It rained lightly as our white passenger van — filled with college students intermittently singing along to artists like Shania Twain — pulled to an unexpected stop. Ahead of us on the mountain pass, we could see leafy branches laid across the road. We craned to read a banner strung above, looking at the people just beyond it who’d forced our van to stop. We were in a remote area at the bottom of Mexico trying to make it to a coffee farm, and this was our only way through.
Our driver quickly whipped around, turning onto a dirt side road he said should get us around this small town. But when we emerged on the other side, back on the paved roadway, we realized we were stuck.
Hours passed and the summer afternoon rain cleared. We learned that the townspeople were demanding that police release a detained community activist, vowing to shut down their corner of Oaxaca, Mexico until he returned safely home. Eventually, we saw a flatbed truck pull up, and after a man climbed out of the back and the truck drove away, protesters dismantled the barricade. We could pass.
It’s been more than 11 years since I was stuck on that mountainside. I remember that blockade more distinctly than almost any other aspect of the 10-day trip, and not just because of the stunning valley views, the aimless waiting, or the fact that I desperately needed to go to the bathroom. The blockade stands out because I was more interested in understanding Oaxaca and its people than with arriving at our destination. The experience would serve as an enduring lesson.
Oaxaca, the most indigenous state in Mexico, relies heavily on tourists. Tourism is the state’s biggest industry, and almost half of the foreigners who come for its beaches, crafts, and legendary food hail from the United States. Growing up, my mom had a small collection of brightly painted, carved wooden animal figures, a famous form of Oaxacan folk art. On my trip, I ate a half dozen different kinds of homemade mole, all much better than any I’ve had before or since. But neither motivated my trip at the end of my freshman year of college. Instead, I went to learn about a recent popular uprising and how it tied to longstanding traditions of resistance and protest in the region.
Oaxaca borders Chiapas, Mexico’s southernmost state, and the two hold much in common. Heavily forested, deeply indigenous, and overwhelmingly poor and neglected, the people of Oaxaca and Chiapas boast revolutionary histories, from support for the legendary Emiliano Zapata to Chiapas’ more recent Zapatista uprising. In 2006, after police attacked striking teachers in the state’s capital, a mass movement drove politicians out of Oaxaca City, and protesters effectively governed it themselves for six months.
Those teacher strikes — organized by a particularly militant local union — happen every year. Amid growing international acclaim for Oaxaca’s culinary history and chefs, restaurateurs reliant on tourists are pissed, claiming striking teachers are jamming up business.
It doesn’t have to be that way. The government could change things by improving conditions in Oaxaca’s schools, of course. But part of the issue rests with American food lovers and other foreign tourists who would rather not engage with the state’s political realities.
I understand the appeal of trips that feel like an escape, where you sit on a beach and ignore the outside world. I’ve happily done exactly that several times. I’d gladly go on a Oaxacan mezcal tour, or return for the chocolate, cheese, mole, and other ingredients and dishes that make the region an international hotspot.
But it’s crucial to remember that these relatively one-dimensional trips are a tremendous privilege, one that most people don’t possess. If we show up in someone else’s backyard and refuse to acknowledge their experiences — such as a need for better public education — we’re expecting people to conform their daily lives to our whims. It would be like seeking a Oaxaca without Oaxacans.
Instead, we should take the time to understand the larger context. The bigger picture is there, even if our privilege allows us to ignore it and we choose to look the other way. You don’t have to enjoy being stuck on a mountainside, but sometimes, that’s part of the deal. After all, we’re the ones passing through, the ones imposing.
That doesn’t mean you should stay home, or that a teachers’ encampment in Oaxaca City should stop you from enjoying upper crust restaurants nearby. It just means you need to pack a little humility on your next visit.
