stopped a few yards away and stared back for a good five seconds and it remained motionless. I was satisfied I had done the job. I proceeded down to work, driving slower than usual, deep in thought and feeling a little nauseated but convinced I had done the right and kind thing.

I parked my car in the underground lot at The Toronto Western Hospital. When I got out I immediately noticed the uniquely unpleasant odor the deceased animal had left on the car embedded in the rubber of the tires. Later in the morning I had to give a lecture on bioethics which had been scheduled for months. At the teaching session at the Joint Center for Bioethics of the university of Toronto, I decided to start my session by engaging the audience with my dilemma, citing it as a real-life example of ethical decision making: trying to do the right thing in a given situation given a few options, none of which is great. The same options I had considered were offered and none of the class of about 40 mature learners (e.g.. other physicians and surgeons, nurses, administrators, clinical bioethicists, etc.) showed any revulsion when I disclosed what I had done. In fact, many nodded their approval.

A lovely woman, a bioethicist who I knew, remarked that she took the same route to work a few hours after me and she had actually seen the very skunk I had put out of its misery. Another person applauded my courage. Another woman was matter-of-fact but sympathetic to my situation and added irreverently that at least no-one would likely steal my car because of its new repellent smell. That might be an upside for me, but certainly not for the skunk. I guess it was an attempt to lighten the moment with a little humor, or she didn’t worry too much about the welfare of animals. Later in the day I consulted my best ethics advisor, my wife, and she thought I did the right thing although she confessed that she probably would not have been able to do what I had done.

Sometimes in life we have to do unpleasant things but must take comfort in knowing we felt it was the right thing. Exercising tough love with a child with major problems such as drug abuse would be one example. Another would be kicking a child out of the house when you feel they have overstayed their welcome and their life is not going forward because of their desire to stay in the protection of their parents’ womb. Another would be a doctor reporting to a family an error done in the course of caring for a patient. Another would be breaking the heart of a 29 year old woman, wife, and mother by having to inform her that the brain tumor you have just removed is highly malignant. Maybe these aren’t exactly analogous but you get the idea. Sometimes you need to do something difficult but carry on and go forward knowing you did your best under the circumstances. There are countless examples in our everyday lives. We can go through life hoping we never encounter such dilemmas but we’re kidding ourselves if we believe we will be that lucky.

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An Original Internet Magazine – Online Every Day Since July 1st ,2000, at the-vu.com

Monthly Archives: July 2004

An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 12

An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 11

An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 10

An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 9

Neohygiene Excerpts

Your Crowning Glory

My Unfulfilled (and Unfulfillable?) Fantasy

Curbside ethics around an injured skunk