Ana and I sat on the patio of the La Cafeteria restaurant, watching the mexicanos and gringos swirl like leaves among the trees. Finally, after 24 hours of travel, I was able to relax. A feeling washed over me -- part relief, part anticipation, all happiness. I was finally living my dream. For four years I had fantasized about continuing the journey that began with my amazing bike trip, and now here I was sipping fresh jugo de naranja (orange juice) on the edge of a zocalo (town square) in southwestern Mexico. I'm a lucky guy.
Ana picked me up at the airport in Mexico City yesterday, and we immediately drove to the bus station to enquire about tickets to Oaxaca. The next day´s early departures were sold out, so we opted to take the late bus for that evening -- one which departed in about four hours.
"We're going to Oaxaca tonight!" Ana said with some trepidation as we walked back to the car. "Shit, bato, I don't do this kind of thing." Four hours later we reclined into our seats at the back of the bus, next to the washroom and the engine, and tried to sleep while the driver hurtled us through the darkness.
We arrived in Oaxaca at 6am, found our hotel, and tried to get some more sleep while the city woke up around us. A few restless hours later it was time to explore.
Our first stop was a panaderia (bakery) for a light lunch. The warm aroma of fresh bread drew us in, and the array of baked goods on display confirmed our choice. There were croissants, distinctly un-french in style but delicious nonetheless; cookies, small and large, sugared, chocolate, and plain, in rings, disks, and countless other shapes; buns, lightly dusted; crispy sugar pastries that exploded into a shower of flakes with each bite; and festive round loaves of pan de muertos sweet egg bread with a candy face baked into the top of each.
The Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) festival was just beginning and preparations were still underway. In front of the main cathedral, flat sand sculptures were being covered in colourful powder. All of them featured typical Dia de los Muertos skeletons prominently.
After a stop for some juice beside the Zocalo, Ana and I headed off to the markets. As soon as we entered we encountered a chapulines vendor, and Ana insisted I try one. After a few seconds of deliberation, I popped the fried red grasshopper in my mouth. It tasted of garlic and lime, with a rich, slightly oily texture underneath the crispy exterior. Bits of carapace stuck in my teeth. For the next few minutes, my mind reeled at the idea that I had just intentionally eaten an insect. It wasn't on my to-do list, but it should have been.
Our next stop was a cheese shop, where we bought a bag with five small balls of quesillo, Oaxaqueno cheese, for one peso. The cheese was fresh, rubbery, and delicious. Moving on, we found a woman with a huge bowl of water and flour on her lap. She absent-mindedly churned the mixture with a small bowl, and occasionally she lifted some liquid into the air and let it pour back into the bowl with practiced nonchalance. After a short conversation with the woman, Ana explained that this was a mixture of water, corn flour, and chocolate. I was offered a small bowl and sipped cautiously. It was delicious, and (aside from the uncertain origin of the water) probably very nutritious, but the powdery lumps of flour gave it a strange texture.
From there we dove head-first into an exploration of the mercado. We passed chili vendors with everything from berry-sized paquin peppers to smokey, gooey chipotles to crispy poblanos and more. Several vendors burned incense in honour of the festival, and golden flowers decorated everything. Fruit stands sold oranges, limes, lemons, papayas, and small beat-up red and yellow fruits that I didn't recognize. Vegetable sellers had chayote squash, nopal cactus leaves, bunches of onions, tomatoes, avocadoes, garlic, cabbage, and more. We saw baskets of beans, rich red spices, and heaping piles of moist mole concentrate -- a Oaxaqueno specialty. Butcher stands sold thin marinated steaks and the sweet/sour/musty odour of raw beef lingered around them. Interspersed among the food stands were vendors of everything else you might need: medicines, t-shirts, guitars, dresses, fabric, thread, cookware, shoes, masks, and more. And everywhere, tiny Zapotec women sold baskets of bright-red grasshoppers.
We burst out of the market and into the glare of the afternoon sun. As we walked, the ubiquitous odour of diesel exhaust was suddenly replaced by the intoxicating liquor of fresh cocoa. Cocoa beans were being sold, roasted and ground into a paste along with almonds and sugar in a nearby collection of shops. We sampled a few of the crunchy beans. All were bitter, some distastefully so, but the underlying decadence of fresh, raw cocoa was unmistakeable.
We entered another market, this one full of small lunch stands. Vendors called out their menus in typical sing-song fashion, and we stopped to enjoy a fat tamale with chicken and mole sauce. We left the market via a smokey aisle dedicated to tacos: vendors of fresh raw meat and chorizo sausage were interspersed with charcoal grills. Bunches of green onion and peppers were set directly on the coals, sending up wafts of perfumed smoke. Ana and I promised each other we'd return for lunch, and then re-entered the heat of the afternoon street.
We headed west, toward another mercado. This one began on the street, under tarps strung at a comfortable height for your average four-foot Zapotec woman. Beneath the tarps were endless mounds of marigolds glowing in shafts of afternoon sun, and an almost equal number of unnamed curly pink flowers. The sidewalk smelled of sweet perfume. We followed a hunched old woman with a pile of yellow flowers on her back through the maze, and soon we left the flowers behind to enter a warren of pottery sellers. Brown pots spilled out of tiny alleys, all covered in traditional Oaxaqueno green glaze. Unfortunately, the traditional Oaxaqueno green glaze is laden with poisonous lead.
Once again we entered another general market, walking past piles of chickens, feet thrust into the air, and straw hats (only 20 pesos), and more fruits, vegetables, corn mush and grasshoppers. The market stretched on forever, with each aisle bringing us to a new department -- breads, or spices, or clothing, or rolls of thick plastic sheeting.
After walking for hours, we were both pretty tired and took a nap. At 9pm, I was barely able to drag us out the door to walk down to the Panteon General (the cemetery) to the east of the city.
Dia de los Muertos is a spectacular celebration -- part solemn ritual, part wake, part feast, part art show. All the stores are decorated with golden flowers and most have ofrendas -- altars with offerings of food, drink, flowers, and gifts for the deceased. The panteon general was the center of the main ofrenda competition, to see whose display of flowers, fruits, and bread was judged the best.
Alas, the Panteon General was overrun with tourists. The walls of the mausoleum surrounding the main cemetery were filled with votive candles, and the pathways were filled with shuffling, camera toting gawkers (myself included, of course). Where I was expecting something solemn, instead I found a craft show. But Oaxaca is a popular tourist destination, especially around the Day of the Dead, and I wasn't too surprised. Although that particular event was a slight disappointment, the rest of the Day of the Dead festivities -- the flowers, the sand sculptures, the decorated shops -- have been intriguing.
From the Panteon General we caught a cab back to the Zocalo for a late dinner. I was eager to try a Oaxaqueno specialy: mole negro. A "mole" is a generic term for a whole range of flavourful sauces, and mole negro is an unlikely concoction of chilis, bananas, chocolate, pepper, cinnamon, and more. I had pork in mole negro sauce and it was heavenly: warm and rich, with an intricate layering of flavours. I can't wait to try another.
We caught a cab back to our hotel after midnight and made plans for the morning. We needed to find a new hotel. The Posada El Cid was clean and comfortable, but much too far from the center of town -- more than a kilometer. A phone call in the morning landed us a room at the Hotel Reforma -- only a few block from the Zocalo, half the price, and with a great roof top patio.
Ana and I relaxed in the warm night air. The Zocalo was packed with throngs of people, gringos and Mexicanos, all out to celebrate the Day of the Dead. Some people were selling balloons and trinkets, and two street performers juggled flaming torches, but mostly people just walked around and around. Some were dressed in costumes -- and they were much better than those one normally sees around halloween back in Canada. They are all uniformly macabre; there's no power rangers or pokemon crap here. Except for the very youngest (dressed in cute little pumpkin outfits), all were dressed as something sinister: witches, devils, vampires, and other assorted misshapen creatures.
I packed a brown cotton oilskin hat to wear while I'm travelling. That hat was too hot, the brim wasn't wide enough, and it was just plain uncomfortable to wear, so the first task this morning was to buy myself a new hat. A brief foray into the market located the "straw goods" section, and after a bit of negotiation I procured a great straw hat for just 15 pesos. It's without a doubt the most comfortable piece of clothing to ever adorn my head, and the wide brim is wonderful against the intense mid-day sun.
The trip to El Tule, a small town about 10km down the road, cost a whopping 3 pesos each. By the time we were on the highway the bus was packed with passengers literally hanging out the door. When we reached our destination we were dropped off rather unceremoniously by the side of the road, and we wandered off to see The Tourist Attraction.
El Tule's big draw is a big tree. That's it. A really, really big tree, standing in a courtyard in front of a church in the middle of town. It's not "tall"-big, it's "everything"-big -- like an undulating mountain of bark with little green branches. So yes, it's big, thanks for paying two pesos to get into the courtyard, now please get on with your day.
We wandered down to the local mercado in search of lunch. We encountered another of Oaxaca's famous moles -- this time, mole amarillo. The mole was spread onto a tortilla which was then folded over and stuffed with chicken, cheese and epazote ("wild spinach" -- kind of like a cross between basil and bay leaf). The sauce itself was like a mexican combination of Italian marinara and Indian curry. Like the mole negro it was rich, warm, and intricately delicious.
"Perdon," Ana said, poking the shoulder of the man in front of her. The man ignored her. She wanted to do know if the bus we were on, the return bus from Tule, would go near Mina street so we could catch another bus to the ruins at Monte Alban. She tried again, and again received no response. She gave me an exasperated look.
Out the window, I saw a crowd gathered along the the street leading to the Panteon General, and I knew we had to get off right away to see what was happening. We stepped off the bus and walked up the street.
After two days we'd finally found the real thing. The cemetery was packed with people, and every single grave was decorated with huge bouquets of flowers. The place was a symphony of stone and colour -- mostly rich orange marigolds, but also every other flower known to the Oaxaquenos.
People were busy. Some carried flowers and buckets of water, while others cleaned or painted the grave of a dear departed. Solemn families could be glimpsed through the white stone memorials, passing time with the memory of a loved one. Musicians offered to sing favourite songs.
Ana and I stopped to listen to one trio -- a guitar, trumpet, and vocalist -- as they played for a large family gathered around an elaborate headstone. The song was upbeat, not the funeral dirge one would expect, but the tone was sombre as the singer expertly worked each note. While we stood there, listening, an old man pushed past us rather rudely (but that's not uncommon for the respected Mexican elderly). The song continued.
The old man stopped beside a simple brown grave, lovingly adjusted the flowers at its head, crossed himself, and then stood alone, head bowed, eyes far away. His Raquel had died three years earlier. The song ended, Ana wiped a tear from her eye, and we drifted further into the maze of gold and white. This was the real Mexico.
Ana is concerned for my welfare. She doesn't think I'll survive with my rudimentary Spanish after she returns to Mexico City, and I must admit that I've been using her as something of a security blanket. So, she decided that it was time to pay a visit to the market, where I could practice my survival Spanish. We headed for the smokey taco aisle, where raw meat was available for immediate grilling. After giving me a much too brief explanation about what to do, she left me to get dinner while she tried to find a bano (bathroom).
The first part was easy. I grabbed a woven basket/tray with a paper liner, and asked the vegetable merchant for some guacamole, salsa, and cebollas (green onions). I got all three for 15 pesos. The young girl then said something about refrescos, and I asked for a coke and some water. Then she said something about meat -- asking if I was going to get some, I think. I responded affirmatively. Then she said something about a table which I didn't understand so I just said "okay" and went off to get some meat.
An imperious young woman sood behind a rack of raw beef, pork, and sausages, taking orders. I asked for uno chorizo (one sausage) and she asked if I wanted quarter, half, or what? Fortunately, I'd done my homework and knew she was referring to kilograms. I asked for a quarter-kilo of chorizo and another of cecina (marinated beef or pork, a Oaxaqueno specialty) (total cost, 27 pesos) and she threw them on the grill.
An old woman was working the grill from my side, fanning the coals and dishing out the cooked meat. I had a huge basket tray in one hand and a bunch of onions in the other. I need to get the onions on the grill, and I needed to keep the stupid tray from landing on the floor amid the jostle of the dinner rush.
"Perdon," I said to the old woman. "Mi cebollas?"
She ignored me.
Another customer's order was thrown onto the grill, and he pushed past me to hand her his onions, which were tossed into the coals to cook. Apparently, I hadn't used the right words.
A few minutes later I tried again. This time she glanced back at me with pathetic disdain, grabbed my onions, and threw them on. Glancing back again, she said something which I believe translated as, "hey, you stupid gringo, you're spilling your guacamole everywhere." Which I was. A lightbulb went on inside my head -- if yougrab the salsa and guacamole after you get your meat, you won't stand there like a dork balancing a huge woven tray in one hand for fifteen minutes in a crowded mercado. The meat was finally done, and Ana procured us some drinks, tortillas, and a place to sit.
Needless to say, dinner was absolutely delicious -- the best tacos I had during my whole stay in Mexico.
Just surviving in such an unfamiliar culture is exhausting. It's frustrating to have to work so hard to understand and be understood. Combine that with the heat, the rich new diet, and the effects of my earlier travel, and I was just plain overwhelmed. I was experiencing classic culture shock. I needed a night off, but this was Dia de los Muertos! What intricate, intimate celebration would I miss if I took an early night? Well, I'll never know -- I went to bed early and stayed there until morning.
There is so much to see and experience in that I'll never be able to catch it all, not even if I spent a year here. It's better to take a break when I need one. Adding to my fatigue was real concern about what I'd be doing for the next few weeks. Stay in Oaxaca with a language school? Travel up the valley? Head for the beach? Much of that stuff required planning ahead, and the weight of those decisions left me tossing and turning.
I awoke this morning feeling much better -- much of my culture shock was just plain fatigue. Ana and I grabbed some breakfast at the panaderia (3 buns and some cookies: 8.5 pesos), then caught the 11 am tourist bus for the half-hour ride to Monte Alban.
Monte Alban is a several-thousand-year-old set of ruins located atop a hill overlooking Oaxaca. It was re-discovered about a century ago. It was originally built by the Ohlmecs, and then taken over by the Zapotecs and then the Mixtecs. At its peak, its influence extended for hundreds of miles and it ruled over an immediate population of about 30,000.
Ana and I walked through the ruins under the noonday sun. Ancient, grass-covered stone walls lined the pathway. After a few minutes, we encountered an old man offering guide services. He spoke english well, but the 200 peso price was too steep for me. Ana, on the other hand, found the price entirely reasonably and Lucio was hired.
"My name is Claudio Lucio Rodriguez Carlo. Claudio. Lucio. Rodriguez. Carlos. In english, Lucas." We walked on through some trees towards a large stone structure. "I will talk for one hour, and give you some important details. Then, you can spend some time by yourself exploring." We had reached the top of some steps, and a huge grassy courtyard unfolded below us. Stone temples surrounded it, and a few more filled the center.
"This one, to the north, is the largest. Over there," pointing to another stone structure at the other end of the courtyard, "is the tallest. This, the largest, that one, the tallest." As we were to discover, Lucio filled a not insignificant portion of the hour repeating himself.
We walked down the steps, and Lucio said one part of his name for each step: "Claudio. Lucio. Rodriguez. Carlos. Claudio..."
When we reached the bottom of the stairs, Lucio explained how he knew that he was not of pure Mixtec ancestry: the Mixtecs had lots of hair on their heads, and none on their faces. Lifting his straw hat, he showed us that he was the opposite. The tour continued with Lucio explaining the significance of astronomy and geometry to the societies that had inhabited Monte Alban. He constantly drew comparisons to other prominent cultures -- Greek, Roman, or Egyptian, for example -- to illustrate the knowledge of the prehispanic peoples against other "great" civilizations.
The most interesting stop was in front of a series of large carved stones showing various medical conditions: breached births, Downs Syndrome, midgets, dwarfs, anatomical carvings showing intestines and internal reproductive organs, and more.
Lucio spoke several languages (Spanish, English, French, Italian, German, and presumably Mixtec), all of which he taught himself. "Not to be proud," he would say, "it is a gift from Jehovah. I am uneducated." Then he would show off by repeating some interesting phrase in every language he knew.
The tour finally ended and Lucio handed us off to a clandestine vendor selling jade carvings (replicas) and smaller clay/stone carvings (supposedly the real thing). After some humming and hawing and a bit of bargaining I bought a small Zapotec carving which, if genuine, is around 1,000 years old. But I'm not very optimistic.
Ana and I went to see the Gueleguetza. It is a traditional dance celebration, featuring dances from the seven regions of Oaxaca. The real thing is held in July for two mondays -- Los Lunes del Cerro, (Mondays of the hill). It has its roots deep in prehispanic culture.
We saw a version designed for tourists at a local restaurant. Shortly after we arrived, around 8:30 pm, the tour buses disgorged their contents at the front door and in marched dutiful flocks of Germans and Mexicans. The food was only so-so, and the service rather slow. I sat with my back to the stage so I had to twist around to watch the dances. Needless to say, I was in a bad mood.
The dances were, for the most part, interesting. The hispanic influence was evident in both music and costume for most of the dances, which surprised me a little. I was expecting more traditional prehispanic dances. But true to form, the culture has blended hispanic and prehispanic elements to create something uniquely Mexican.