On January 29th, 2013 I moved from Mexico City, one of the most populous cities in the world, to an empty beach about an hour outside of Puerto Escondido in the Mexican state of Oaxaca. My city friends called it the "super-soft-fade-out," like those from the end of 80's movies. The protagonist raises his arms in the air after overcoming the numerous, unlikely trials of the last 93 minutes and 27 seconds. The camera freezes on the fist and slowly fades out to credits...
In my case, the trial timeframe was more like 5 years and there was no super-soft-fade-out-ending. The idea of moving back to the United States crossed my mind, but starting another 9-5 after working one straight out of college for half a decade? I became dizzy. On top of that, I wanted to clear somethings up with Mexico, a country now so woven into my fabric I can hardly tell where the southern quilt begins and the fringed serape ends.
So I came to Oaxaca to document my friend's progress to build a personal utopia. He had just signed on some land in the small pueblo of "El Venado" or in English "The Deer." This name was a sign to him as he had grown up on a back-to-the earth-project in Arkansas named "Deer," which was (possibly) ((one of)) the inspiration(s). Buying the land had taken two years, but he had managed. And while the ink was drying on those papers, I was planning my own escape, just minus the personal utopia. He read discontent in my internet trails and wrote to say it was time to make the documentary we always joked about me making.
Okay.
I came with few expectations, and for the best. The city slicker in me scoffed at the land: no structures, no water, no electricity, no internet. What had I done? What am I going to do next? Is that a spider in your tent? I mean, have you seen the movie, "Arachnophobia"? How fast can I get to concrete shelter, preferably with a fan and cupboard containing, at minimum, one chocolate croissant? I stayed the night in a hammock figuring it would be the best bet against spiders but failed to realize I was opening up an all-you-can-eat mosquito buffet. I left the next morning, not staying even 24 hours and not to return for a week.
When I did return, volunteers from the helpX, a website that connect people willing to work for food and shelter, had started to trickle in. I could not understand them. Not because of language or anything. I mean to say I could not understand their motivations. They were willing to break their backs for tortas and a place to pitch a tent? I knew there must be more but was not sure what it could be. So I prepared my gear and started filming. First little things like clearing paths with machetes or painting the bottom of fruit trees with white lime and then building earthbag structures, a design popularized by Iranian architect Nader Khalili, which involves lots of heave-hoing of dirt-like substances into polyethylene bags originally intended for seed/food.
And at some point, that I myself cannot point out, I stopped watching them and started rooting for them. I stopped seeing them with the pre-constructed labels I applied because of dreadlocks or vocabulary choices. I stopped being afraid to leave my camera gear laying around because they were strangers. And I missed them when I went back to civilization to charge up my batteries and ingest footage. I will never forget the first time I came back and was greeted with "welcome home."
I realize that to be part of this I have to put aside what I learned in the chaos and traffic of Mexico City. And the first step is already underway: just seeing people as people and valuing connections that instinctively exist if you let them surface.
In my case, the trial timeframe was more like 5 years and there was no super-soft-fade-out-ending. The idea of moving back to the United States crossed my mind, but starting another 9-5 after working one straight out of college for half a decade? I became dizzy. On top of that, I wanted to clear somethings up with Mexico, a country now so woven into my fabric I can hardly tell where the southern quilt begins and the fringed serape ends.
So I came to Oaxaca to document my friend's progress to build a personal utopia. He had just signed on some land in the small pueblo of "El Venado" or in English "The Deer." This name was a sign to him as he had grown up on a back-to-the earth-project in Arkansas named "Deer," which was (possibly) ((one of)) the inspiration(s). Buying the land had taken two years, but he had managed. And while the ink was drying on those papers, I was planning my own escape, just minus the personal utopia. He read discontent in my internet trails and wrote to say it was time to make the documentary we always joked about me making.
Okay.
I came with few expectations, and for the best. The city slicker in me scoffed at the land: no structures, no water, no electricity, no internet. What had I done? What am I going to do next? Is that a spider in your tent? I mean, have you seen the movie, "Arachnophobia"? How fast can I get to concrete shelter, preferably with a fan and cupboard containing, at minimum, one chocolate croissant? I stayed the night in a hammock figuring it would be the best bet against spiders but failed to realize I was opening up an all-you-can-eat mosquito buffet. I left the next morning, not staying even 24 hours and not to return for a week.
When I did return, volunteers from the helpX, a website that connect people willing to work for food and shelter, had started to trickle in. I could not understand them. Not because of language or anything. I mean to say I could not understand their motivations. They were willing to break their backs for tortas and a place to pitch a tent? I knew there must be more but was not sure what it could be. So I prepared my gear and started filming. First little things like clearing paths with machetes or painting the bottom of fruit trees with white lime and then building earthbag structures, a design popularized by Iranian architect Nader Khalili, which involves lots of heave-hoing of dirt-like substances into polyethylene bags originally intended for seed/food.
And at some point, that I myself cannot point out, I stopped watching them and started rooting for them. I stopped seeing them with the pre-constructed labels I applied because of dreadlocks or vocabulary choices. I stopped being afraid to leave my camera gear laying around because they were strangers. And I missed them when I went back to civilization to charge up my batteries and ingest footage. I will never forget the first time I came back and was greeted with "welcome home."
I realize that to be part of this I have to put aside what I learned in the chaos and traffic of Mexico City. And the first step is already underway: just seeing people as people and valuing connections that instinctively exist if you let them surface.
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