ABSTRACT
It was another humid day in Jalcomulco, a small Mexican village near the city of Veracruz. The temperature was into the high 90s, and you could literally see the humidity hanging in the air over the river that meandered through mango trees, burro pens, and small clusters of umbrellas over restaurant decks. Our research team was crammed into the living room of a local farmer, with its handmade wooden furniture, a crucifix hanging on the wall, the smell of freshly made tortillas, and a chicken that occasionally wandered through. The four of us were there to talk with Alberto, whose story had by now become all too familiar to us. At 69 years old, he was a long time ejidatario, or collective farmer, but his life was changing fast:
I felt better eight years ago because I worked the land, you know, in the ejido. So, now, in my business, the sales, I’m not happy. We don’t have [government] support, money, we don’t have the machines, and we don’t have [the] techniques we need to improve our [crop] production.
