Walkin' in Oaxaca: Part 2

It's a Saturday in Oaxaca and time to visit the Temple de Santo Domingo. The church is a masterpiece of Catholic grandiosity, but the square out front is the real attraction -- or will be. Stand around a bit on a Saturday and you'll hear the sound of brassy music coming down the street. As it draws closer, you see the stilt-walkers and spinning, white cloth globes that look like miniaturized hot air balloons. There's dozens of dancers and a few men in gaudy pre-Christian costumes who could pass for Mummers in Europe. All is motion and the music grows louder...

A Calenda has arrived!

This Oaxacan mayhem of happiness heralds a wedding, and Saturday is the best day of all to hold one. People swarm the street to see the parade, and also to enjoy the shots of mezcal that are passed out gratis by the party. There's cheering and everyone seems to have their phone out to film the event.

Wait! From the other end of the street comes ANOTHER Calenda, on a collision course for our own -- should they meet, surely chaos will result! They draw closer and closer and the bands play louder, then, like amorphous galaxies in collision, the individual stars swirl and dance around each other's orbits. The stilt-walkers, and women in their finery, tuxedoed men, the giant puppets, onlookers, mothers, fathers, kids, the bride and groom, the best men and the hangers-on, all merge into an explosion of joyous noise and action. All is laughter and flashing smiles. Repeated cheers resound across the square. A Calenda! A Calenda!

In the privacy of the church, there will be solemn vows, declarations of love and fidelity, blessings and promises. The risen Christ who replaced the Zapotec Thunder God will reign, but this Saturday, for this moment, the old gods hold court and the pre-Christian Oaxaca is allowed to live for one more joyous march.

Oaxaca is a city of small moments.

In the courtyard of an otherwise unremarkable cafe, two troubadours arrive with their well-played guitars. They are young, these Oaxacans, not more than two years out of high school. They stand at the end of the courtyard and strum their guitars. Both play, and one sings. The few words of Spanish I know are not up to the task of translating his entire ode, but I'm able to feel the passion of the words, and I'm able to understand enough to hear, "I am not a Mexican, I am Oaxacan!"

The truth will always win out when you're 20; you believe that with your very soul. I can hear that optimism in the singer's voice. They finish their song to polite applause and the donation of a few pesos. Then they depart. Later, I see them riding by on a dusty scooter, guitars precariously balanced, ready to spread truth to another cafe. How much I admire them for being 20 and handsome and bold enough to still believe that somehow, the truth will always win.

How much I admire them for being Oaxacan.

In another cafe, one I'm formulating a two-star review of, I wait for my dinner to arrive. Sitting at a table across from us, the family matriarch sits and watches my wife and I. She says something to us in Spanish.

"Ah, no habla Español," I reply apologetically, adding a sad shrug of my shoulders to emphasize my lack.

She laughs and throws her hands up in the air.

"No habla!"

She grabs her cellphone and rushes over to our table, sits down, then she types something in and shows us the screen.

"Where are you from?" it reads.

"United States," I reply.

She looks blank.

"Uh, norte Americano?" I try.

My wife rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

"Estados Unidos," she says.

The matriarch laughs in delight, then nods with a huge smile.

We "converse" a bit more -- where have we been and what have we seen? -- this wonderful woman with her cellphone and our stuttering attempts at replies. There's a language barrier, yes, but no barrier to basic humanity and a desire to connect. There's no barrier to decency and empathy. Not here, at least; not at this table, not in this cafe, or in this hidden alley. Maybe the wellspring of Oaxaca is human-ness itself. I've been to so many places, but never have I felt more welcome than in Oaxaca.

The two-star review remains unwritten.

Friday night. LAX and OAX are both behind me and a week of Oaxaca lies ahead; time for dinner. Tonight's repast will be a miserable, stale tlayuda and a flat Coke. The only saving grace is that this mediocre meal is being served at a rooftop cafe with a glorious view overlooking the Centro. Other couples dine and chat. I listen to fragments of their conversations and push my inedible dinner around on the plate. I'm too exhausted to complain, and given that no one there speaks English, the effort would be wasted anyway.

With what remaining energy I have left, I prepare to debut my well-memorized Spanish phrase: "la cuenta, por favor" -- "the check please".

There's a low rumble and the floor trembles.

"Is that a ..." I start to say to my wife.

The rumbling amplifies and the whole building lurches.

Earthquake!

The realization that I'm three floors up on the roof of a building constructed to unknown seismic standards immediately seizes me as the realization that the building is swaying seizes the rest of the diners. Our waiter quickly ushers us down three narrow flights of twisting stairs and out into the alley below. The rumbling stops and the swaying stills. We're safe. Safe-ish. 30 some-odd people are standing in an alley as wide as a Greyhound bus, walled by multi-story concrete buildings of unknown seismic standards.

"Felt like a 5." I tell my wife, hoping that it wasn't the fore-shock of a larger quake.

We're herded back upstairs and I finally get to ask for the check in Spanish.

5.4, epicenter down on the coast.

Oaxaca knows how to make a first impression.

The palenquero's daughter is long-limbed and coltish; she looks like she should be kicking goals on a soccer pitch. But here, brown is the soil's color, and having enough water to maintain a lawn would be the subject of fiction. Inside of a cool, concrete room she serves samples of her father's mezcals, politely naming each as she passes me a gourd filled with the clear, smoke-scented liquid. She's quiet and nods as I say "gracias" to each offering. Outside, tawny chickens the size of a grapefruit peck at the brick-hard ground.

My guide, mezcal expert Alvin Starkman, explains the origin of each sample: Tobala, Mexicana, Jovin. They are amazing and masterfully distilled. I buy two litres for a little over a thousand pesos knowing the retail price in the US would be well above $300 for 750ml.

The palenquero's daughter is not in school today because the teachers are protesting in Mexico City, and yesterday, the Bishop of Oaxaca came to the pueblo -- another day school missed. Despite this, she speaks three languages -- Spanish, English and Zatopek -- and is a bright student. Alan, through his tour business, helps send her to a private school which will offer her more opportunities.

Alan's generosity also sent a Zatopek woman to medical school. She's now a skilled surgeon, much in demand.

I later ask Alvin about the family: what are they considered in Mexico, class-wise? His gracious answer to my clumsy question is that they sometimes go without food. This jolts me. I think of the chickens and what a thin soup one would make. I think of the young girl and how her lankiness might not be from her age, but from a lack of nutrition.

He never calls the family "poor" because they're not poor: just sometimes their plate is empty.

I will not romanticize this part of Oaxacan life. Outside the city, life is harder. Some tour guides extort the mezcaleros for a cut of their sales in exchange for bringing in the rich tourists who will pay top dollar for clay-pot mezcals. Some pueblos have nothing to offer, so they are bypassed entirely, and their local economy suffers for it. Tourist money is spread unevenly. For every AirBnB, there is a family who can't afford housing; for every swimming pool, there is a family who can't buy water. This is not to blame or chide, but to make us aware that Oaxaca is not Mexico's Disneyland, and shouldn't be treated as such. Oaxacans deserve our respect and our consideration. Their cities and towns are their homes, and we are visitors. We should be good ones.

Oaxaca is amazing, beautiful and kind. Let us be beautiful, amazing and kind in return.

-- Mike Beebe

Practicalities, pt. 2

Getting there: This time I opted for a single-day route from SEA -> LAX -> OAX. I flew the SEA -> LAX route on Alaska, and the LAX -> OAX route on Volaris. Take this route only if you're (1) familiar with the hot mess that is LAX and the "system" of getting from terminal to terminal, and (2), if you really, really, REALLY enjoy turbulence. The LAX -> OAX leg of the flight was nearly non-stop bumpiness and the return flight was even worse, with the plane rocking and porpoising for nearly an hour. The pluses of this route, however, are that it's doable in a single day and it's cheap.

A note on Volaris: Volaris is Mexico's answer to Ryanair. It's cheap, but they nickel-and-dime you for everything. Also, Spanish is the lingua franca on board -- spoken and written. This includes the essential tourist card that you must fill out before you're allowed to enter Mexico. Caveat emptor.

Water: Water, especially in the dry season, is a sore subject In Oaxaca. Clean water is delivered by tanker trucks on a monthly basis. Due to price competition between the pricey hotels and AirB&Bs, and normal Oaxacans, many citizens of lesser means must go with limited amounts, or totally without -- if there's even any water available to them at all. Please be responsible with water use.

Weather: at 15 degrees from the equator, Oaxaca in the spring is hot, but not insufferably so if one is in the shade. I found wearing a light, long-sleeved shirt, light-colored pants and a wide-brimmed hat made the noontime sun bearable. The nights are generally cool as the high desert loses heat quickly.

You are my hero, Mr. B.
Another walk in perfection.
Muchas gracias mi amigo.

Blue,

Thank you!

It was a wonderful trip full of good times and good memories. I can't wait for my next visit!

-- Mike Beebe

So glad you had another great trip. Would you fly Volaris again?

Becky,

Thank you so much.

The answer is "Yes", I would fly Volaris again. It's a low-cost regional airline, but it got me there and while I won't fly the LAX -> OAX route again (SEA -> Houston -> OAX is far faster), I have no complaints against Volaris a'tall.

-- Mike Beebe

Mike, have you read On the Plain of Snakes by Paul Theroux? Your writing reminds me of his. He traveled by car extensively in Mexico, especially Oaxaca. I became interested in the history of the region after reading his book, although I've never been.
Cynthia

Cynthia,

I have not, but it sounds like a fantastic read! I'll pick it up as soon as I can.

-- Mike Beebe