A Day in the Life of a Peace Corps Volunteer

Mud huts. Goats. Hot, sweltering, mosquito infested jungles. Cutting the heads off of chickens just to have a little meat to eat with your rice. Day-long hikes to get to the nearest market; another day to get back. This is what Peace Corps is. This is what a day in the life of a volunteer is like.

I'm now almost an entire year into my service as a Peace Corps volunteer in Mexico. It is an exotic, developing country, where everyone speaks Spanish, and most people speak some Nahuatl. When I look at a map I realize that I live further south than the Yucatan. My city, Puebla, is surrounded by active volcanoes and is home to the world's largest ancient pyramid. But something just doesn't feel right.

I wake up every morning at about 8am, roosters calling from the nearest neighbor's house. I make a traditional Mexican breakfast; 'confle' con leche. I bought it the day before at one of the world's largest indoor markets, where peddlers sell local crafts and fine linens and spices from as far away as the Orient.

If I want a hot shower I have to go outside and start a fire to heat up some water. But before I go outside, I make sure the tiny but ferocious beast of legend that guards the gate - known locally as the chupacabra - is still asleep after its night of terror. All too often, 'she' has awoken and I must prepare for a battle.

It's going to be a long day of field work. Mud, bugs, manure... It starts with an uphill walk, several kilometers through a dusty, treeless plain. It's a dangerous walk. Wild dogs are common. There are deep holes and cracks in the earth along the sun-baked pathway. I must avoid being stampeded at every turn. I pass through Juarez Canyon, whose high walls block out the sun. In the middle of the canyon is a village called "La Paz." I've heard rumors that this is where the ruling class hides their silver and gold.

At least, this is how my day might appear through Don Quixote's eyes. My breakafst of 'confle'? That's just what some people here call cereal. Its Spanglish for "Corn Flakes." I normally eat a bowl of organic sugar-free granola, or Trix. The world's largest indoor market, the one with the fine Oriental products? Well that's Wal-Mart of course. There are at least ten in Puebla. But it could just as easily be a Sam's or BJ's, or a Mexican subsidiary of one of the above.

To take a hot shower I do have to start a fire; we have a natural gas hot water heater that we turn off at night to save money. And our shower has great water pressure. The chupacabra? We live in a nice apartment complex, with a beautiful garden in the central courtyard. Unfortunately, our upstairs neighbors, who are also our landlords, own a little white fluffy poodle named Fifi. I don't like the little rat dog too much. It won't shut up and never stops nipping at my ankles. Being that it is the landlord's dog, I can't do all of the nice things to her that I really want to do to it.

My walk to work? It is treacherous. There are a lot of stray dogs in Puebla, although the strays are usually friendlier than the ones guarding a house. The sidewalks are poorly maintained and uneven, full of holes and cracks that could swallow up - or trip - an untrained tourist. Crossing the street is a nightmare. Motorists wouldn't think twice about running you down, and would consider it your fault even if you were in a marked crosswalk and the car blew through a red light or a stop sign. I think the problem is that there is no word in Spanish for "the pedestrian has the right-of-way." The lack of trees? Too much concrete and pavement.

Of course, La Paz is just Puebla's international banking district; HSBC, Scotiabank, Swiss Bank, Banamex, and Banorte. The canyon is formed by the numerous modern glass-enclosed high rise office towers and condominiums that line Avenida Juarez with new ones shooting up every day. Avenida Juarez reminds of L.A., lined by palm trees, full of fancy fusion restaurants, night clubs, and boutique shops. And I don't do a lot of field work. I actually work in an office. A big, air conditioned office. I spend most of my 9-5 (9-6, really) workday in front of a computer, trying to figure out ways to get around the internet filter to access Facebook and YouTube.

At the end of the day I take off from the office and head home. When I get there - and escape the guard dog untouched - I flip open my 17 inch lap top. I'm lucky; the wireless broadband internet in my apartment is working perfectly. I go straight to my America Online homepage and read news about the U.S. Man, that country is in chaos. Its economy is about to fail, its politicians are fighting with each other in the streets, and it’s still at war, starting new ones monthly. Its cities are dangerous, with higher drug-use, theft and murder rates than in Puebla. It's hard to imagine how people could live there, with so much instability. But there are some great "Groupon" deals. Could someone tell me wtf a Groupon is? Then I watch some local TV. Friends, Seinfeld, American Idol, America's Got Talent, and at my weakest moments, America's  Next Top Model.

The truth is that many Peace Corps volunteers do spend their time in small villages, in mud huts, herding goats. It’s just a little different for me. Puebla, in many respects, is more modern than where I came from. No offense, Buffalo. Try not to be so self-conscious... Puebla has three outdoor ice skating rinks during the winter, although I wouldn't call what the people do here "skating," in the true sense of the word. There are more fancy European car dealerships in Puebla than in Buffalo. There's even still a Krispy Kreme Doughnuts; those all closed in my hometown when the Atkins Diet became popular.

Of course, there is still some craziness here. The BUAP is a university in Puebla, a private university. It's one of the largest, most renowned universities in the entire country. I work with several students from the BUAP every day. They tell me that they pay 1,500 pesos per semester on tuition, which is equal to just about $120 US dollars. When I think of that, a nearly free, quality higher education, I think to myself wow, now that is backwards and old fashioned! Get with the times Mexico, get with the times.

Never Trust a Fish Monger with Your Money at a Lucha Libre Match in Mexico

It was dark on the narrow streets that night in downtown Puebla. We were walking through a rainstorm, headed south away from the zocalo towards less explored neighborhoods. Except for us, block after block was empty. As we turned a corner everything grew brighter and the wet pavement glistened with lights. Smoke from grilled tacos and sausages filled the air. Hundreds of people were huddled together on the sidewalks beneath roof overhangs to get out of the cold rain. There were street vendors selling masks; some were simple, others were decorated with neon colors, sequins, lightning bolts or even bull horns. It was fight night at the lucha libre arena; a Mexican wrestling match was about to start.

Of course we had planned on attending. Although I had been to a lucha libre match in Queretaro the year before, I didn't get to see anyone famous for the two dollar admission fee. Needless to say, I got what I paid for; several rounds of old, overweight men in spandex jump suits, running back and forth chasing each other as children in the audience taunted them and suggested they workout a little before the next match. This time we were spending twelve dollars to get in and were going to get to see some of Mexico's most famous - and hopefully most talented - luchadores. "La Sombra" and "La Mascara" were the main event. The Mask versus The Shaddow for the title.

I was with "El Gigante" - that's Andrew's stage name - and we were meeting up with a few of Andrew's Kiwi/Ausi/Austri (the last one is short for Austrian) friends that he had met on top of a mountain somewhere the day before. From the outside, the arena was small and non-descript, with the ambiance of a meat-packing warehouse. It felt like one of those mysterious secret clubs in New York City that have no signs advertising their location. Inside, the arena was dark with only the brightly lit the ring at the center proving that we had come to the right place. The arena looked like a large, deteriorating high school gym. The floor seats were separated from the second tier seats behind them by a chain-linked fence that went all the way to the ceiling high above. A balcony of the third tier seats hung directly above the second tier seats. I could make out the movement of people sitting above us while loud drums and horns blared away from behind hundreds of shadowy faces.    

As we got settled into our seats, I decided I needed to eat something. Several vendors came and went, selling cemitas (sandwiches), brochetas de camaron (shrimp kabobs), churros (sugary fried dough sticks), and papas con salsa y limon (imagine a clear plastic bag of potato chips, soggy from lemon juice, drenched in a blood-like hot sauce). Finally I saw what I wanted; fried fish. I mean, what could be safer than eating some street fish at a Mexican wrestling match? My plate came with three strips of fish, a few slices of lemon, and yes, I poured the bloody salsa on top of it all. It cost 25 pesos. I handed the vendor 200 pesos, needing change. But he didn't have enough in his pocket. He said he would be back "ahorrita" with my change, which after nearly a year down here I think means either before, right now, or later, although at work it usually means never, not going to happen, or go away. As the man walked away, he turned around several times to reassure me that he would be back with my money. I couldn't help but think of my next blog title as he quickly made his way through the crowd, out the front doors of the arena and into the darkness beyond...

What else could I do other than sit back, get a kid to bring me a beer and "enjoy" the event. By the way, did I mention this was Andrew's idea? Then the fighting began; a group of three muscular, shaved, tanned men, wearing nothing more than brightly colored Speedos and full face masks ran from the dressing room - which doubled as the men's bathroom - under the stands. A second, similar looking group of three followed them. Each team was accompanied by a theme song, usually something from one of Tom Cruise's earlier works like Days of Thunder or Top Gun. The two teams taunted, then fought, then taunted each other again. I couldn't tell who was on who's team. The fighting consisted of punching, jumping, running, and strange grappling positions that looked more like something you might have to pay to see on the internet - or at least prove that you're over 18 to enter - especially given the attire.

And this continued for two hours. New matches between new teams started and ended the same way, with the same awkward, nearly naked hugging positions randomly placed in the middle. The fans loved it, even as they were hit with flying sweat and the occasional spitball from the luchadores.  All the while I kept looking through the crowds for the man with my change, waiting anxiously for his return. Other fish vendors came and went. My beer had long since been dry. I was losing hope.

The final match began. La Sombra, dressed in a black cape and purple mask, ran with his team out into the ring. La Mascara, dressed in red spandex from head to toe, followed with his team (and a little person dressed in a psycho chicken costume). The match began, same as the others, although with a few more aerial acrobatics than before. Regardless of the improvements, the psycho chicken was still the most entertaining part.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man who had sold me the fried fish walk in through the front door of the arena. I could see that he had my change in his hands. I got out of my seat and started walking towards him to try to seal the deal. When I was right next to him I reached out my hand for my money. Suddenly, I saw a look of horror cross his face. He lunged towards me and shoved me to the floor. Just then, two massive luchadores flew from the ring crashing into the crowd right where I was just standing, crushing the empty chairs they fell on. From the cold concrete floor, I looked at the fish vendor who had pushed me out of the way of imminent doom lying next to me, saving me from the eternal hold of The Shaddow. He smiled as he handed me my change. In Mexico, not only can you trust a wrestling arena fish monger with your money, you can trust him with your life.

Disclaimer - This story is entirely, 100% factual... Except for the dramatic ending. When the vendor walked in through the front door, he immediately made his way towards me and gave me my change without incident. There was no close call, no near death experience. The wrestling match ended suddenly soon afterwards with an announcement over the arena loudspeakers whose meaning will forever remain a mystery to us non-Spanish speakers. Although the vendor didn't "actually" save my life, his fish didn't kill me, either.

sportimes.com.mx

porrafresapuebla.blogspot.com

thecubsfan.com

The Windshield Washer, Puebla

The bus driver pulled to the side of the road and parked. He signaled  to someone we had passed in the intersection, waving for that person to come over. I saw the top of a man's head pass outside along the side of the bus, from each window to the next, bouncing up and down as he ran to talk to the bus driver. When he reached the front of the bus he jumped onto the hood and climbed towards the windshield. He was the windshield washer.

The windshield washer looked thirty years old. His shirt was dirty and ripped and his pants were dark with grease and oil. His face was rugged; his skin was thick and sun-worn and he hadn't shaved in a few days. He carried a rubbery piece of plastic in his mouth, had a rag in his belt and a bottle of grey, soapy water in his pocket. He quickly pulled out the bottle and sprayed the windshield, working from the top to the bottom in controlled zigzags. Ho took out the rag and lathered up the soapy water until the entire left half of the windshield was covered in soap suds. He soon disappeared behind the froth.

A subdued version of a cumbia song was playing loudly over the sound system on the bus. The accordions were the voice and the drums made the beat. It was slow and rhythmic. The windshield washer appeared suddenly at the top of the window in a clearing in the lather. He began scraping away the suds in long, connected arcs, from side to side, from top to bottom, moving in unison with the 4/4 beat of the song until the entire windshield was clean. He repeated the process on the right side of the windshield; spraying the soapy water, lathering it up, then scraping it away.

When he was done he paused for a moment to look at his work. He cocked his head to the side, examining the windshield - the entire windshield. He was deep in thought. His face wrinkled slowly in discomfort, displeased with the results of his work. He took out his tools again, focusing on a small smudge in the center of the glass. He sprayed, lathered, scraped, and examined. This time his face softened. He put away his tools and jumped off the hood. He was satisfied with his art.

The windshield washer walked to the side window and the bus driver paid him for his work. The music kept playing as the windshield washer walked away. He had earned ten pesos - about 80 cents - and a smile of satisfaction.

The Sierra Negra - In 24 Hours

I could see for miles in all directions. Flat pastures, brown from a lack of rain and overgrazing. Irrigated crops fields, artificial green oasis' in an otherwise barren plain. Pico de Orizaba, Mexico's tallest mountain, towered over us to our left. From our vantage point on the highway 2,000 meters above sea level, we were still 3,600 meters below its icy peak. And although it was now 9am, we were still trapped in Pico's pre-dawn shadow.

Pico de Orizaba

I was in a pick-up truck with my SEMARNAT co-workers on a highway in Puebla's altiplano, driving southeast towards Tehuacan. We were going to visit small communities in the Sierra Negra mountain range that divides the state of Puebla from the state of Veracruz. Pico de Orizaba defines the northwestern end of the range, the more traversed, populated part of the mountains. We were headed in the opposite direction.

We arrived in Tehuacan, the "land of the gods" in nahuatl, at about 10am. Tehuacan lies in a valley about 1,500 meters above sea level.  The Sierra Negras form the northern edge of that valley. Tall peaks, steep slopes, and sheer rock faces loomed large over the city, forming an intimidating barrier that stretched as far as I could see in both directions. All of the moisture that collects in the air over the Gulf of Mexico falls on the eastern Veracruz side of the Sierra Negras, leaving Tehuacan hot and dry.

Although seemingly impenetrable, we began our journey up and over the wall. A narrow road, prone to rockslides, wound its way along dangerous cliffs. Parts of the road had been washed out recently - within the last ten years - and had not been repaired. It seemed unlikely that the guard rails could stop the force of our multi-ton truck if they had to. Desert scrub vegetation was accentuated with forty foot tall candelabra  and "old man's beard" cactus.

Candelabra Cactus

Oak forest

After about an hour of going up, our road leveled off and began meandering through an evergreen oak forest. The canopy was thick and the leaves were large, dark green, and waxy. The air was cool and moist, and smelled like rich organic earth. The trees were tall and thick, but not straight. They tilted this way and that, new branches broke off at odd angles, and knots the size of cars formed wherever they pleased. The trees were covered in mosses, lichens and bromeliads. Each tree was an ecosystem that took hundreds of years to form.

Mountain creek in the oak forest.

Soon we had reached the top of the mountain range, about 3,500 meters above sea level. The oak forests were below us and had transitioned into a blanketing pine forest. A constant, cool breeze blew through the tops of the trees. The air moving through the pine needles was the only sound we could hear.

Pine forest

As we began our descent down the other side of the mountains, the forests were no longer pristine and untouched. Large swaths of trees had been cut and replaced with pastures or corn fields. At about 2,000 meters our road became engulfed in fog. We were heading down through a high, narrow valley. In most places its seep walls were barren with thousands of acres of rock that was once tropical cloud forest, once dominated by tree ferns and short hardwoods. The people who live here use slash and burn techniques to make room for corn fields. Unfortunately, their new corn fields last only two or three years; the deforested slopes quickly erode, leaving only rock not even suitable for corn. Over the last fifty years the people that live here have continued to move up the valley, into ever steeper and less hospitable parts of the mountains, searching for what little land is left to farm, before moving on again. Sierra Negra means black mountains in English. It was named that because its deep forests made the mountains appear black from below. In a few years, the name won't mean anything.

Church in the cloud forest.

Slash and burn in the cloud forest.

A mother and child at the meeting.

We reached the base of the other side of the mountains at 1pm, three hours after leaving Tehuacan. We were at sea level surrounded by dense rainforest, although it was difficult to see far through the afternoon haze. In one direction was the Sierra Negra,  in the other the coastal plain that stretched about a hundred miles towards the Gulf of Mexico. The humidity percentage was near 100 and the temperature was at least that high. In one community, we met with people at a community center for about two hours, signing them up for temporary employment projects that SEMARNAT pays for. Some of these projects make sense, like erosion control walls or tree plantings. Others do not. SEMARNAT routinely pays people to build greenhouses for coffee seedlings and watering holes for cows. Coffee plantations and livestock are the leading causes of deforestation in Mexico. SEMARNAT is Mexico's federal environmental agency and tries to give people alternatives to environmentally destructive ways of supporting themselves. I had always assumed we were trying to give them alternatives to coffee and cows.

A river in the rainforest.

We stayed in one of the mountain communities overnight. The next day we headed back towards Tehuacan, up and over the Sierra Negra, retracing our route from the day before. After passing Tehuacan, we got back on the highway and were on our way to Puebla. In the distance, thunder clouds were forming over the altiplano, pouring down from the mountains on the other side of the state. It soon began to rain. Streams of water were pouring through the eroded ravines in the desert. Growing impatient with the small car in front of us, our driver, who was Mexican and grew up in Puebla, moved into the lane with oncoming traffic to try to pass it. Our pick-up truck began swerving out of control. The driver was repeating rapidly that he didn't know what was going on, that there was something wrong with the road, there was something wrong with the road, all in Spanish. I was in the front seat and started to panic. It was raining so hard that I could hardly see the road even with the windshield wipers going at full speed. Although we started that morning in a tropical rainforest and we were now in a Mexican desert that was nearly 100 degrees only moments before, I could see that there was nearly a half foot of slushy snow on the highway, causing the driver to lose control of the truck. He had no idea what was going on and thought the road was broken.

Snow on the road.

We passed through Tehuacan at 10am, 24 hours after leaving Tehuacan the day before. In that short amount of time, we had passed through deserts, primordial oak and pine forests, the remnants of cloud forests, and through a rainforested plain, all in the same mountain range. We had driven through communities whose principal language wasn't Spanish or English, but one of the many indigenous languages spoken in Mexico. We stayed in a town that was disconnected from the world; that wasn't part of Veracruz because of arbitrary political boundaries, and that wasn't quite part of Puebla because of its remoteness. And the trip ended with a snow storm in the hot, dry altiplano desert.   

Snow along the highway.

A dust storm followed the snow.

Just Trying to Get By, Puebla

"TAMALES ATOLE TAMALEEEEES!!!" I hear in a low, gurgled voice over a loudspeaker. "TAMALES ATOLE TAMALEEEEES!!!" It’s coming from a salesman riding his tricycle down the street in front of my house, selling coffee-like drinks and breakfast tamales. He's there every day at the same time, so it must be 7am, time to get out of bed and get ready for work.

Over the next half hour I slowly wake myself up. I soon hear the song of the natural gas truck getting closer, selling cylinders of gas for 200 pesos, its tune still stuck in my head from the day before. Over its loudspeaker I hear "El Gaaas", the sound crescending upward. Its followed by "Hidrogas..." I eventually get the courage to put on some clothes, go into the cold courtyard behind our house, turn on our gas and light the water boiler. Luckily there's still gas and I don't have to flag the truck down as it roles by. And, thankfully, I didn’t have to fight off Fifi, the landlord’s screeching, biting, obnoxious white poodle.

At 9am I leave the house and start the journey to the office. The woman in the apartment on one side of my home is rolling up the white metal gate to the pharmacy that she runs from her front room. On the weekends, she sits at the register with her sister's ten year old daughter, helping her with her homework while her sister is at work somewhere else. On the other side of my house a grandmother sets up a table with homemade "jugos y gelatinas", selling them for ten pesos each. The front door is open to her living room where you can buy all sorts of salty and sugary snacks. The two women that usually sit at the corner under a tarp as they bake handmade blue corn tortillas, or if you ask, add cheese, beans, and crispy chicharon to make quesadillas, haven't yet arrived. It's still early and their food is more of a lunch than a breakfast.

I wait at the corner for the bus. I pick the first one going to the CAPU bus terminal because it will go by my office and it usually doesn't take more than two minutes before one comes by. The bus might be white, green, red, purple, or any number of other color combinations. This time, it's a bright yellow number 10. As it comes closer I wave and it slams on its breaks, pulling over near the sidewalk. I jump on quickly and hold on tight. I hand the bus driver ten pesos for a six peso ride. As the bus starts speeding forward, the driver collects my money, makes my change and hands me my bus ticket. He steers the bus back into traffic, closing in on 40 or 50 miles per hour, all the while shifting gears on the manual transmission. He is talking to the dispatcher on a cell phone held between his head and his shoulder. The amazing thing is that he only has one arm, and it’s his left arm, on the opposite side of the gear shift and the boarding passengers with money.

The bus driver isn't going to wait for me - or the eighty year old grandmother behind me - to get on and sit down before speeding back up. The bus driver isn't just some jerk though; he either owns the bus or rents it from the bus company. He is just one of maybe thirty bright yellow number 10s, and one of a hundred buses with the same route, all competing for customers. The money he makes is is spent on the licensing fee for renting the bus, the taxes paid to the municipality for operating the bus, and the gas that the bus burns to speed down crowded streets during traffic jams. The leftover money is the "profit." If he gets stuck behind another bus on his route, he gets no passengers. Sometimes, two buses line up side by side and race down the street, not stopping for new passengers until one gets far enough ahead to beat the other through stoplight as it turns red, stranding the loser.

After I get my change I struggle down the narrow aisle as the bus bounces down the poorly paved road at very high speeds. I finally find a seat somewhere near the back. It isn't long before someone gets on the bus offering to sell a CD of banda music or rancheros, burned on her computer from downloaded MP3s. She demonstrates the CDs with the stereo and speakers she has hooked up around her waist. It’s only twenty pesos, but I really don't need the CD, so I pass. Sometimes it’s live music; a teenage boy with a guitar, a two-piece mariachi band, or a blind person singing a hymn about the grace of god, asking for whatever change you have left from the bus ticket. Sometimes it’s a man trying sell "cacahuates", or even "papas", ready to add salsa and limón to your peanuts and potato chips if you ask. Or maybe it’s an old man, down on his luck, asking for two pesos, or five. Anything you can spare.

About 25 minutes later, after going past the round-a-bout at dangerously high speeds, I stand up, press the button above me to signal that I want to get off, hold on tight as the bus comes to a halt, then jump off as fast as I can as the bus never really comes to a complete stop.

As I walk down the road towards the office, a stray dog, a beautiful golden retriever, catches up and waits for the light to turn red with me at the corner. I wonder if it’s one of the same dogs that kept me up all night while they held their neighborhood watch meeting; apparently cats aren't welcomed on my block. The dog's obviously in a rush. He's panting heavily and his tongue is drooping out of his open mouth. He's got places to go, things to do, people to see. Maybe he's off to another important meeting, or getting home to his family after working the all-night shift at factory. I half expect it to turn to me and ask "Hey, need any CDs? How 'bout a cell phone? Sweet bread maybe? I have four puppies for sale..." But then, if he could talk, he probably wouldn’t speak English. It isn't scared; he glances up at me out of the corner of his eye but quickly looks back at the light. It's smart enough to know not to test traffic in Puebla and as soon as the light turns he takes off faster than me.

I reach the office and chat with the guard out front. I've been teaching him English. One of his first assignments was to write a brief story of his life in English. In his story he said that he was 33 years old, married and had two kids. It said that when he first got married, he and his wife were very poor. They often went many days without food and could never afford new clothes or medicine. However, he said that since he got the job as the office guard, everything changed. His wife is happy, his kids are healthy, and he built a new addition to his parent’s house that he now lives in.

One of the janitor ladies walks by and I say hello. I've been trying to find a time to help her learn English and teach her how to use a computer. She is really interested but hasn't been able to find a good day for a class. She cleans our office from 8am to 4pm, then goes to another office on the other side of the city and cleans it until 8pm. She tells me that a weekend day might be right, but she works Saturdays and takes care of her daughter's kids on Sundays; so far it hasn't worked out.

After work, I head to the "centro." The historic downtown of Puebla is beautiful; blocks and blocks of three to four-story buildings, all hundreds of years old and ornately decorated with blue "talavera" ceramic tiles made in one of the artisan workshops nearby. Massive chapels tower over zocalos and pedestrian walkways that are booming with all sorts of people looking for something to do, eat, or sell. Street performers attract crowds on every corner. Only a small number of the people are tourists, exploring an undiscovered, vibrant downtown filled with outdoor markets, museums and cafes that would be world famous if it were in one of the calm and "well-planned" cities in the United States.

At the markets, vendors shout out what they are selling and how much it costs. One woman yells "Dulces! Pasteles! Chocolates!" Another man nearby yells "Camotes!” and quickly repeats the price “a diez a diez a diez!" On the side streets, indigenous women in colorful dresses ask for money - or food - to help them support them and their infants that are hanging on their backs, wrapped tight in a bright red cloth tied around the mother's chest. Another man holds out a hat for change as his son plays the accordion for people walking by. A boy, no more than six years old, walks from table to table at a streetside restaurant asking if anyone would like to buy "chicles", or bubblegum. His younger brother is close at hand.

The streets of Puebla are full of life, sometimes heartbreakingly difficult life, but often persevering, beautiful and uplifting life. People are out walking, no matter what time of day. They are shopping, hanging out with their friends, or going to work. Kids play on the sidewalks. The sound of laughter and music is everywhere. Newspaper stands line the streets. The mouthwatering smell of grilled tacos, cemitas, and tortas fills the air. Roadside food stands are lit up at night, with steam billowing off the large soup cauldrons and smoke flowing off the orange flames. There are always lines for the best food. The people are all trying to run businesses, do their jobs, and feed their families. They're all just trying to get by.