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 Editorials | Opinions | March 2007 
Unwanted Intrigue: The 'Spy' Who Wasn't
 Dana Romanoff - Free Lance-Star
| | Dana Romanoff relaxes, after fleeing Oaxaca, atop the Pyramid of the Sun in ancient Teotihuac. |
Oaxaca, Mexico - I was using sandbags as my pillow as a cockroach did laps around my cot.
It was mid-November and I was hidden in a tiny bedroom in the house of a woman I had just met. I needed to get out of the state of Oaxaca in Mexico.
The next plane out was leaving in the morning - and I hoped to be on it. That is, if the airport was open and roads were not blocked by burning cars.
It had all started with a dream the night before. I was fleeing San Pablo Huixtepec, 30 kilometers south of Oaxaca city, where I was working on a story for National Geographic magazine about the women left behind when men migrate to the United States for work.
In my dream, people were chasing me down the dirt road waving machetes; bullet holes riddled the concrete walls of the humble home where I was staying. I awoke scared, wondering if it was a sign.
STATE OF PROTEST
The problems in Oaxaca began in June, with the annual strike of the teachers agitating for a raise.
The protests escalated, coincidentally, when I arrived.
Anti-government groups joined the teachers, taking over the city and demanding the ouster of the governor and his political party. The once-beautiful, historic colonial downtown of Oaxaca city, a major tourist destination, was covered in graffiti. Cobblestone streets were barricaded with burning cars, and vigilantes ran the town. Federal police tried to regain control, spraying water cannons and tear gas as helicopters circled.
Oaxaca is one of the poorest states in Mexico, and people had not been paid in at least three months. At night, streets were dead. Tourism was gone. No locals dared venture out. Taxis had no clients, restaurants no patrons.
Government offices were shut down, hospitals covered only emergencies. Tortillas and beans were running out.
However, all was calm in my small town, and my reason for being there had nothing to do with the political uproar.
"Tranquila " was the response I got when I asked if I was safe. "No pasa nada aquí " (Nothing happens here).
Just in case, I had an escape route planned and my bags stayed packed. Other than that, I continued photographing the women working in the fields, catching grasshoppers and preparing tortillas in smoky kitchens.
There were rumors that other groups like the Zapatistas from neighboring states were en route to Oaxaca to support the cause, possibly turning this statewide fight into a national war.
A North American journalist was intentionally shot and killed shortly after my arrival, and there were reports of attacks on Mexican journalists.
I had arrived in October. The fighting did not feel very close to me. Everything changed three weeks into my one-month assignment.
DENOUNCED AS A SPY
I went out to photograph on the main street in town. Minutes later, a woman approached to say that I was being talked about on the radio.
The station had been taken over by a government opposition group that was broadcasting calls for support over the entire state of Oaxaca.
The woman said that for the past few days they had been talking about a "guera " (white woman) - a blond photojournalist hired by the governing party to take pictures of teachers, people and the houses of its opponents.
They were describing me as a spy. Why the government would hire a white, foreign, blond woman as a spy was beyond me, but this was not a war of reason.
Minutes later, the woman informed me that they had announced my exact location at the moment: in front of a house on Avenida Juarez in San Pablo Huixtepec.
I did not know if a posse was being formed to get the camera-toting guera, but I did not want to be around to find out. My dream felt increasingly real.
I dialed the president of the town. He told me he, too, feared for my safety and agreed it was best that I leave quickly and quietly.
Within an hour, I was in a taxi to Oaxaca city. The sky had darkened and heavy raindrops were beginning to fall. The roads were slick, the tires bald and the driver speeding, but I was relieved that there were no men running after me with machetes.
ON THE RUN
Flames lit Oaxaca city that night. Roads were barricaded with protesters and burning cars. We drove in circles trying to find a way in, to the center of town and the hotel where I had hoped to stay. There was no way in and now, due to stalled traffic, no way out.
Thousands of people in cars and on foot were trapped, angry with the government, angry with the protesters.
The rain was fogging the cab windows and I was glad. I zipped my jacket up to my chin and tucked my hair inside my hat so no one could see the blond refugee in the back. I really know how to pick my story locations.
I did not want to go back to my town, and I did not want to spend the night at one of the cheap hotels on the outskirts of the city, where the protesters were most likely lodging. If people were actually after me, it would be like walking into the lion's den.
I had one more option. I dialed the number of a woman who lives in Oaxaca. I didn't know her, but an acquaintance had given me her name before I left and told me to call her if I had any problems.
She answered and happened to live near where I was stuck. She agreed to meet me at the taxi, cross the barricade and take me to her house.
On our way, I thanked her profusely. I introduced myself and explained my story. She stiffened and explained her story. She was a frustrated government health worker who had not been paid in many months.
She worked with the leaders of the opposing groups, and many of her friends and colleagues had recently been jailed or "disappeared." She said she planned to protest downtown the next day.
I needed her to believe I was who I said: a photographer working with National Geographic on a completely unrelated story.
We talked over empañadas and coffee about how to counteract what was said on the radio.
She let me stay overnight in her house in a tiny bedroom with the sandbags as pillows. The next morning, I left for Mexico City.
SAFE IN THE STATES
A week after my escape, plush pillows supported my head as I finished writing this story from my temporary apartment in Washington. It was about 30 degrees cooler outside, and a down comforter covered my legs.
Cockroaches stalked the concrete sidewalks outside the row house but were far from my sight. The fighting was far away and I felt completely anonymous.
I've been asked to return to Mexico and complete the story I began in October. Oaxaca is no longer making the news, and my contacts tell me the situation has calmed down.
Teachers are back at work, there are no more protests and the graffiti is painted over.
I'm a little hesitant to return after learning the risks of this line of work, but I'm excited at the prospect of seeing see the good friends I made in my short time there.
This time, however, I just may dye my hair dark. |
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