Tierra de Tortugas

TEQUISQUIAPAN

It's really Bitsy's fault.  

We would not have thought to come to 'Tequis,' as the locals call it, but Bitsy had been here for a few months and told glowing tales of its charm. She was right.

We caught the bus out of Querétaro for the one-hour trip through green fields and countryside. At the Tequis station we caught a cab to the plaza. We had no other plan. I left Carolyn at a cafe, nursing a hot chocolate and watching the luggage, while I went to look for a place to stay. She was surprised at my quick return, when I said, "I've found it."

I had walked a block and a half and turned into a doorway I'd noticed from the cab window. It was called "La Posada del Virrey" (Inn of the Viceroy).

Inside was a tranquil, manicured patio around a trickling fountain with rooms along the portals, an intimate bar, and a pool in the back. It was very charming, and probably expensive, but I thought I'd risk asking. The cost, MN$1080 (US$83) per night, was posted behind the desk and that certainly looked do-able – especially for a few days of excellence and repose. I told him we'd stay three nights. 

 

Then the manager noticed the price and said it was wrong. Since it was Sunday evening, the weekday rates of MN$900 (US$69) applied instead, breakfast included. I told him I'd be right back with Carolyn and the luggage. Normally, I wouldn't make such a decision without consulting the lady in charge. But this place was so sweet, it looked like a no-miss. We moved our stuff into the room and relaxed in the quiet. After hanging out listening to the trickling fountain for maybe half an hour, we consulted our calendar and decided to stay another two days.

I can't say we've lodged in any particularly unpleasant rooms so far on this trip, but some have been more utilitarian than charming. That's usually not a problem since we spend so much of our time out wandering. This one though, especially for the price, would be a fine place to just hang out and embrace the rich graciousness that Mexico offers.

We had arrived on a Sunday afternoon with the express purpose of locating Bitsy's friends Maruka and Paola, at the rooftop cafe where they sing. We found our way past several sleeping dogs, and kids running through the plaza, to our destination where two margaritas and lunch were soon on the table. Drinking at mid-day is not usually our style, but we pride ourselves on adaptability. 

 

It was a fine afternoon to relax and listen to the music as various audience members joined them onstage and took pictures. One little girl couldn't stop moving to the beat and jumped at the chance to be onstage with a kid-size tambourine. She'll probably have fond memories of this vacation.

 

In the morning we enjoy a leisurely breakfast before wandering off to take care of the laundry. Yes, such mundane chores remain an essential part of travel. There's a charming handmade "No Smoking" sign posted at the lavandería that reads "Did you know that the world measures 510,000,000 km. Then why do you come to this little space to smoke?"

After that we explore the narrow streets of Tequis looking for someone who can sew up Carolyn's old backpack that we bought somewhere in our travels long ago. The fabric is too heavy for a seamstress, but we find a shoe repair place that says they can do it. We'll return in a couple of days for it.

Meanwhile, our ramblings take us past several murals and any number of interesting places, including the spot that is the 'geographic center of the country.' I don't know what geographers have to say about it, but there's an impressive bronze plaque on the wall explaining that former President Venustiano Carranza liked Tequis so much that he declared it the center of Mexico. Hard to argue with that, I guess.

There was a tiny, sweet Museo de las Canastas showing all the materials and stages in the basket making process. And a shop. So, of course, we had to buy something!

After a good day's trek, it's time for dinner. Again. (What would these blogs be without fine pictures of food?). After that, a wander through the plaza at night, then making our way back to the Posada, being very careful as we pass under the hundreds of swallows that choose to nest on the overhead wires at only one particular spot in town. 

We sign on for another all-day tour.

First is an organic cheese-maker named VAI where Carolyn gets to count the drops of enzyme going into the vat – without dropping the bottle into the mix. Then we're down into the 'aging cellar,' which they explain is only for demonstration purposes because, dim as it is, there's still too much light for good cheese.

The lady says, "None of this will ever go to market." Next we visit some contented sheep, cows, and a curious goat (aren't they all?) before buying plenty of cheese to carry off with us. 

 

 

Peña de Bernal is next. The huge monolith (third largest in the world, and a New Age shrine) towers over this beguiling and artistic little town. It's our lunch stop, but Carolyn and I decide we'd rather go off exploring the place. There are any number of interesting side streets to choose from, and we wonder why guidebooks give it such short reviews. It seems like a quiet place worth spending time in.

 

Back at the main street, we buy a couple of "esquites," a delicious sort of corn chowder with lots of chile and cheese, and watch two young sisters as they earnestly prepare them.

The Freixenet wine cellars are next. This famous Barcelona-based company, long known for its champagne, is now a major presence in the fast-growing Mexican wine industry, and produces a variety of whites and reds.

 

This is a big operation, and Mexican tourists fill the building (we are the only gringos), although the guides mention that Mexicans generally prefer beer. It would appear, from our observations that the country's rising middle class is poised to challenge that old stereotype. We pass on the wine buying because we're looking forward to the next stop, a smaller winery named La Redonda.

The vines at La Redonda glisten green under the ample sunshine, and grapes hang in healthy clumps below. The winery guide is very enthusiastic about grapes and tells us far more than most us can remember, or even care about, while the hot sun beats hard upon our heads. After a while, some of the Mexican tourists are rolling their eyes and looking for a quiet shady place to sit down.

I find a stone bench where I can enjoy a pastoral view to the mountains beyond, while seated beneath a sign reading, "In this place, in 1892, nothing happened." My kinda place.  

On weekdays, the old part of Tequis is a little town of winding streets leading to quiet spots along the way. Or maybe the clank and squeak of a tortilla machine. Or a small café in a nearby alley. Or a chocolate under a broad portal around the plaza. Or an afternoon lunch with Maruka y familia.

 

Due to the abundant water available here, Tequis is a popular spa-town and vacation destination for families from Mexico City and other areas, although one resident mentioned troubling pollution from a nearby Kimberly-Clarke paper mill. It's a verdant area with many albercas (swimming pools) and winding tree-lined lanes. Sometimes the photos are the best way to tell the story...

 

We spend our last day walking along the little river, with its towering trees, and through some of the established wealthier areas, before retiring to the plaza for hot dogs (famously described by Ralph Nader as "America's most dangerous unguided missile.").

After a nap, we enjoy a conversation and drinks at the Posada's fine little bar, followed by an excellent dinner at nearby "Il Sapore Italiano."

 

We enjoy it while we can, because in the morning we'll schlep our bags to the bus again for the next leg. To San Miguel de Allende, land of myth and fable – sometimes called "Gringolandia."

— PRW

QUERETARO 2

Thursday, July 19, 2012 was a day to remember. 

On our morning ramble through the old stone streets and verdant squares of Querétaro we encountered a large political protest assembly in the busy Plaza de la Corregidora. We lingered at the fringes as the speaker, a PRD Senator, described the broad national dissatisfaction with the recent election. There is still plenty to dispute about the official results, considering all the allegations of fraud and manipulation. Then there's the fact that more than 60% of the voters cast their ballots for someone other than the alleged winner, Enrique Peña Nieto of the PRI. The country is strongly divided, and one wonders how this will play out.

In the early afternoon, I was in the hallway of our hotel checking e-mail when a young man came out of his room to do the same. We struck up a conversation about the Querétaro/Montreal International Jazz Festival currently in progress, and he turned out to be the bass player for the YolanDa Brown group from London that was playing that evening.

Carolyn joined us as we discussed music, philosophy (Hobbes vs Locke, The Great Conversation, etc.) and the politics of Nigeria, his homeland. Nigeria is known for its rich musical heritage and tradition of political activism, and few people symbolize this better than Fela Kuti. Although he's gone now, he was part of the Great Musical Conversation. He remains an inspiration to Jeremy and many others.

In the evening, we got there early to grab seats and enjoy the opening act, a very good group called the Vudú Chile Jazz and Blues Band, from nearby San Miguel de Allende.

 

But their set was interrupted by the protestors marching through the area and chanting, "¡Fuera Peña Nieto!" (Out With Peña Nieto!). At one point, about 60% of the jazz audience (around the same number as voted against the PRI) applauded the protestors, and several waved signs. It was looking to be a very interesting evening, with us in the middle, perhaps, of a history-being-made moment. But the protestors finally moved on, and their chants slowly dimmed as they marched away. 

This all happened well before YolanDa Brown began her set, and what a set it was! She plays, quite excellently, both the saxophone and the clarinet; and she has an outstanding backing band that kept the whole place hopping. She told the crowd in very good Spanish that this visit to Querétaro was her first opportunity to taste 'jamaica,' a popular bright red hibiscus drink. That was significant because her family is from Jamaica, and that country is currently marking it's 50th anniversary of independence.

She came down into the crowd and sat about five feet from us as she wailed on the clarinet.  And we were quite impressed with the bass playing of our new friend Jeremy (actually, Jeremiah Oluwambe Olaleye,  but we'll stick with 'Jeremy'). 

After a rocking evening of jazz, protest, more jazz, and a couple of encores, we retired to a nearby hotel restaurant for a drink (Cuba Libres), some passable food, and a fine Cuban quartet that played all the great Buena Vista Social Club numbers and more. A middle-aged couple got out there to dance, and for one brief, shining moment they were 23 years old again.

 

(The table sign translates, charmingly, "No Smoking - Respect the Regulation 'Of the Law for the Control of Tobacco' or suffer the consequences of Having Broken Said Regulation")

 

It was a excellent way to end an eventful day.

 

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Friday was tour day. We signed up for two tours and spent much of the day busing around the city with a full load of Mexican tourists. The tour guide spoke so rapidly (all in Spanish) that I was soon left far behind. In situations like this, it's hard to keep up if you're not born to the language. And there's a tendency here – certainly among tour guides – to slur the speech and gloss over pronunciations. Words discard their 's,' 'o,' and 'a' endings and elide fluidly to the next word. A phrase like "Los edificios" (The buildings) becomes "Loedificio." "R" endings become "sh," so "No Tocar" (Don't Touch) becomes "No Tocash." It certainly adds color to the language, but (for me) it's far less understandable than the language spoken in Oaxaca or Mexico City.

 

Our guide speaks constantly for 15-minute stretches in an attempt to give the most information possible. I drift off in contemplation, writing this up in my head for the next blog; and a Mexican tourist compliments him on his very compete explanation! At times like these, I relish my rich inner life. But he was very animated, entertaining, and dramatic, and told lots of jokes that, judging by the reaction of the other tourists, were real knee-slappers.

So we saw the famous 'acueducto,' statues of famous people, narrow streets and fountains, and a beautiful park called the Cerro de las Campanas (Hill of the Bells) crowned by a huge statue of Benito Juarez. It was worth the money, even with the language issue (for me, not Carolyn so much).

 

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Querétaro is a large city and there's still lots of wandering to do. We soon find ourselves in the extensive gardens of the Alameda, where locals go to find a patch of green. There's a large and raucous street market at the entry, but signs prohibit "vendors, clowns, etc…" from the park itself. It's a place to wander down the broad center walkway; admire a statue of José Lopez Alavez, composer of the famous Canción Mixteca; feed the squirrels; or find a quiet place to talk and breathe the oxygen.

It's also a good place to meet a young man named Francisco who just wants to practice his English.

On our way back to the hotel (for a nap) we happen upon El Jardín del Arte, and somehow manage not to buy numerous essential items. I hope we'll survive.

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More wandering brings an encounter with Querétaro's modest ex-pat community. Barry Lippman, a former New Yorker, relocated to this city several years ago and now deals in real estate ([email protected]).

Barry has a tasteful flat he's renovated extensively just a block or so from the center of town. We were fortunate to join him and his friend Ann, from Toronto, at his place for a drink before we all went out for dinner on our last night in town. They suggested a very good nearby Oaxacan(!) restaurant called María y Su Bici. It's a successful and fun family place where the music is loud, the portions are large, and there's a play area for the kids. 

We discussed the healthy economic growth the city has experienced in recent years, due to strong foreign investment. We had also noticed extensive and fine restoration work in the city's historic center. Barry mentioned the new assembly and distribution plants near the airport that are providing good jobs for the community, as well as the growth of suburban residential tracts around the city. He spends some time these days finding living quarters for incoming executives. In the daily newspaper, Diario de Querétaro, the outgoing Alcalde, María del Carmen Zuñiga Hernandez, mentioned the large colchón (mattress) of 400 million pesos her administration will leave in the treasury to finish out the year. It's nice these days to see a city with money in the bank.

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There's still much to see, and lots to remember from our time in Querétaro. On the surface, this appears to be a very livable city. There's a wide variety of newspapers and magazines to enjoy over morning coffee, there are daily (and nightly) street performers and book fairs; and cars actually stop if you look like you want to cross the street. There's an effective recycling program, and they have a regimen of constant street cleaning to discourage even thinking of tossing out trash.

 

And who can forget the oddly wonderful dog fountain (no, I didn't ask) in the Plaza de Armas?

There's a lot to see in Querétaro, but the time has come for us to push onward – to the charming spa town of Tequisquiapan, about an hour away.

— PRW

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But before we go, a bit more reflection from Carolyn...

Street life in Mexico owns me. Or perhaps it's street life in the Latin world — Mexico, Argentina, Spain.  I'm sure there are other places where vibrant street life can be found, but here it has a particular lushness and diversity. I often think I could no longer settle for living where the streets at night are empty and all the people are locked inside their homes watching television!

We had dinner two nights in a row on Queretaro's Plaza de Armas — one night at Chucho El Roto's (I think Perry is telling you a bit of Chucho's tale) and the next at a fine restaurant named 1810. The food was great at both; we enjoyed nice wines and listened to jazz drifting over from the performance tent nearby. Both nights we had tables at the edge of the plaza, with full view of the people and events, and in the 8:00 to 10:00 p.m. time frame, there was a lot to see! 

Families carrying/pushing/trailing small children, herds of teenagers in everything from skintight miniskirts and 6-inch platform shoes to goth black and studs, a little old tipsy man swaying to the music (same one was there both nights), elegantly dressed couples in leather and diamonds, beautifully colorful and quiet indigenous women selling baskets and dolls and bread and necklaces..., young couples necking on the benches, men carrying guitars, women in medieval costume, beggars, amputees in wheelchairs, blind people with white canes — it seemed the whole sea of humanity flowed by in a never ending, undulating stream. 

And often they would stop at our table — the vendors and the beggars, that is. Small children asking for pesos or if we would like to buy a little cotton "muñeca" or a "chicle." They look at you with large, imploring eyes and you wonder if they've managed to sell anything all day long.

I am so quick to say "no," especially after the nineteenth woman has offered the same shawl or straw bag, after the twentieth child has held out a grubby little hand asking for "un pesito." Perry is more reachable, at least until he's emptied his pockets of coins. (Perry's position: We are not rich, but we have so much more than they do.) He seems so generous; I seem so hard. I can barely look at them. But when I say "no!" it's not a rejection. It doesn't mean I wouldn't like to heal the wound for each and every one. It's just my way of temporarily coping with my own discomfort, my sadness. 

I remember my first exposure to real poverty in Peru nearly fifty years ago. It wrenched at me, tore me up, had me virtually paralyzed — seeing such hunger and illness and deprivation. I was so fortunate, and I had come with the intention to help; yet I could not fix this thing I was seeing.

Back then I could barely look that poverty in the face. It would have been so much easier to go back to my middle class comforts and "realize my potential." But luckily I had signed on for two years with the Peace Corps. I was committed to sticking it out. And by the time the two years were over, I saw things through very different eyes.

Living outside my culture and country of birth helped me understand that I had been born into a very privileged society and that I could as well have entered this world under very different circumstances. It was not entirely intelligence and hard work that gave me access to education and employment. I was in the right place, at the right time.

   

It's no less distressing, now, to look hunger and need in the face than it was back in 1963. But those things are so undeniably part of being human. And exploring other cultures has shown that there are many ways to survive, be human, and live life with dignity, whether rich or poor. For me it is a good thing to keep poking around in the world, checking out the street life in as many places as possible, experiencing how it's done by other people following other rules and speaking other languages, pushing my limits, testing my comfort zone. There's so much yet to learn!

Never mind that it isn't always easy! 

—CJK  

QUERETARO 1

We arrived in the historic and booming city of Querétaro on an ETN luxury coach with first class legroom.

It was a four-hour trip via the new cuota road that skirts from Puebla through green countryside past Pachuca, east of Mexico City, and then meets the main highway to Queretaro. The cost was MN$455 (about US$35) each. There was a tragic bus crash last week in the state of Nayarit, at 4:00 a.m. That's one reason we prefer to travel during the day: we figure the driver's usually more alert; and, besides, we can watch the scenery outside. From the station, we boarded one of Mexico's ubiquitous 'death cabs,' complete with rap music and a twenty-something at the wheel, for a too-rapid trip to the hotel in the historic center. The cost: MN$37 (US$2.85). After that we were, thankfully, pedestrians for the next several days.

We managed to arrive for the Festival de Santiago, and there's free opera tonight in a plaza called the Jardín Zenea. There are several plazas in Querétaro, but we find the right one and hang around the bandstand in a crowd, waiting for something to happen. Suddenly a gorgeous woman's voice begins singing a piece from Carmen.

We all look around to see where it's coming from and realize it's the orange-clad 'cleaning lady' we saw on the other side of the plaza. The crowd moves en masse to surround her. After she finishes there's another voice in the air and we all head in that direction. Between songs, we crane our necks trying to guess where the next singer is. I catch a glimpse of a large microphone wrapped in a Festival Program and grab Carolyn's sleeve. The next singer – he looks like a handsome young Placido Domingo – is standing right next to us.

 

Welcome to Querétaro, a city filled with art, culture, and surprise. There's even a guy walking down the street toting two kettle drums as a kind of 'drum sandwich,' on his way to a gig. 

After the opera, we make our way to a restaurant in another plaza called the Jardín de la Corregidora, and find ourselves dining in an unfortunate battle-of-the-bandsmusical din. The food's good, but there's some loud electronic noise from the other side of the plaza; there's some nice guitar music from the next restaurant over; and then some guy breaks in with a loud karaoke machine right near us. 

I have my opinions about karaoke. It's fine if you want to go out with your buds, have a few drinks, and act like Frank Sinatra. Everybody get's a good laugh, but it's not professional. The owners of the eatery should have sent their guy home and let the guitar player take care of both restaurants. We may have lingered over a second drink. As it was, we finished our meal early and left.

Querétaro is a sizable city, with a population of 730,000. Thanks to recent major investments by Ericsson and other large companies, its economic growth rate is among the highest in the country. It's also a very important part of Mexican history.

This is where the conspirators first met in 1810 to plot the overthrow of Spanish rule at the home of la Corregidora, the Mayor's wife. It's where the long-ruling PRI was born. And it's where the National Anthem was first sung due to a certain 'mishap.' That event was supposed to happen simultaneously all across the country, but somehow the clocks were set 10 minutes early in Querétaro.

Walking these ancient and narrow stone streets is similar to wandering through a large museum. We will find that we don't end up visiting even a single history museum while we're here. This is a very cosmopolitan city, and there's just so much else to do. Like lingering over a fine lunch at the Toulouse Lautrec Gypsy Jazz Café and reading a couple of short stories in an old book from the shelf. There's no actual jazz at the 'jazz café,' but the food is very tasty and the ambiance is excellent. 

 

Because of its history, Querétaro is an important destination for Mexican tourists. And there are lots of them boarding the tourist tranvias for city tours each day at the Plaza de la Corregidora. This is not a major gringo hangout, and we're even here during the gringo low season. So, except for a small number of ex-pats who live here permanently, we appear to be the only gringos in town. That leads to a few amusing double-takes – but we're just part of the show. 

The weather is excellent during our July stay in Querétaro, warm with afternoon showers. At almost 6,000 ft of elevation, this artistic city feels much like Santa Fe in the summer.

This part of central Mexico, from here to Guadalajara, is often called "The Land of Eternal Spring." So even in the winter, it still feels like Santa Fe in the summer. It's just right for wandering cobblestone streets during the day, reading a newspaper over afternoon coffee, and lingering in the plazas at night.

There's plenty of art, and the exhibits are not all 'old Mexico' stuff. Along one street, there's a gallery holding an exhibit with a crashed cars motif. They're well-done, super-realistic oil paintings of cars that the artist has crinkled before mounting in frames. He's even provided insurance damage 'claims.'

On another evening in Queretaro, we're in a much quieter plaza at a restaurant named "Chucho El Roto," after a famous bandit (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chucho_el_Roto) whose enduring legend has long outpaced the reality.

We're enjoying a fine meal with a bottle of good Monteviña wine from Parras, Coahuila, and watching the world wander past our table. At the other end of the plaza, a fine jazz band from Montreal is playing, as part of the International Jazz Festival that we also just stumbled into. We order two good dishes to share – a large salad (Carolyn) and a steaming Molcahete de Pollo (me).  We'll switch plates at the more-or-less halfway point and pour another glass of wine, as we enjoy the evening's music and the parade of people passing by, including a couple of 'Jazz Guys' who are just hanging out. The total bill will amount to MN$477 (about US$37), and the nightly street show was free. This is an excellent, an affordable, way to explore fascinating Mexico.

 

So far, Queretaro seems to be the 'hippest' place in the country, for Spanish speakers anyway – not counting the endless A-List delights of Mexico City. An ex-pat named Bill, from Kentucky, says, "There's always something going on around here!" Lonely Planet mentions the vibrant gay bar scene and I guess that says something about the degree of tolerance here, but we didn't really check the 'Gay Bar Index' (or whatever) for Oaxaca and Tlaxcala. 

We decide to stay over for another couple of days, and pity those who are afraid to leave home.

— PRW

 

OFF TO TLAXCALA

Morning arrives on our last day in Oaxaca and there's just time for a quick breakfast in our little rented home. Then we wheel our bags down the cobblestone streets to the ADO bus station for the next leg of our trip. Bus travel in Mexico (and Europe, and S. America) is different than the US. It's the choice of Mexico's students and the growing middle class. It's a nice way to travel, it's usually far cheaper than air travel, and it often takes the same time or less than dealing with all that airport hassle.

During our travels in Mexico south of Puebla, ADO was always the bus line of choice. They maintain a very high level of service and comfort on their luxury class Volvo and Marco Polo buses, and their stations are clean and modern. This time we were on OCC, an ADO subsidiary, and it was also a good choice. 

 

Initially we rode north through the verdant farmlands of the central valley of Oaxaca, past open fields and charming villages ringed by tall mountains. Then we entered the barrancas that separate Oaxaca from the state of Puebla. It was a dramatic trip before settling into the rich farmlands around Puebla.

There was occasional discomfort when we passed a 'pipa,' one of those two-trailer fuel trucks, on the curves. There had been an article in the Oaxaca newspaper about the frequent accidents involving 'pipas' and their 'cowboy drivers' on back-country mountain roads. There were graphic pictures showing the latest wrecks and descriptions of how all the victims ended up 'calcinados' (fried). We were on the newer, and safer, 'cuota' road, but you still wonder….  

Our arrival at Puebla's large and frenetic bus station was a departure from the tranquility of Oaxaca. We found the Verde Line and boarded one of the VW buses (much larger than that good old 60s version; there's a huge VW assembly plant at Puebla) that leaves every 15 minutes for Tlaxcala. 

 

Tlaxcala was once a very important city in Mexico (before the plague), and still retains a prominent place in Mexican history. When the Aztecs finally wised up to Cortez and drove him from their capital (an event called, "la noche triste"), he sought refuge with the Tlaxcalans. After initial resistance the Tlaxcalans, ancient enemies of the Aztecs, became his allies and enabled his conquest of Mexico. They later led uprisings against the tyranny of the Spaniards. I read this long ago in W. H. Prescott's book, The Conquest of Mexico. Now I had come to see it firsthand.

The road from Puebla to Tlaxcala is unenticing at best, as it passes through the usual urban chaos and confusion common to much of the country. A sign on the bus reads, "Velocidad Controlado." That's more a result of the endless 'topes' (speed bumps) than the bus driver. But the colonial core of the city, with a population of only 72,000 and the capitol of Mexico's smallest state, turned out to be modest and sweet. 

It's raining as we settle into our cosy and charming (if a bit dark) room at Posada La Casona de Cortez. It would rain for most of the three days we stayed in Tlaxcala. And at an elevation of 7500 feet, it was often cold, as well. The local people were wearing down vests and fur-lined boots. We'd headed south to central Mexico during the rainy season to escape some of the summer heat of Sonora, but we hadn't expected it would actually be cold! In July! We were not well prepared. 

 

In the mornings we greatly enjoyed wandering the streets in our usual explorations, umbrellas in hand. But the afternoons were met with astoundingly violent lightning storms and biblical quantities of rain. We sat under the portal to write, but the very nearby crashes of lightning soon sent us scurrying to the safety of our small room, where there was no comfortable place to sit.

Nevertheless, we enjoyed ourselves to the fullest in this interesting and under-visited small city. The first order of business: a warm red 'hoody' for Carolyn, and a nice warm place for dinner.  And then, after a good night's sleep under extra blankets (in July!) we were ready to wander. 

First stop: Zumba in the zócalo. Well, in our case, watching Zumba in the zócalo, on our way to breakfast. 

It's a rainy Sunday morning, but there are signs of life in the plaza. And there are signs of the ongoing electoral protest taped to the bandstand. They read "Sale on the Presidency: Lowest cost at Soriana" (a reference to all the Soriana gift cards passed out for votes), "Sufferage with 'efectivo' (cash) is not an election," and many others.

 

 

In recent years, Mexicans have had their hopes raised for a more democratic future, and they are becoming more active in demanding it. The post-election period is likely to remain turbulent for awhile. 

Meanwhile, as in centuries past, daily life continues and families start to appear in the plaza. The tall trees offer some shelter from the diminishing rain, while the merengue-like Rococo facades of the buildings offer visual delights.  We wander onward, past the Paroquia de San José and toward the river, enjoying sights along the way.

At the river, where beautiful blue flowers are dropping from the jacaranda trees, we find the Museo Vivo de Artes y Tradiciones Populares. It's truly a 'Museo Vivo,' with artisans to explain many things on display. The 'viejita' in the Smoke House was keen to explain everything in sight, and delighted to answer questions. She, like most Tlascalans, is very proud of her heritage. I was intrigued by the woven horse hair screen hanging on the wall. So that's how they sifted stuff before somebody invented wire!

 

 

 

 

 

A short walk further along, we find the large and well-equipped 'Youth and Families Park.' It's nestled nicely into a forested glen and has basketball courts, an enclosed soccer facility, a very active skate park, bicycle trails, a long walking trail, and other facilities. Plenty for the kids to do besides, well, whatever….  

 

By the time we got back to the plaza, it was filled with people enjoying their Sunday out; someone had removed the water-logged protest signs. We stopped at an art exhibit.

 

There were buff young guys doing handstands, twirls and back flips (it made us feel old!). And there were young couples making out on the benches. Based on what we've seen so far, making out in public may well be central Mexico's favorite outdoor sport. 

The lobby of the Palacio de Gobierno, on the northeast side of the plaza, is well worth a visit. It's filled with extensive murals depicting just about every aspect of Tlascalan history, rendered in great detail.

 

After a nap (to escape the afternoon showers) it was time again for dinner. We found a warm place on the plaza, with bull heads on the wall and a Mexican talent show on the TV. Then it was time to retire again for the night under warm blankets. It had been another good long day.

 

 

 

Morning dawns, with another few hours of sunshine. We find a broad intriguing pathway off the corner of plaza Xicohténcatl (!) that leads up to the ruins of the old Ex-Convento Franciscano de la Asunción. It also overlooks the bull ring (which now more resembles a lake!) and gives a nice view over the city. We pause for a moment to enjoy the 'charming' translation on a sign, and the modified VW parked across the street.

 

 

From there it was back down in a loop to the plaza and onward up another hill to the ornate Capilla del Pocito de Agua Santa (Chapel of the Well of Holy Water).

At the very top is the Santuario de la Virgen de Ocotlán, an important pilgrimage site to where the Virgin supposedly appeared in 1541. There was a funeral underway when we arrived, so we decided against taking pictures. We walked a bit further and caught the procession (mariachis and all) as they made their way down the hill.

Somewhere along the way we found another meandering street and a curious dog who checked us out from under the gate.

We headed back down toward the plaza to a delicious organic lunch at a little place called Zana-Hora. The place was empty when we got there, but was full long before we left. 

About then the afternoon clouds were building, but we decided to chance it and walk in a completely different, more modern, and more commercial direction. That's when we came across a beautiful old music school surrounded by a sculpture garden, an oasis of green quiet in the heart of a bustling city. Young people were practicing their violins under the trees, and the sounds of other instruments drifted from the building.

 

As in most of Latin America, a good classical education is highly regarded and we were happy to chance upon this facility. Good things can happen when you wander and, as they say, "All those who wander are not lost." That applies to us. At least part of the time. And the rest of the time we probably are lost.

 

But in the summertime in Tlaxcala, "Those who wander too long get wet." We got back to our room just before the daily afternoon deluge, and considered what to do for our last night in town. After a nice nap.

 

The rain abates to a drizzle and we head out to a place we saw earlier in the day, a place that sells "pulque curado." No visit to Tlaxcala would be complete without stopping at a 'pulqueria' for a taste of the local fare. They call it 'curado' when it's mixed with fruit juice to make it more palatable. Otherwise, it's an 'acquired taste.' We ordered a 'piña colada' and a 'fresa.' They arrived in traditional clay pots, and the young bartender convinced us to order a plate of chalupas to go with it. Carolyn said hers tasted like pineapple-flavored beer, and mine was like strawberry beer. Really not all that bad, and the chalupas were good. 

 

Pulque, made from agave, is the ancestor of mescal and tequila. It is said that in the old days, women would chew the pulp and spit in into a vat where the saliva would cause it to ferment. We did not want to know how the pulque we ordered was made, so we talked to the nice young bartender about the Tigers versus Angels baseball game that was playing on the TV. After that, we moved on. In the rain.

 

We'd had our eye on a nice last meal at a fine-looking place called "Vino y Piedra," so we headed there next. We sat down next to the in-floor wine cellar at a table with a peek-through to the bar. But after the pulque and chalupas, we weren't very hungry, so we settled in for tapas and glasses of good wine to top off a night of drinking. Very cosmopolitan of us, no doubt. The young Mexican couple at the next table told us we needed to check out La Redonda winery when we get to Tequisquiapan. We assured them we would. 

 

 

There was more than enough to do in Tlaxcala to warrant staying another day or so. But frankly, we were cold and decided to go looking for summer. Our next stop would be Queretaro. In the morning we caught a lift to the bus station. It was raining as we left.

 

(BTW: Our Canadian friend Peter Manchester waxed eloquently about the joys of climbing La Maliche, the 14,600-ft dormant volcano that towers over the city of Tlaxcala – during the dry season. During our stay, we never saw the cloud-enshrouded, rain-drenched mountain, and there was a search on for four hikers who'd gotten lost out there. Sorry we missed out. Maybe next time.)

— PRW

 

OAXACA FAREWELL

After a couple of days of whirlwind, fact-filled tours, it's nice to relax into the rhythm of the community. It's good to simply wander the streets wherever our feet happen to take us. Maybe we'll get to that museum this morning; or maybe that will happen tomorrow. After that second cup of coffee.

As I write this, in an upstairs studio/bedroom (there are two, besides the main bedroom) enjoying that second cup of coffee, a cowbell in the street announces the guy who buys scrap metal. Farther away, a voice calls, "Tamales!" I've just returned from the sastreria down the hill where I had my old and durable traveling pants repaired (again) for 30 pesos.

 

There's a little 'alebrije' mouse (or whatever it is) that watches us as we climb the stairs several times each day. I'm listening to an excellent Oaxaca radio station playing a mix of classical music and rich traditional songs. We're lucky to be here, to be doing this. Life can be very sweet if you have the luxury of time to enjoy it. It's one of the great gifts of retirement.

 

(Our good friend Peter Manchester, well-traveled but still working, writes, "Dang you two!" from his northerly redoubt in New Brunswick. It so well sums up our situation that we're planning to rip it off and keep it as a slogan! Check his art at: http://petermanchester.ca/ )

 

There are some real advantages to renting a small house for two weeks within walking distance of the zócalo in Oaxaca de Juarez (It was the home of Mexico's great Reformer). For one, it can help to keep your daily lodging costs within reason (US$35 per night, for us), and you can even cook a few meals 'at home.' There's the daily exercise, of course (If you're not in good shape when you get here, you probably will be when you leave). And finally, it's a great way to get in contact with 'la vida cotidiana,' the daily life of the community. That alone will take you out of mainstream 'hit-and-run' tourism, and give you a depth of experience you might otherwise miss.

Temperature-wise, Oaxaca is a welcome relief from the intense summer heat of Sonora. Between the altitude (around 5000 ft) and the summer rainy season, daytime temperatures remain in the very pleasant 70s and 80s. There are afternoon showers (carry an umbrella!), but it's not as wet as Seattle. Nighttime temps usually require a cover for comfortable sleeping, with the sound of local tree frogs in the air. It's really about like Portland in the summer, very pleasant.

We wander down a winding street to drop off our laundry and pass a modernist Biblioteca Infantil (Children's Library) tucked nicely into the streetscape. The entry walls feature an engaging tile design. The reading rooms open onto landscaped courtyards. Fanciful designs decorate the ceilings. The guard turns on a fountain hidden in the roof opening that lights the entry, and young children stand with their parents, watching water that suddenly pours from the sky.

A bit further along, there's an old aqueduct crossing a stream. It's a nice place to read, or talk with a friend, with the quiet whisper of water in the background.

And there are some nice murals along the way. 

 

None of this is on the Tourist Maps. You really need about 2 or 3 weeks, maybe a month, to fully experience the essence of 'hidden Oaxaca.'

On our return, we find there's a 'Mexican Standoff' at the corner where three, narrow, one-way streets intersect. After much horn honking, engines are shut off, drivers emerge to discuss the situation and everyone organizes a solution. Then life continues apace.

 

There's graffiti here, as in every modern city – much of it the usual brainless 'dog-pissing-on-wall' variety. But there's quite a bit of thoughtful artistic content, a modern extension of the great muralistic tradition of Mexico. This is a very literate and politically activist city.

 

Every Saturday, there's an organic farmer's market just up the hill from our place at the Iglesia de Santo Tomás. We shared a delicious fresh tlayuda (a large local taco with special local cheese, chicken and spinach) and enjoyed a day with the local people. We topped off lunch with a tall glass of chocolate, freshly mixed in a bicycle-powered blender! Central Mexico is the place that introduced chocolate ('xocolatl' is a Nahuatl word!) to the world. We bought several more small chocolates to enjoy later after dinner with some finely aged mescal.

 

And later that evening we went back up to the little church for a fine concert to celebrate the 20th anniversary of the Oaxaca Symphony Orchestra. A Haydn symphony and an interesting piece by a Mexican composer (I didn't catch the name) were a fine way to end the evening. 

 

Art is important to daily life in Oaxaca, and we actually got to most of the fine museums in town. A walk through the magnificent Museo de las Culturas at Santo Domingo gives a great overview of Oaxacan history (it's all in Spanish). As a bonus, it overlooks the fine Ethnobotanic Garden which is also worth exploring.

 

 

The Museo  de Arte Contemporaneo houses some fine, and challenging, recent works. The Textile Museum and the adjacent Master's Gallery are well worth a stop to see some of the best art around. And there are several nearby art galleries to peruse.  

 

 

  

 

Then there's the food. Oaxaca has its own distinctive world-class cuisine. People come here from distant lands just for the food, and it may be why the Aztecs and Cortez came here in the first place! When the food is this good, word gets out. We managed to sample as much of it as possible during our stay. 

 

And who can visit Oaxaca without savoring some delicious roasted 'chapulines' (grasshoppers) with chile, along with a good shot of Mescal? For the record they're very tasty, and a bit crunchy, although the little legs tend to get stuck in your teeth.

 

Toward the end of our stay, we spend a fine evening with fellow Kino-folk, Bill and Nancy Berg. Somehow they've managed to rent an entire mansion in the verdant hills just outside the city. It's part of a very tastefully designed complex, with a pool and guesthouse.

 

We relaxed on the veranda overlooking the jungle, with some good mescal to wait for dinner to arrive – they've paid a local lady to conjure up some culinary magic for the evening! It doesn't get much better than this.

 

On our last night we attend a 'bohemia,' an evening of ballads and musical favorites, with only a singer and a guitarist. It was another one of those free concerts we find from handbills or wall posters, and an excellent way to spend the evening. There were three fine lead-in duos to the main event, which turned out to be a tribute to Álvaro Carrillo, who composed "Sabor a Mi" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B90KHiZYlEs&feature=endscreen), among many other songs. His son, Mario, sang a version that included a verse in Zapotec (!). At one point they started passing out long shots of mescal to all the adults in the place. The reason became clear when we bought one of the CDs called "Eso Merece Un Trago (This Deserves A Drink)." While the singing was excellent, the playing was a master class in the guitar music of central Mexico. It was a night to remember.

But alas, all good things must end...

...and it's time to wander onward – to intriguing Tlaxcala.

— PRW

 

DEEPER OAXACA

The gas man arrived. I heard the jingle of the aluminum rings he drags down the street behind his truck, and I opened the door. He hefted a heavy gas cylinder onto his shoulder with a broad smile and followed me into the house. He'd been here many times before. Soon we were joined by Gustavo, whose family owns the house. Better to have two guys standing around watching, instead of just one.

 

The gas man quickly replaced one cylinder with another and checked for leaks. There was one. Every time he moved the cylinder, we all heard a large leak. He tightened the connection, moved the tank again, and the leak reappeared. He said it was the mangera (hose) connecting to the tank. Gustavo said it must be the tank. 

The gas man pulled out his lighter and lit the leak as it spewed from the hose. A large flame roared into the air; I edged closer to the exit door, torn between a strong desire for self-preservation, and wanting to get a picture of this latest example of what my good Mexican friends in Sonora would call a "Mexicanada." The gas man blew out the flame. It was the mangera. Gustavo nodded. He would replace it. Maybe later.

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MONTE ALBÁN

The fertile and temperate central valley of Oaxaca is the 'cuna,' the cradle, of Mesoamerican culture. The large city of Oaxaca is the modern nexus of all the various cultures that have long inhabited this land. And many anthropologists believe that nearby, and impressive, Monte Alban is the first major city ever built in the Americas.

We don't often take tours, but there was simply so much to do and see in the surrounding countryside that a tour made sense. We would go to Monte Alban in the morning. 

When the ancient architects and craftsmen began to build this massive ceremonial city, about 500BC, the Egyptians had already been doing the 'civilization thing' for centuries, the Greeks were in the process of building the Parthenon and other historic monuments in Athens. But my Germanic ancestors were running around the forest in bearskins and living in wattle-and-daub huts; when Monte Albán was abandoned more than a thousand years later, my ancestors were still living much the same. (Read Tacitus' description of the Germans in 100 AD sometime when you're bored. He was moved to write, "Rome has no greater gift than the disorganization of her enemies.")  

 

By the time the late-comer Aztecs and Spaniards arrived, about 500 years later, Monte Albán was just another hill in the valley, completely engulfed in dense overgrowth and largely forgotten. The Spanish did not realize there had been an ancient city on the site, and that's why there's no church standing on top of it today – built of stones quarried from the ancient temples. Today you stand at the top of the extensive ruins gazing out onto the adjacent modern city of Oaxaca, and the fertile farmlands that stretch down the valley ringed by cloud-shrouded mountain peaks. 

 

 

CUILAPAN

After a brief, introduction to this ancient culture, it was time to move on to Cuilapan, and another roofless and abandoned ruin.

The vast and never-finished Ex-Convento Dominicano stands stark against the sky. It's been that way since 1560. All that effort and…then what? Another impressive ruin for tourists to visit.

 

ALEBRIJES

 

After a madcap run down a dry arroyo, we stopped at a 'alebrije' workshop. This is where they make those beautiful and fantastical wooden creatures painted in brilliant colors. We bought several.

 

 

 

 RANCHO CUILAPAN

Next, an excellent lunch spread at Hacienda Cuilapan. It's hard to describe the delicious variety of Oaxaca's famous cuisine, available for the taking. The pictures will have to do that. We lingered over lunch while gazing into a luxuriant courtyard. Carolyn's urge to enroll in one more of the local cooking classes was only intensified. 

 

BARRO NEGRO

 

After lunch we were off (¡wrong way short-cut down a one-way street!) to the 'barro negro' (black pottery) works in Coyotepec where we watched a man build, spin, and shape a beautiful form using the ancient method of one small inverted plate atop another as a 'spinning wheel.' Meanwhile the woman next to him was carving the most intricate patterns, freehand, in another jar. 

 

MITLA

It was a full and satisfying day for us, and we decided to take another tour with the same group. But after a day of other wanderings about town. 

The next tour took us to the exquisite and finely detailed ruins at Mitla. The adjacent large church was built with stones quarried from the ruins, yet there is still plenty left to dazzle and amaze. The intricate stone inlays of this late period ruin are well worth the trip. Our courtly guide pointed out the decorative stones arrayed in groups of ten as proof that the metric system had originated with his Zapotec ancestors(!).

 

TULE

Also on the agenda was a visit to the 'Tule tree,' listed in Guinness as having the greatest girth of any tree in the world. At 11 meters (about 36') in diameter, it's 'the world's fattest tree,' over 2000 years old and big enough to create its own small ecosystem. It dwarfs the nearby church, and the resident bird chorus is a special bonus. On the other side of the garden there's another huge tule tree that nobody saw fit to mention. It was only 1000 years old, so why bother?

 

TEOTITLAN DEL VALLE WEAVERS

At El Colibri weaving studios in Teotitlan del Valle, the Gonzales family produces a variety of artistic woolen rugs and tapestries using only natural native dies. Carolyn even got an opportunity to spin the wool, and smash a cochineal bug in her hand to end up with a palmful of brilliant crimson. It brought her back to her Peace Corps days with the weavers in the Peruvian Andes. And, of course, we bought one of their beautiful rugs.

 MEZCAL

 

After another fine lunch of Oaxacan cuisine, we stopped at a small artesanal mescal factory. We got a good overview, from cooking the agave 'pineapple' under a mound of earth, through watching the final golden fluid drip from the copper still, and even enjoying a taste of the results. And yes, we ate the worm, after a fashion. Following a shot of mescal, you dip an orange slice in a bowl of worms, chopped and blended with chile and spices. Then you savor the moment.  

 

HIERVE EL AGUA

Finally we arrived at the hidden treasure of Hierve El Agua (The Water Boils) where the natural carbonation makes the water appear to boil. We took a bracing dip (the water's actually cold!) in pools nestled into verdant hills. A fitting end to an excellent day. 

--------------------------------

We meet some interesting people on these tours. There was the young couple from Vancouver riding their BMW motorcycles to South America. A Costa Rican archeaologist named Raul was just back from Beirut and headed next to Kabul. Besides excellent Spanish and English, he also spoke Arabic and a few other languages. (That's him doing a headstand at Monte Alban.) 

 

On the Mitla tour, we hooked up with Dee from New Zealand, and Carmen from Switzerland. (They're watching the weaver, with Carolyn.) Carmen, at only 23, spoke four languages fluently and could get along fine in several others. Dee, a midwife whose fisheries biologist husband travels widely, decided it was her turn at the world. She left NZ in February and will continue working her way around the world until December. We offered ample invitations to "come on up and see us sometime," In Kino Bay.

— PRW

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And, from Carolyn...

OAXACA REFLECTIONS

When I was headed off for my Peace Corps experience in Peru back in the 60s, I was told to record my impressions within the first two weeks, because after that everything would begin to seem ordinary.

After little more than a week in Oaxaca, I find myself reflecting.

This is a quiet place. A quiet people. Even considering the early morning cowbell call of the garbage collectors, the jangle of the gas truck, the indiscernible cry of the water delivery man, and the occasional, startling fireworks explosion, there is a pervading calm. This is a tourist destination, to be sure, but one does not feel overwhelmed with offensive tourist-focused behavior. And even though there are vendors offering all manner of artisan products, food, and tour opportunities, it does not seem intrusive. No one is pushy; offers are made with a gentle smile and a graceful "gracias" even when no sale is made.

It's the people. Fine-featured and dark of complexion, they speak gently and quietly. Even in restaurants filled with diners, there is a graceful hush. None of the raucous, earsplitting cacophony often associated with popular eateries in Mexico. We walked from our apartment down to the Alameda on Sunday to see the closing concert of the week-long "Danzón Oaxaca."

Other programs we attended involved a full dance band playing Latin ballroom numbers while prizewinning dancing couples from all over Mexico danced elegantly for hundreds of spectators.

But the closing event featured a lively Latin rock band playing some Spanish language pieces and many English covers. There were four or five hip-gyrating vocalists, congas and horns, and huge speakers that blasted the sound over several city blocks. And around the edge of the possible dance floor the spectators sat and stood, just listening. The only dancers were some small children — including one little guy who is destined to be on stage some day. The music was raucous, but the crowd was, well, quiet. They weren't disparaging; they were just quiet.

 

Oaxaca City sits in the Central Valley among surrounding mountains that have formed the homeland of the Zapotec people for over 3,000 years. These mountains are peppered with small, traditional communities, descendants of the early inhabitants; and each community has its unique traditions and identity, virtually intact. These are people who know who they are and who their ancestors were, where they lived, worked, and died. Monte Albán, founded by their ancestors around 500 B.C., is next door, visible on the horizon. It was inhabited for some 13 centuries and abandoned even before the Aztec invasion of the valley around 1250, and long before Cortez came to stake his claim. But while the Aztecs succumbed to the Spanish advance, the Zapotecs did not. In a resilient chaotic process, the culture broke into subcultures, reformed and established communities, carrying on and evolving their unique identities. As our tour guide said while we were making a visit to Monte Albán, "When this site was abandoned, it wasn't because all the people died. They did not all disappear. We are still here!"

 The calm of this place is the calm of its people. A sort of self assuredness about one's place in the grand scheme of things. A deep and tacit knowing. A commitment to culture and preservation of values.

 I asked a young woman running the office where we booked our tour if there is any of the typical problem we see in so many indigenous communities where the young go out into the world for education and employment and somehow end up losing interest in their roots, never really coming back. "Oh, no," she said. "Because the culture is so important. They come back to fulfill their responsibilities and carry on the traditions of their communities!"

This week preliminaries for the annual Guelaguetza festival begin. Guelaguetza brings thousands of indigenous people to Oaxaca city for folk dancing and a celebration of cultural diversity. It was explained to us that Guelaguetza is about sharing and reciprocal gift giving. Indigenous groups prepare throughout the year for the festival, selecting dancers who will represent them in the ceremonies and in sharing the products of their communities.

 We won't be here for the actual festival, which really goes into full swing on July 23. We will be on our way to other interesting places by then, but I will carry with me the gift of calm so generously shared by the Oaxacan people.

—CJK

 

ESCAPE TO OAXACA

Our Aeromexico jet, a Brazilian-built Embrayer 190, rose from the runway at Mexico City's Benito Juárez Airport and headed toward the southwest. It was a cloudy day and cool in the capital city.  

People had asked if we were staying in Kino Bay for the entire summer, and the extremely high temperatures. No we weren't. We were going south(!) to the highlands of Oaxaca for at least a couple of weeks. Summer is the rainy season in Oaxaca, but we figured that might keep things cool. After that we'd be traveling by bus for the next month through the highlands of central Mexico, wandering our way to Guadalajara for the flight back to Kino Bay. Sure wouldn't want to miss August in Kino.

The plane entered dense clouds (remnants of hurricane Carlota) and broke its way through heavy turbulence that spilled the drink cart and cancelled any beverage service. Passengers grinned nervously at each other, or peered quietly out the window at the green fields far below. We hoped Embrayer jets were noted for being sturdy.

Soon we were at the Oaxaca Airport and I managed to get a picture of the plane just before the ground crew waved me off (that's him in the lower right). We soon caught a taxi to the house that Carolyn had rented online, and began to settle in for the next two weeks. It was a nice, clean, modest two-story place with three small bedrooms and a roof terrace. It is home to an American expat artist who sub-lets it short-term when she is not here. Her tastes in music CDs and art are similar to our own. We were met at the door by Gustavo, a member of the Leyva family of weavers who live (and work) in all the adjacent houses. It was good to be land-bound again. 

 

We heard that heavy rains had hit the city the day before and there was considerable flooding, although our new lodgings, a hefty uphill hike from the center city, appeared immune to that. We're in an area of narrow winding streets, with several small organic restaurants nearby. The street in front of our place has a drop-off with steps down to the next crossing street, so through traffic is not an issue. 

 

After a very long day of travel, we were ready for a restful night – but the quiet was broken by a bomb-like blast. It sounded like it was almost next door. There were no sirens or people rushing into the streets, so we figured it was a kid with a firecracker. Someone in the Leyva family, we guessed. Later there was another blast. And then another. This continued into the night, although it stopped around midnight. Then about 6:00 a.m., it began anew. So much for a good night's sleep. 

 

For the next several days, we walked the cobblestone streets of Oaxaca and got to know a bit of the city. Each night we'd return, exhausted, to the 'firecracker serenade.' Not wanting to be pushy about it (since we'd be living with the family for two weeks), we hoped it would abate soon. After two more nights of it we asked Gustavo's grandfather about the noise. He explained that it was part of the eight-day yearly celebration at the church of Santo Tomás, just up the hill. And it had just ended. We have all the luck. 

Our new 'home' is in a warren of streets known as the Colonia Xochimilco. The hilly streets are lined with residences, bars, eateries, shops, and weaving studios. 

Each morning we hear the gentle clacking sounds of looms just across the street. They belong to the local weaving family who own the building where we are renting and most of the surrounding block. The sound of other nearby looms can also be heard. And most mornings we hear the propane delivery truck, with its jingling bells advertising "Oaxaca Gas." The 'bells' are actually several coarse aluminum rings on a chain that hangs under the truck and drags along the ground.

There's an odd-sounding horn of some sort in the distance. And another truck driver is selling water and chanting something that sounds like "Lavo." I'm reminded of the "Peanut Vendor Song" (El Manicero – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HtMtFHFobeI&feature=related) as he walks the streets of Havana calling out to sell his product. It was a very famous song in the 1950s, with versions by Perez Prado and Stan Kenton that introduced the infectious beats of Cuba to the American market. That rhythm is still the daily sound track of much of Latin America.

 

Our first days are spent (nay, invested!) in wandering these artistic streets and soaking in as much as the city can offer us, and whatever we can absorb, each day. There are so many things to experience here, in this cradle of mesoamerican culture, the home of peoples who far predate the Aztecs and their latecomer conquerors, the Spanish. Although we normally wander to our own schedule we plan to sign up for a tour, or maybe two. There's just so much to do here, and it will take all of the two weeks we have allotted. Each day we return to the house late, and exhausted. On our third night we finally got a good night's rest. 

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A heavy rain fell into the night.

 

All day long a black halo of cloud built over the forested mountains surrounding the fertile Central Valley of Oaxaca. Dark, heavy, and rich, it crept into the town and pounded the window panes. In the morning the sun rose and hung like a golden diadem in a crystal sky. The election was over. Enrique Peña Nieto had won; the PRI was back in power.

 

While the seasonal weather of Oaxaca plays well into the PRI narrative metaphor, the reality is not that simple. The 'golden diadem' is heavily tarnished. The state of Oaxaca went heavily to the PRD (Partido de la Revolución Democrata), the party of Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador, known as AMLO. Immediately before and after the election broadsides were plastered onto walls denouncing the election of Peña Nieto (EPN). Others call for a Huelga General (General Strike). The "Yo Soy #132" youth movement (http://www.hispanicallyspeakingnews.com/notitas-de-noticias/details/the-yo-soy-132-student-movement-says-elections-was-filled-with-irregulariti/16969/) organizes regular gatherings at the ancient zocalo in the city center to protest the results. On the nearby Alameda, a clown performs beneath a massive protest banner. The activism is a part of everyday life here. There is so many protests in this city that there are signs reading "Los Ciudadanos Oaxaqeños Exigimos: No más plantones" (Oaxacan Citizens Demand: No more sit-ins).

Here in Oaxaca, birthplace of both the great reformer, Benito Juárez, and the corrupt dictator Porfirio Díaz, people are watching the outcome closely. There have been credible allegations of fraud. A man on the street here in Oaxaca told, without our asking, of watching ballots at his polling place being transferred from one candidate to another. There are media reports of vote-buying in several states. Mexican friends have mentioned all the free food and other gifts being passed out by various parties before the election.

 

There is much discontent in the poorer, southern, indigenous regions of Mexico. These are the areas that have yet to see the tangible economic benefits that Sonora, and many of the other northern states, have seen from increased global trade. Mexico has had a long and turbulent history, largely due to corruption and massive inequality. If the discontent spills over into violence, we may see a face of Mexico that lay hidden for 72 years beneath the heavy hand of the PRI –probably the longest period of relative peace the country has ever seen. 

 

In his book, A Revolution of Hope, former President Vicente Fox said he hoped the people would give his PAN party the time to institute all the reforms the country would need. After twelve years of PAN rule, the country appears weary of all the deaths in the endless 'Drug War,' as well as suffering from overall 'PAN fatigue.' And now the PRI, once described by Mario Vargas Llosa as "the perfect dictatorship," has returned to power.

Since the PRI's initial defeat in the year 2000, the country has been on an unsteady path toward a workable democracy. Given the country's turbulent history, the outcome is anything but certain. After 38 years in power, Porfirio Diaz was unseated in 1911 by Francisco Madero. As Diaz famously remarked at the time, "Madero has unleashed a tiger; let’s see if he can tame it."

 Madero was assassinated in 1913.

—PRW

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And now, another aspect…

OAXACAN COOKING CLASS 

by Carolyn

 I've heard of Oaxacan cuisine for years. I even have cookbooks by Diane Kennedy and Rick Bayless that feature food from here. But you cannot really imagine until you experience the real thing. The aromas permeate the air. I will forever carry a memory of Oaxaca in my olfactory memory bank. I knew before coming that I wanted to take a cooking class; one taste of an authentic Oaxacan mole (pronounced 'molay') cinched it.

 La Casa del Tio Güero was not my first choice for a cooking class. But the one I had read about on the Internet and which got such rave reviews did not work out with our schedule. So I was looking for an alternative.

We happened by Tio Güero's place for a little lunch on our way to the Zocalo. One mouthwatering taste of the Tomatados got my attention — then I noticed that there was a little note on the menu about cooking classes! I asked, I signed up, and I was not sorry!

The class was private, lasted for three hours, and let me choose what I wanted to make. My choice: traditional mole negro and a roast of pork loin in orange sauce. This, of course, is the land of moles — red, black, almendrado, negro... And we have by now had opportunities to sample many. But the negro, which is probably the most traditional, usually isn't an option for Perry, as it is most often made with peanuts. So I explained his allergy to Chef Alfredo and asked if we could make it without peanuts. "No problema!" came the typical Mexican response. 

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Before I take you on my adventure, I need to explain that this is a Big Deal! Moles are known for their complex flavors, and you will soon see why. Also, the process explained below results in enough mole to supply a normal kitchen for about a year! So, with that forewarning...

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I showed up at noon, and Alfredo already had all the ingredients laid out in the upstairs open (the importance of this will become apparent soon) kitchen. He began by naming everything for me, then we began to cook!

 

FIRST THE PORK LOIN:

A beautiful boneless loin of about 2 kilos

10 prunes

12 almonds

4 strips of bacon

12 cloves of garlic

1/4 of a medium sized white onion

4 bay leaves

10 whole cloves

15 peppercorns

A handful each of dried, locally grown thyme and oregano plants

2 cups orange juice

Salt and sugar used according to taste

White vinegar

 

I was given an apron and a clean white cloth saturated with clorox water to clean my hands between tasks. Soon I was cutting the bacon into 1/2-inch bits and pitting the prunes; we boiled the almonds in a little water for 2 minute,s then drained them and popped off the skins. 

We put one cup of the orange juice in a blender with the garlic cloves and about 5 grams of salt, blended it into a frothy marinade, and set it aside.

 We then took a sharp knife and punctured the pork loin every inch, on all sides, and inserted in each hole an almond, a piece of bacon, and a about 1/4 of a prune, until all the ingredients were used, and placed it in a baking pan. Then we poured a cup of orange juice with a tablespoon of the vinegar over the meat so that it was well bathed. Next, we tossed on top the pepper, cloves, oregano, thyme, bay leaves, and a tablespoon of sugar. Over this went the marinade. 

The roast can sit in the marinade for two to three hours, then it goes into the oven, covered, at 250 degrees F for about 45 minutes, and another 8 to 10 minutes uncovered to brown. Take it out and let it rest a bit before slicing. If the center is not completely cooked, finish it off in a skillet on the stovetop with some of the liquid. You can serve it with the jus, as is, or add a bit of cornstarch to thicken it a bit. Serve with lightly steamed vegetables finished in the liquid from the roast.

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All the time we worked, Alfredo was coaching me about using only the freshest local ingredients and not overdoing the salt or sugar. Those are things to be adjusted just before serving. He tended the cooking area fastidiously, cleaning up and discarding the waste after every task so that the working area remained neat and beautiful.

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NOW THE MOLE NEGRO:

 The list of ingredients is daunting!

To make a consume:

1 whole chicken, cut up

2 garlic cloves

5 grams of salt

 

Cover the chicken with water, add the garlic, crushed, and salt and cook at a slow boil for 15 to 20 minutes. The consume will be used, along with fresh-made tomato sauce, to reduce the mole paste, and the chicken will be simmered in the mole for several minutes before serving. You may use pork, beef, turkey or any other meat instead of chicken.

 

To make the mole paste:

1 medium onion

1 full head of garlic

5 or 6 whole cinnamon sticks

1 cup raisins

20 chile Chijuacle negro (local only to Oaxaca; you can substitute)

15 chile ancho mulatto

15 chile ancho negro

125 grams almonds

100 grams pecans

1 large platano macho (plantain)

250 grams sesame seeds

6 to 8 bay leaves

30 peppercorns

25 whole cloves

Handful each of dried oregano and thyme plant

1 cup Mexican cooking chocolate

1 medium loaf of stale bread, sliced

5 or 6 corn tortillas

Cooking oil (traditional cooks use lard; a bit of lard will enhance the flavor)

 

While the consume is cooking, clean the chiles (remove stems and seeds), crush and peel the garlic, cut up the plantain into 1-inch pieces, and the onion into quarters. 

Cook 8 Italian style plum tomatoes in lightly salted water, drain (do not peel), and blend to make a tomato sauce. Set aside.

In a large pan, fry the chiles, in batches, very well in hot (but not smoking) oil, drain and set aside in a large pot.

In the same oil, fry the plantain, onions, raisins, and spices until the onions are golden and transparent and the raisins are plump – stirring and turning continually.  Toss in the sesame seeds near the end of this frying process. Remove everything with a slotted spoon, draining off as much oil as possible, and add it all to the pot with the chiles. Add a bit of oil, if necessary, and quickly fry the bread slices, turning each once. Drain and add to the pot. Finally, burn the tortillas -- yes BURN them to a black crisp! This is why the open kitchen was a good idea. Then you add them, along with the chocolate, 5 grams of salt, and 125 grams of sugar to the other items in the large pot.

 

Now carry your large pot to the nearest Molina (mill) and have them do a triple grind to end with a thick, dark paste. Oh, wait! You probably don't have a Molina in your neighborhood! You'll just have to use a blender or a food processor — and it's going to take a while! It's very important to grind the paste until it is very smooth. A little water can be drizzled in to help the process, but not too much!

 

 

Now we have a paste, but we're not done! We return this paste to the large frying pan and fry in hot (but not smoking) oil for 20 to 30 minutes, stirring and turning constantly with a large metal spoon. When you start, the paste will coat the spoon, and you will know that it's sufficiently fried when it is thick and slides off, leaving the spoon clean. We had to fry ours for only about 15 minutes, and Alfredo explained that it was because we did a good job of frying all the ingredients before grinding them. Had we not, the paste would have been more liquid, would have tended to stick to the bottom of the pan, and would have taken much longer to finish.

 

This recipe makes approximately 3 kilos of mole paste. You can package and freeze the paste and have mole for many meals throughout the year!

Now you can drain the chicken and reserve the consume.

 

TO SERVE:

 When you are ready to prepare the meal, put a portion (about three large tablespoons per person) of the paste in a large skillet. reduce it with equal amounts of tomato sauce and chicken consume and stir. It will be rather liquid and rust brown in color. Add the pieces of chicken you plan to serve and simmer, stirring occasionally for several minutes until the mole thickens and becomes black/brown. 

 

Serve with rice, whipped potatoes, or other grains.

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In the traditional restaurants where we have eaten, I've seen the moles simmering in earthenware pots over charcoal fires, each with a large wooden spoon for serving and giving an occasional stir.

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After my session with Alfredo, I went back to the apartment and took a nap! At 7:00 p.m., we walked to Tio Güero's and ordered a fine bottle of Chilean red (they didn't have any Mexican wine!) and feasted of the fruits of my labors. You'll have to ask Perry what he thought!

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I've already decided I'll take another class, this time in another school, just to see the difference. I'll let you know how it turns out.

—CJK