A Sampler of Oaxacan Life

Flying into the airport outside of the City, I expected to see Guadalupe nestled in the cumulus clouds that towered in the pink sky. Below, the gathering dusk shaded the mountains blue-gray. By the time we landed, the sun had set behind the mountains. A red glare emanated from a peak as if it were about to explode in a volcanic eruption.

At 7 a.m. the posada (bed and breakfast) began to awaken with squeaks, whispers and quiet footsteps. Birds sang in the patios. Palm fronds shaped like rakes fanned the guests while they waited for breakfast. By mid-morning, clouds were lifting from the mountains encircling the City. A hummingbird jabbed hibiscus blossoms on the rooftop.

Each town or village has a special day of the week for its main market. The City is no exception. Its weekly market is on Saturday; however, two markets, the Juarez Market and the 20 de Noviembre Market, are open seven days a week.

Leaving the posada early one Saturday morning, I found myself in the midst of men, women and children. Everyone carried empty shopping bags, plastic bags or burlap sacks. Buses, overflowing with riders from outlying villages, lumbered through congested streets to the second class bus station opposite the market. Colectivos, shared taxis or minivans that charge a set fee, crawled to their stands near the bus station.

It was easy to get lost within the Saturday market. The multiple buildings, maze of corridors and indoor and outdoor stalls sprawled across a wide area. The variety of goods was endless. Watermelons, cilantro, pineapples, papayas, mangoes, sacks of dried beans, handmade furniture, leather goods. Fruits of enormous size and vivid color, chilies arranged on giant green leaves, baskets of freshly shelled peas and pieces of sugar cane. Cuts of meat ready to be cooked on hot braziers, chickens roasting on spits, live turkeys, flowers, baskets, candy, farm implements, sling shots, yoke for oxen, handicrafts, pinatas, ceramics, clothes and tools. Baskets of lime for soaking the corn used for making tortillas, green tomatillas, herbs, banana leaves for Oaxacan tamales and baskets of fried chapulines (grasshoppers).

The glass front of one of the market’s shrines mirrored the activity behind me. It was perfect for unobtrusively photographing the shoppers. I heard a low “psst”. Looking up, I saw the reflection of a man dressed in a white suit and white hat. He clutched a bag of small white objects. He pointed to his chest. I turned and rapidly calculated the exposure and distance. The shutter clicked. He turned away and melted into the crowd. I met him as I moved through the market, but he never acknowledged that he had posed for me.

Curanderos (healers) presided over deep bins brimming with roots, leaves and barks. They sold amulets to protect against the envious eye and charms for attracting love, luck or wealth. Backed by centuries of wisdom and with the authority of their respected role in the community, they dispensed advice and natural medicines.

Along the streets leading from the Saturday market to the Juarez market were undertakers, repair shops and shops selling CD’s and tapes. Music blared from the Oaxacan equivalent of a dollar store. Dentists displayed samples of dentures in showcases. Juice bars offered fruits and vegetables mixed into healthy, refreshing drinks. A flash of orange and a sidewalk cook held up a squash blossom before enfolding it with a tortilla. The smell of chocolate lingered in the air. People thronged the streets eyeing rolls of plastic and household items. They sampled cakes, layers of colored jell-o in plastic cups, cut-up fruit and roasted corn on the cob.

Close by, a street drama was taking place. An elderly man in tattered clothes had slung innumerable sacks over his shoulder. He balanced himself with a precise placement of sticks and pieces of lumber. He teetered. The supports collapsed. He tumbled to the ground and sprawled on the sidewalk. The policemen who watched him fall retreated down the street.

A tall, pale man with gray hair rushed up and interrupted the scene. The American addressed me in halting, but distinctly articulated Spanish, “Senora donde esta la plaza?”

“Go in that direction,” I answered.

He departed muttering, “She’s from the States.”

The sky was turning orange; overhead were grisaille clouds, in the distance, thunderheads. The wind was blowing. Toy helicopters whirled and flew into the cathedral. Little boys dashed in after them.

The first figures I met when I entered the cathedral for mass were the saints etched into the glass panels of the main doors. The church was packed with worshippers. Many stood. Children clutched the strings of balloons. Outside in the plaza, Alameda de Leon, balloons in the shape of squid, fish, hot dogs, giant baby bottles and dinosaurs swayed and rocked. Their reflections danced in the glass that protected the religious pictures along the walls of the cathedral’s nave. A bird, hidden high up in the cathedral’s interior, joined its voice to the music. The sacred and profane united and soared upwards in praise, adoration and thanksgiving.

Heading back to the posada, I stopped to look in the windows of several bookstores. Parents and children, waiting to buy schoolbooks, queued on the sidewalk. I was curious as to what Oaxacans read: paperbacks by Deepak Chopra and Carlos Castaneda; books about natural diets, papaya diets and vegetarian diets; books about natural healing; novels; books about the care of dogs, especially German shepherds, which were popular as guard dogs. Posted on rooftops or in front yards, they prowled, growling and barking as they assessed every passerby.

Back at the posada, I sat in the outer patio. I wrote and read amidst the potted geraniums and the sound of splashing water from a fountain. The house was quiet, empty of the chatter of maids. The clear air, the right altitude (5,110 feet) to move about in made ideas and inner guidance come and go as if in a dream or a deep meditation. Thoughts flowed into actions. Harmony existed between my inner and outer worlds.

I left the posada to walk through the Alameda and watch the children, the twirling merry-go-round and the carnival rides ablaze with lights and music. Little trucks and Disney characters tirelessly spun around. I ate a plate of tamales Oaxacan style and drank a limonada at one of the restaurants in the arcades in the zocalo (Plaza de Armas). A group of little boys, multicolored stripes painted on their faces, performed a tumbling act. Children begged for money or sodas. Street vendors urged diners to buy jewelry, carvings, weavings, embroidered blouses and bark paintings. A quiet “no gracias” was all that was needed. They rarely asked twice.

It was a beautiful, warm night with crisp stars, the moon wreathed by a bright halo and church bells ringing on the half hour. A perfect night for a hotel to host a birthday celebration for a vivacious woman who wore an elegant blue suit and matching accessories. People brought presents. A band played. The guests enthusiastically applauded each piece. At the end of the evening, everyone shouted, “Heep, heep, hooray!”

Early the next morning, several hours after midnight, I was startled out of a deep sleep by the sound of running water, unidentified scrapings, crashes and bangs, and the beam of what appeared to be an enormous flashlight waving in the air. It was the night desk clerk watering the plants on the balconies and patios.

Every day a hypnotic thread of music repeated itself over and over in the hotel. It became a background to my thoughts. It joined with the music of the City from the stores, the streets, the churches and the concerts. It wove itself into the fabric of daily life: the tap, tap, tap of a chisel as a stone mason patiently chipped blocks of stone under a canopy in the deserted atrium of a church; the swishes of the branches of the street sweepers’ brooms, which swung like pendulums across pavements; the buzzing of scissors being honed on a scissors grinder’s wheel attached to the front of his bicycle; the melodious bird song produced by a boy who whistled with his fingers in his mouth as he directed a water truck to back up a driveway. Doorbells rang, door knockers rapped, and latches creaked.

Wherever I went, sparkling black eyes and responsive smiles greeted me. Simple courtesies abounded. An elderly man, arms loaded with goods to sell at the market, stepped aside to let me by. “Pasa, pasa,” he repeated. I thanked him, and he awkwardly bowed.

My heart melted at a little girl with dark liquid eyes who lifted a red plastic bowl and begged, “pesos”. Her tired mother sat on the sidewalk on a square of cardboard with two smaller children. The two little ones laughed while they ate an apple. The mother opened her hand and whispered, “alms”.

And there was a grandmother who had sat on a stool just inside the door of the market selling tortillas. It was late afternoon, and she slowly shuffled out of the market. Instead of a cane or a walker, she leaned on two poles. A young woman escorted her to a taxi parked at the curb. The young woman lovingly helped her into the back seat before settling in beside her.

Cars, their hoods and trunks decorated with satin roses and peach satin rosettes or vases of flowers, waited outside churches for newlyweds. Women with a basket of carnations, roses or gladiolas on their head paced through the plaza in front of Santo Domingo Church. Black crepe paper draped over doorways reminded the living that death had visited.

A murmur of women’s voices rose and fell from deep within the interior of Santo Domingo Church. It was the hour of the Rosary. Suddenly a clear soprano voice exploded into song, rose and trailed off into silence.

The following day I revisited Santo Domingo and took a seat in the second row from the front. A woman entered and knelt on the opposite side. Her high, pure voice gushed upwards like a fountain. She arose and entered the Chapel of the Rosary where she knelt and lifted her ethereal voice to worship Our Lady.

I wanted to ask the sales clerk in the church’s gift shop if she knew the woman with the angelic voice. I began, “The woman who sings...” and stopped, because the clerk wore a black mantilla draped over her head and around her shoulders, and her eyes were filled with light. She was the woman! We shook hands, and I told her that her voice had moved me to tears.

Some months before my visit in 1996, a student or professor had been martyred at Benito Juarez University. People were commemorating his death with a symbolic funeral. A procession accompanied by brass bands wound its way through the streets. Muscular men carried 35 large easels upon which rested oval floral tributes of white flowers surrounded by greens.

The procession stopped in front of the University. An audience gathered. There were impassioned speeches. The marchers left for downtown where another protest was taking place. Hundreds peacefully marched with signs asking for “solutions of problems”. The two lines passed each other, moving in opposite directions along parallel streets.

In the zocalo, the police band performed while a police detail ceremoniously lowered the flag, folded it and marched in formation with it to the Governor’s Palace. The locals watched the tourists who angled for the best views to record on camcorder or camera.

Martial arts students demonstrated karate in Benito Juarez Park. A parade with horses, bands and costumed people from the Isthmus of Tehuantepec circled the zocalo. The women tossed avocados and paper flags into outstretched hands. From the zocalo, I went to the church of San Juan de los Dios and landed in the midst of a baptism of babies. An open-air concert by the Oaxaca Orchestra in the Alameda capped the afternoon.

At 4 p.m. on August 31, 1996 the blessing of the animals should have taken place at La Merced. It did, but I missed it. I missed it, because someone had scratched out the 3 from the 31 on the notice board. A parishioner said the ceremony had been canceled. Another assured me that it had been rescheduled for September 1. I arrived on September 1st at 4 p.m. in time for a funeral. “You are late,” one of the mourners said. “The blessing was yesterday.”

Several weeks before Independence Day on September 16, 1996, the sidewalks and open spaces looked like gardens planted with red, green and white flowers. The flowers were the Mexican flag; thousands of flags in all sizes fluttered and nodded in the breezes. At night the flags were uprooted to be replanted the following morning.

When I wanted to rest, I headed to the plaza adjacent to the atrium of the Basilica of Our Lady of Solitude where I would buy a tuna nieva (ice) from my favorite vendor. I would take it to a wrought iron table and chair and slowly let tiny spoonfuls of this salmon pink nieva made from the fruit of the prickly pear melt in my mouth.

It was April 1997. I went to the Hotel Rivera del Angel to take the public bus to Monte Alban. The bus was packed with tourists and locals. Occasionally the bus ground to a halt, and women and children climbed on board with necklaces to sell at Monte Alban. The bus driver left the door open, the bus hit a pothole, and a little boy who was standing beside the driver almost tumbled out.

We passed through pocket-size communities clinging to the mountainside. The houses were in various stages of construction on tiny terraced plots. The most ingenious methods and materials were used to defy gravity and provide the most house for the smallest area.

People were leaving church, catching up on local news under the lavender blossoms of jacaranda trees or climbing to their houses via steps tamped into the earth. The smells of grilling pollo (chicken) and conejo (rabbit) stirred hunger pains. My stomach growled.

Arriving at Monte Alban, I followed a trail that wound down the mountain. Birds and butterflies flew beside me. Cigarras, cicadas that supposedly predict rain, surrounded me with a continuous, supernatural, stereophonic concert.

Retracing my steps, I crossed the road and mounted the stairs to the entrance to the ruins. I climbed down to the plaza. Its spaciousness was overwhelming, and the views from that sacred mountain top that had been so painstakingly leveled and rebuilt with grand buildings, were inspiring. A rainbow arched over the City.

Everything was closed on the Aniversario Gran Revolucionario on November 20, 1998. Local school children, led by drum majorettes and followed by bands, paraded through the streets. They halted and circled in intricate formations. I had a front row seat; they passed by the entrance to the posada.

The sun, a giant ball of fire, sank in the west at the end of Hidalgo Street. Pedestrians stopped. Cameras appeared. Throaty notes drifted from the bandstand in the zocalo as the State band prepared for a concert. Streetlights, former gas lamps, cast a soft glow on the sidewalks and buildings. Shadows floated along the walls.