This morning Ana and I packed everthing up and I entered full backpacker mode -- big bag on my back, smaller bag on my chest, sandals on my feet, straw hat on my head. We headed off towards to second-class bus station.
Tlacolula is a small town of about 10,000 people, about 30 km from Oaxaca. It has one or two main streets and three hotels (at least that we could find). From the looks of things, there's not much to do except hang out on the street. We're here specifically for the tianguis, or traditionalindian market, that is being held this Sunday as has beenheld every Sunday for the past, oh, thousand years.
After selecting a hotel (150 pesos for two beds and a balcony overlooking main street) we hopped back on the bus, this time to Mitla, to explore the ruins there. After getting off the bus and walking about a kilometer, we came upon a rather diverse arts and crafts market. I'd like to buy some souvenirs, to start my collection of "things from around the world", but after visiting a few souvenir stalls around Mexico everything starts to look generic, like it was made in a factory. I'd prefer something unique with a story behind it.
The ruins themselves were okay, with interesting geometric architecture and two very claustrophobic underground tombs. In one is La Columna de la Vida, which is supposed to measure your remaining years. Mine came out to a scant four. We caught another bus back to Tlacolula and went off in search of dinner.
The main church in Tlacolula was packed, with people spilling out the doors, for a first communion ceremony. Upon entering I had this happy, if irrelevant (and irreverant) thought: "there are over 1000 people here... and I'm the tallest one!"
It's now nine o'clock on a Saturday night in Tlacolula. The street has quieted down a bit -- no more trucks showing off their stereos, and no more firecrackers celebrating the earlier first communion ceremonies.
Below me, some teenage girls are sitting next to a small table on the sidewalk. They've been there all evening and I'm not sure if they're selling something or just hanging out. The sidewalks are a little busy, as groups of people meander in search of food or entertainment. The occasional car or truck rambles by.
Most of the stores that I can see are closed, their heavy corrugated steel doors rolled down for the night. Above and around the doors, painted right onto the plaster, are the stores' names and descriptions. Across the street is Sombrero Lozmane; to the left of that a store sells cheese, cream, yogurt, cecina, chorizo, and chicherron (fried pork skins). The ubiquitous Coca Cola logo is displayed there and several times further down the street. There are all kinds of stores: I can see a shoe store, an architect/construction>/painting office, computer shop, dry cleaner, music store, and some kind of small school -- all in one block across the street.
A dog just wandered by. They are everywhere here, like part of the landscape, and they completely ignore you. They do their dog things, and are either a) sleeping; b) hanging with their homedogs on the corner; or c) walking somewhere with great purpose.
The street is moderately noisy -- there's constant chatter from down below, an occasional dog barks in the distance -- and everywhere there is music -- faint, muted, sometimes just the bass -- but it comes from all directions. In one direction someone is blasting what I can only describe as traditional Mexican polka. Over behind an iron works shop a few blocks away, some children have discovered more firecrackers and are lighting them off with loud flashes of light amid high-pitched shouting. Behind me I hear a radio; from up the hill comes a man's voice; below me a red volkswagen cranks up generic dance music and trundles away.
The teenage girls across the street have put their table away and disappeared behind a heavy brown door set in peach stucco. The street is quietening, empty save a group of teenage boys hanging out beneath a street lamp a block away. The town is still very awake, though, with the faint sounds of Mexican life coming from all around.
The cobblestone and concrete below me is well-lit, and street lights stretch away up a near hill. On the mountains in the distance are the light of two more towns -- far enough away to be distinct from Tlacolula, but close enough to be companions, twinkling, providing comfort and security. They say that there are others -- other towns, other taquerias, other dogs trotting purposefully down well-lit streets, but that there is only one community, one faint strain of a mexican folk song drifting though the dry desert night.
These towns are alive. There are people living here, and you can hear them, feel them, smell them. They make no apologies for their existence, and that is my favourite thing about Mexico.
When I awoke the next morning I discovered that the cobblestone street below me had been transformed into a tangle of shady tarps and blankets. The market had arrived, and was continuing to arrive as more Mexicans carried their bundles in from the bus station.
Ana and I went off to explore the tianguis. On the surface, it was just like the mercados in Oaxaca, with pretty much the same products. The white tile counters that had been bare the night before were now piled high with loaves of bread and hung with sinewy lengths of red raw beef. Vegetables were stacked in neat piles along with baskets of colourful spices, mountains of deep red chiles, and the ever-present fried grasshoppers.
There was a larger population of indians, to be sure; the women are distinguishable by their customary dress: a simple frock covered by a green, red, or blue checked apron; long black hair braided into ribbons; and a long dark grey blanket used as head wrap, scarf, basket, backpack, child carrier, and probably a hundred other things.
The tianguis surrounded an old church. Inside, every surface was inlayed with a dark, almost dirty gold. Statues of saints lined the walls and stretched to the ceiling, and martyrs were shown as they died: Peter, crucified upside down; another with an axe embedded in his head; a bishop with his head in his arms; and another headless body, prone, with a beaming face peering up from the ground below. The macabre display was solemn, intense, moving, and more than just a little disturbing.
We returned to Oaxaca and spent the rest of the day at the Museo de las Culturas Oaxacas. The museum covers the history of the state of Oaxaca from pre-hispanic times through the Spanish conquest to modern times. It is a treasure trove of information that would take most of a day to thoroughly explore. Despite the fact that I was thoroughly confused by my portable electronic audio guide, I must state that it is actually very well organized. Unfortunately, I didn't have the energy to sift though the hours of audio available through my little headset. I left Ana to enjoy the museum and returned to the hotel for a much-needed shower.
Ana left for the airport this morning. Before she left, though, she stopped at a vendor to get some chocolate to take home. This wasn't just any chocolate, though -- the cocoa beans were ground up before your eyes, along with almonds and cinnamon. The mixture dripped out of the mill in great gooey strands, and was mixed with an equal amount of sugar to make a gritty dough. This was then milled again to make a fine paste. Hot out of the mill, the fresh cocoa paste was pure chocolate heaven. I shall never know its equal -- at least until I visit the shop again.
I wandered the streets of Oaxaca today, and if it appeared my wanderings were aimless, it's only because I couldn't decide on a destination.
From the hostel I walked to the corner, and turned left, past the crumbling church (in fact, just about every church in Oaxaca is crumbling -- except for the tourist-filled Santo Domingo) and to the corner to make a phone call. I wanted to book a reservation with a cooking school for the next day, but couldn't get the number to work. I headed back to the hostel for telephone advice.
In the shadow of the crumbling church are several fondas (food stands) and one in particular was surrounded by a crowd as it served up tlayudas, made to order. A tlayuda is a kind of open-faced taco/sandwich/pizza thing, with one of a variety of stews on top, or pieces of meat or cheese, or avocado, or just about anything else. I found a seat on a bench next to a well-dressed but weathered old man. He immediately launched into a Spanish monologue, of which I understood little. Most of his oration concerned the food, and I occasionally encouraged further discourse by asking him for an explanation of what a word meant.
The three women at the fonda worked non-stop. One cooked tortillas on top of the large concave metal grill, pressing lumps of masa dough flat then cooking each side a minute before the final flip, at which point the tortilla inflates like a balloon while the inside is steamed. Another young woman topped the tortillas as orders came in. Their edges now raised to prevent the unfortunate loss of topping, she drizzled runny beans onto each, followed by a spoonful of the order: chorizo sausage and potatoes, or shredded pork with tomatoes and cilantro, or fried pork skins in tomato sauce, or something similar. A third woman, obscured by the food cart, did secretive things.
I got the distinct impression that none of the women appreciated my encouragement of the old man's ramblings. He was on to the pork skins now, explaining how good they tasted and how nutritious they were. I translated his words and actions as "fried pork skins give your spirit strength," although he may have been implying that they give your breath strength, which is another matter entirely.
I'd already dispatched two shredded-pork tlayudas and was ready for another. Taking his recommendation, I asked for the chicharron (fried porks skin). My appreciation of chicharron hasn't quite developed to that of a true Mexicano, and so my final tlayuda was my least favourite of the day. That for 15 pesos, was breakfast.
Back at the hostel I was assured that I was using the phone properly, so I set off to find a different one. Out of the hostel door, past the crumbling church, past the gleaming appliance store and equally gleaming clothing store, and into the zocalo. I turned right, past closely-pack tables filling the sidewalk, past the internet cafe filled with American students, and past an excellent marimba band entertaining early morning diners, and found another phone.
This time I got through, and made a reservation for the next day. She would call back at the hostel at noon to confirm, so I wandered back in that direction and sat in the hostel to await the call.
The hostel is an oasis. Physically, it is green with plants, closed and intricate, with hallways leading to leafy enclosures. Outside, the streets of Oaxaca are glaring, hot, stinking of diesel exhaust. Inside, the hostel is dark, cool, and stinking of cigarettes.
The hostel is also a cultural oasis away from half-understood spanish, strange customs, strange food, and strange faces. Conversation is in the language of your choice: dutch, french, german, and any of a number of flavours of english. The people are, for the most part, universally friendly and universally handsome. There is the odd ill-advised dreadlock, the odd gruff tone, but, united by a common desire to see the world, everyone gets along.
Noon passed and then 12:30, and still no phone call from the cooking school. I decided to get on with my day, knowing that the Mexican notion of time is slightly less restrictive than mine. It was now too late to join the tour to the waterfalls at Hierve el Agua, so I decided to head to the north of the Zocalo, where there was a place to rent bicycles. Out the door, to the right, then left at the corner, past the crumbling church and its crowded fonda, past the appliance store and clothing store and utilitarian "mega computer" internet outpost, and through the Zocalo, leafy and green with uncomfortable benches, and then through the Alameda, which that day was ringed by tents selling books.
I meandered north, then west, past empty restaurants and craft shops selling gold jewelery, blankets, pottery, and carvings. After a few blocks I checked my guidebook and realized the bike shop was to the southwest of the zocalo, not to the north, and I didn't feel like renting a bike any more anyway. I headed west, climbing a bit, past another crumbling church and one in better repair and the courtyard full of ice cream vendors that separates them. Further west, into unfamiliar territory I went, with the thought that I might climb the hill that overlooks the city from the northwest. Reaching a plaza, I checked the guidebook for directions. The guidebook warned against the trip, citing recent muggings. I gazed longingly at the tree-lined causeway wrapping around the hill, and the status with its arms spread wide at the top. Despite the statue's welcoming gesture, I turned my back on the hill and headed south.
I passed pharmacies, pinata shops, car repair shops, and more empty restaurants, these ones smaller and simpler than the ones near the zocalo: just a few plastic chairs, a few plastic tables, a few bubbling pots, and an old woman in the corner watching soap operas. I reached Periferico, the main road surrounding central Oaxaca, and waited at the corner. In any city, one of the keys to survival is knowing the local rules for jaywalking. In most Mexican towns, there are only two: 1) Cars always, always have the right of way, even when they obviously don't; and 2) Given the first rule, do whatever you want. The combination of the two rules is effective and allows for the efficient flow of cars and pedestrians, but requires the latter to keep their wits about them at all times. A short walk through any busy Mexican city will quickly teach you to look both ways before you cross.
I dodged buses and taxis and entered the major market at the edge of town. The flowers from the previous week had been replaced with mounds of fresh vegetables: cabbages, onions, radishes, lettuces, squash, garlic, and more, all making the air smell crisp and green. From there I hit the craft section again, but nothing appealed to me. The brown pots with green glaze looked hastily made, and I had no desire to carry anything of even moderate size on my back for the next five weeks.
I entered the main market area again, past ragged comedors selling chicken, rice, and beans to the odd patron. The smells of the market are alive and varied -- from crisp, watery vegetables to salty, earthy breads to even saltier dried shrimp to even earthier dried chilies. I tried to walk down every aisle, methodically, so I wouldn't miss anything.
I emerged from the market an hour later, content in the impression that it had made upon my senses, and dodged more buses and taxis while I crossed the street to the second-class bus station. It was busy, but not crowded. I walked past various bus companies, all advertising exotic-sounding destinations on letterboard signs for mere pesos, but none appeared to head where I wanted to go: to the coast. I decided that it would be preferable to spend the 8-hour overnight trip to the coast in a bit more comfort, and shouldered my pack for more walking: this time to the northeast, where the first-class bus station sat about 2 km away.
Again I crossed Periferico, this time at a nerve-wracking junction of 6 different roads. I wandered east and north, stopping for ice cream at the courtyard between the churches, and ducked into the odd church for some reprieve from the heat. I walked by the Santo Domingo church, its gleaming gold interior attracting tourists like flies to honey. I tried to sneak a photo of an old woman sitting in a doorway but she caught me and I casually pretended to examine my camera as if it greatly confused me. Heading further north, I found an entire street full of women selling textiles and weaving with traditional backstrap looms. Then further east, past shops and homes, crumbling churches and empty restaurants. Finally I reached the bus station, bought a ticket for the next night's bus to Huatulco, and began the final leg of my journey: back to the hostel.
Past more crumbling churches and restaurants; high walls with decaying plaster showing brown mud bricks beneath; and more of the ubiquitous graffiti that called, more or less, for a revolution. More choking exhaust and pharmacies. More closed steel doors and the occasional open one venting cool courtyard air onto the burning street. Past shoe stores, which outnumber the crumbling churches and empty restaurants, and then, finally, back into the oasis of the hostel. After relaxing on the hostel's cruelly uncomfortable couches, I had a shower. There was no hot water.
The van picked me up at the hostel at 9:30 am, and my adventure in Oaxaqueno cuisine began. In the van with me were three professional restauranteurs, a museum curator from Arizona, a pharmacist from Manchester, and a recent widow from Seattle. We travelled for about half an hour into the hills to the north of Oaxaca before arriving at the market at Etla. A few minutes later Susanna Trilling, the instructor and owner of Seasons of my Heart cooking school, arrived and we set off to explore the market.
American by birth, Mexican/Latvian in heritage, and a native of Oaxaca for fifteen years, Suzanne was a treasure trove of knowledge. We sampled herbs and cheeses, sweets and drinks. She explained the usage and significance of the various ingredients, some familiar, some exotic, some cultivated and some gathered in the wild. The cheeses were like ricotta and mozarella, and the breads were sweet and heavy. The herbs were the most interesting to me -- familiar in some ways, but all with scents and flavours which I'd never experienced. Without all those magic ingredients, some found nowhere else in the world, the food would never be authentically Oaxaqueno.
From the market we travelled along bumpy roads and through a river before reaching Rancho Aurora, Susanna's home and the location of the cooking school. The school was housed in an impressive and beautiful building designed and built by her husband, with a great domed dining room and big open kitchen with plenty of room for ten or so chefs. We were given a brief introduction to the recipes and ingredients we'd be using, then selected a recipe to prepare and got to work.
I, along with Joe, an italian restauranteur from New York, got to work on mole chichillo. I was a bit apprehensive at first, working with a professional chef and world-reknowned instructor. I mean, I can handle a frying pan, but I can't handle it professionally. But, my apprehension soon dissolved in a whirlwind of activity as, for the next hour and a half, we chopped and toasted and blended and milled at least twenty ingredients, with the highlight being the toasting of chili seeds until they literally burst into flames. The charred remains were eventually tossed into the sauce along with two kinds of chilis, tomatoes, garlic, onion, almonds, raisins, thyme, cloves, allspice, masa, and a bunch of other things. Then, it was stir, stir, stir, for several hours, with a special spot and huge wooden spoon over a charcoal fire on the patio. The result was delicous, of course, and notable in that it tasted like one thing -- no single ingredient was distinguishable. It was rich, a little salty, a little spicy, and just plain good.
The rest of the meal was excellent as well. We had a simple squash soup with masa dumpings that was pre-hispanic in origin; a gooey nopal, tomato, and avocado salad; minty rice; pumpkin seed dip; fiery salsa; and crepes with farmer's cheese and sweet potatoes. Late that evening I finally stumbled back to the hostel, sleepy and satisfied, and retrieved my bag, and headed for the bus station.