PART TWO
FADING MEMORY of last night's beer, on the breath and in the mind,
benumbed, gulping down coffee, vague dreams of food, that weird
teenage punk strolling down the sidewalk, same hick punks even here,
surreal the TV soap operas controlling every 21-inch in the land,
from the cities to the seas to these diesel-soaked cradles of existence
wedged between black-backed peaks, not used to Ron's early to bed-early
to rise schedule, the cobwebs I've got still spun by spiders, clawing
for prey or just a little more coffee, and so we're out of Huajuapan
early morning, sun breaking...
This was Oaxacan territory, as bold and vast as any bone-bleached
range, and silent, no traffic on the road that wound through red
hills, stripped ochre peaks, organ pipe cacti marching in mirages
of heat, shimmering sentinels, heat picking up now - 9 a.m. and
hot; I saw an eagle catching an updraft in the whiter than fluorescent
fields of still air, gliding above violet crags, high on the wind...
A lone shepherd leading his flock of sheep deep in a valley, mute
the fluffy swarm, running tight circles an excitable sheep dog,
barks rippling up the hillside, float away... a sudden vision of
fresh-watered trees, luxuriant verdure, crowned by a long gray pipeline
leading to an irrigation plant, a tiny Israel, brief Eden...
Then ascending a plateau, here small towns, ancient Spanish churches,
signs of life though barely in the torpor of heat, lizards too hot
to crawl off a rock... Oaxacan territory, mezcal shops, the devil
inside, signs swinging in the winds of a flat, parched nothingness
- the mountains a backdrop, I felt the taut coils that had gripped
my heart loosen, our arrival imminent.
We joined the Autopista outside Oaxaca City, the nothingness increased
- concrete block-sized - expensive cars now, tour buses, weird sense
of the modern world spilling out at every turn... Stage curtain
draped over the landscape, Oaxaca City beckoned. Finally at the
gates of our destination, and then the sign:
CIUDAD DE OAXACA
Ron steered for the Amigos
del Sol Language School, run by one of his friends, Rogelio
Ballesteros. He had offered to put us up at his family's home for
a couple of nights. We accepted the offer.
Sol's philosphy is based on what Rogelio calls "dynamic student/teacher
interaction." His school offers intensive Spanish classes and
conversational tuition, workshops in Oaxacan cooking, medical referrals,
and regional dance instruction. The young man's long-term plan is
to incorporate a bed-and-breakfast operation with the school; but
this involves another site, tons of work and lots of money. As Rogelio
noted, "Oaxaca's become so popular, rents in the center have
gone through the roof."
Still, Ron was interested in these plans, and during our time in
Oaxaca City he canvassed numerous hotels in the central area - checking
out prices, rents, room sizes, furnishings, facilities and so on;
his work concerning this and Rogelio's project coincided with a
series of objectives Ron was to tackle here, namely: promoting a
Oaxaca ecotourism conference scheduled for next year; promoting
links among environmental groups and travel agencies in Oaxaca;
identifying conservation projects; and advancing indigenous control
of ecotourism in the state.
Ron , as part of his networking duties, met up with a U.S. publishing
couple he'd previously encountered via email: Ian and Margo Baldwin
- who have moved with their children to Oaxaca City for a year.
The Baldwins founded the Chelsea Green Publishing house, run out
of Vermont, which specializes in books on ecotourism, self-sufficiency
and agribusiness themes - this stuff totally down Ron's alley.
Dining one night at the Restaurante/Bar Madre Tierra near the Santo
Domingo Church, Ian told me the most remarkable story - about his
driving an invincible Buick through Central and Southern Mexico
all the way to Guatemala in the 1950s; and it never ceases to amaze
me the adventures people go through.. a photographer pal of mine
recently encountered a man who worked as a cartographer during World
War II, mapping the Verugua jungles of Panama "in the field."
My friend met the funky old guy in Oaxaca City, too, in the Zocalo
enjoying a beer.
Oaxaca City, as Rogelio noted, is becoming increasingly popular,
although I personally noted little change in the place since I was
there half a decade ago. It still felt like the same laid back melting
pot. Free to wander the capital while Ron met with government tourism
officials and established contacts in the community to ascertain
progress in ecotourism objectives, I went and revisited the usual
points of interest.
Among the sights, there is the 17th century La Soledad church,
containing the image of Oaxaca's patron saint, the Virgen de la
Soledad; of course the grand Santo Domingo, built by the Dominicans
between 1570 and the 17th century; along with the adjoining Regional
Museum, containing numerous Prehispanic archeological treasures;
and the nearby Calle Alcala, where one may stroll unmolested by
noisy traffic to encounter fine stone buildings, shaded restaurants
and excellent arts and crafts shops.
There are the boisterous markets to browse through: Mercado de
Artesanias; Central de Abastos; 20 de Noviembre and the indoor Juárez
market.. buy a few souvenirs, some cheap food... Return to the relaxing
asylum of the Zocalo and adjacent Alameda, the Cathedral here, the
Palacio Municipal.. order a cold beer, read about Oaxaca's famous
sons of art: Miguel Cabrera, Rufino Tamayo, Francisco Toledo (the
latter also noted for championing environmental causes in the state)..
watch people pass by, all those different people: cosmopolitan,
chic, scholarly, ragged.. contemplate the universe, try to write
postcards...
Ron followed his interests and went with Margo one morning to meet
an American named Shawn. Ron experienced some initial difficulty
breaking the ice with him; Ron said the meeting got off to a "rocky
start." Shawn had come to Oaxaca many years ago to escape being
drafted for Vietnam... He lived outside the city on his farm in
Rojas de Cuauhtemoc with his lady, Valerie. Ron said the ambience
improved when they began discussing the local community-organized,
cabin/camping ecotourism concept called Tourist Yu'u.
"We talked about the Tourist Yu'u being used for a pottery-making
workshop, and he and Valerie showed me their solar ovens and composting
toilets," Ron said. "They were suspicious of gringos,
and seemed not to care about the world, but their actions say otherwise."
Shawn and Valerie had created an organic garden by utilizing a
system of drip irrigation and raised fields; and made a living supplying
fresh produce to the markets in the Oaxaca capital. Later we met
a woman running a small restaurant who swore by Shawn's tomatoes.
Ron regularly hammered his Nissan over speed bumps, potholes and
obscure tracks driving out to numerous locales in the Central Valleys
- mainly to the valley of Tlacolula in the east and Zimatlan in
the south - where we visited small pueblos specializing in various
crafts native to the region, and which provide great pleasure to
people from all over the world. We did our bit to support the local
scene by buying crafts: black pottery, sarapes, clay figures and
the recently-famous painted wooden carvings called alebrijes.
Obviously, it's best to go directly to the sources of production:
San Bartolo Coyotepec for its prized black pottery; Teotitlán
del Valle for bartering for blankets and rugs; the towns of
San Martin Tilcajete, Arrazola, and La Union Tejalapan, which
make the alebrijes; Yalalag for its huipils and Indian clothing;
Ocotlan with its colorful clay figures and big Friday market day;
Santa María Atzompa for interesting unglazed clay creations and
trademark green-glazed pottery.
At San Bartolo Coyotepec, I bought a life-sized black pottery skull
that had the perfect dimensions of a human head; while Ron got himself
a complete Maríachi set - to the ecstatic joy of the dear old lady
making the sale, and who fervently crossed herself each time she
wrapped one of the musicians in old newspaper. San
Martin Tilcajete comprised a score of galleries also serving
as workshops along a narrow, dusty avenue - tenanted by exhausted
dogs sleeping off the heat.
We met several families of alebrije craftsmen/women and their children
- among them Vicente Hernández Vasquez and his young family, and
Francisco Fabian Ojeda and his. They'd all cheerily greet us while
painstakingly applying the fine dots of paint onto the finely-carved
copal (or cedar) eagles, lizards, snakes, chupacabras, and other
demons of the night and creatures of imagination.
In spíte of Ron's almost perverse determination to direct
the Nissan to the dead-end back blocks of obscure pueblos and to
the edges of mountain ranges, general traveling on the roads leading
directly out of Oaxaca City from any point of the compass, either
on Highway 190 or 170 is a mostly easy affair: the roads straight
as gun barrels, in good condition, traversing flat terrain. The
vehicles coming to and fro along the highways move at a leisurely
pace across the windy spaces...
If on your way to the Tlacolula Valley to visit the various towns
or the archeological zones of Mitla, Yagul and Lambityeco, or simply
in search of any one of several mezcal distilleries lined along
the road (and even to these glorified grog shops, caking in heat
and flies, there are fully-guided tours), you will encounter that
giant gift of nature, the 2000-year-old Tule Tree. Bathing a small
park in luxuriant shade in the otherwise drab setting of Santa María
del Tule, the vast Ahuehuete (Mexican Cypress) lords over her noisy,
polluted domain supported by a 42-meter girth - the biggest girth
of any tree in the world.
We'd already been to the famous Monte
Albán site outside Oaxaca City on previous trips, respectively,
and decided on this occasion to take in the archeological zone of
Yagul, which lies at the end of a paved road at Kilometer 577 on
the Pan American - a few kilometers short of Mitla. It is divided
into two sections: the Acropolis, where the temples are located;
and the Great Fortress, on the crest of a hill from which the ancient
city looks out across the plains.
Among Yagul's highlights, one may view here the largest-known ball
court in the Oaxaca Valley. The city was constructed in the Mitla
style, some time after the decline of Monte Albán; what can now
be seen was built after 900 AD - but no one's too sure by whom;
local guide information reports that "Yagul, Mitla and other
sites in the extreme of the Tlacolula Valley contain architectural
characteristics different from those of the Zapotecs." Frankly,
I don't dwell on these conjectures; I've never gone to ruins to
write a thesis. It's the romance...
The day was a hot one, became a long afternoon of shimmering mauve
flattening out across the valley, bringing sprawling nopal cacti
into sharp focus, etching the softening contours of the distant
mountains. The wind picked up, whipping my hair into my eyes, I
crouched at the edge of a precipice upon a finely-packed stone wall,
and as sweat trickled down my armpits, tried to engage a sublime
moment.
At all these restored Prehispanic archeological zones, the visitor
will inevitably ponder: were these sharply-chiseled rocks packed
into this wall a few years ago by restorers (on work projects from
Mexico City's National Restoration School) - cutting, sanding, defining
its aestheticism? Or are these the walls actually constructed by
mysterious hands thousands of years ago, that have stood lonely
and windswept throughout the centuries - as European and Asian empires
rose and fell; while the continent of America sailed through the
millennia, oblivious to the shattering future of Western history?
And what eyes peered from this city, where I sit now, out into the
world at night, watching meteors sprint their incandescent seconds
across the black bowl of the cosmos?
As the sun set behind the mountains, we left Yagul and its spirits
to resume their eternal dreaming.
Back in Mexico City, Ron had been in touch via email with Teresa
Morales, a transplanted New Yorker who is closely involved with
an ecotourism venture that generates income for local Oaxacan communities
- and is run by those same communities. In the midst of international
focus on the Chiapas conflict and endless government debate over
law bills concerning indigenous rights and culture, it's satisfying
to know that the people here have gotten such a project up and running
without any fuss or fanfare.
It's the Sociedad Cooperativa Museos Comunitarios del Estado de
Oaxaca, and from its base in downtown Oaxaca City provides day tours
to the Central Valley and Mixteca regions, which enable the visitor
to encounter the communities, their crafts and customs in an intimate
and informal manner.
Fifteen pueblos belong to the cooperative; each village has nominated
a representative and they meet monthly to promulgate the organization's
community-based ecotourism projects through what Teresa calls a
"meaningful and respectful exchange" with tourists. Since
it is the locals themselves who put the tours together, they cost
a good deal less than what purely business-minded operators would
charge, while the money goes directly back into the communities:
an empowering thought for the socially-minded traveler.
Teresa invited us to one of these monthly get-togethers - a backyard
lunch with the representatives at Teotitlán del Valle, one of Oaxaca's
most famous weaving villages - and it was plain to see that everybody
got on fine as a team. If democracy to one degree means less big
government, then this exemplifies it.
The Sociedad Cooperativa offers five alternate tours to such areas
as Santa Ana del Valle, Teotitlán del Valle, Tlaxiaco, and San Miguel
del Progreso; and visits to the Teposcolula Convent and community
museums including Note Ujia (Seven Rivers) and Balla Xte Gedchi
Gulal (Shadow of the Ancient Town). Activities include horse-riding,
mountain bike-riding, learning about Zapotec wool textiles, healing
with the temazcal (an indigenous form of steam bath), and seeing
how aguamiel is collected from cacti to make pulque.
We opted for the day-long Santa Ana horse-riding tour. We got to
the town in the morning, visited the local museum that provided
insights into the archeological history and development of farming
and crafts in the area - including a textile tradition going back
to the Conquest (a small market on the square next to the museum
contains blankets, sarapes, and bags made of wool produced on treadle
looms).
Signing the museum's log book, I scanned through the names, dates
and countries: Switzerland, Japan, the United States, Canada, Germany,
France, Norway, England - and noted with pride that I was about
to become the first Aussie in the history of that six-month-old
log book to enter a signature.
The horses were corralled into the town square, we were ready to
commence the day's ramble. The notion had drifted around in my mind,
for years and for granted, that I could ride a horse. After all,
I used to ride them on my aunt's farm along the banks of the Murray
- the third longest river in the world - in New South Wales when
I was a kid. Of course, I hadn't ridden since I was 12...
"Can you ride a horse?" Ron had asked before we began
the Oaxaca trip. "Of course!" I'd indignantly replied.
I was wrong. Ron (especially Ron), the other participant on the
tour, Esaeu Ruiz Acevedeo (an ex-capitalino who also worked with
Teresa and the Cooperative), and our Zapotec guide (a young man
with the unlikely name of Eleanor Cruz, and who was actually riding
a pint-sized mountain bike), all left high and dry eating their
dust when we took off from Santa Ana and into the hills.
I simply couldn't get my horse to run, and if it did - such as
when Ron would laughingly pull up alongside me and whip it - it
went too fast! I was terrified of falling off! Up and down hills,
through ravines and gullies, over rocks - I had four hours of this
pain to go? By the time it was over, I hated that horse. Sometimes
Eleanor would slow his bike and ride with me, out of pity, muttering
over and over: "your friend sure can ride a horse.. I've never
seen anyone ride a horse like that.. your friend sure can ride a
horse..."
Yes, Ron was good on a horse.
"It's been some time since I've ridden," he said. "I
think the last time was in Ecuador."
During the tour we inspected plants such as cochineal and types
of cactus used for dyeing and healing, visited an abandoned gold
mine and the shaft of a deep well, and ranged far and wide across
the hills which offered superb views of the plains. When the sun
played deeper into the afternoon, we steered the ponies back for
Santa Ana. I was tremendously relieved. Ron and Esaeu galloped off
as per usual, while Eleanor and I opted for an easygoing canter;
even then the nag got agitated by another horse, roaming on its
lonesome along the track - my creature whinnied and began to rear.
This time I knew I was going to get chucked.
"That's it, man," I said firmly, shakily freeing myself
from the horse as Eleanor tried to calm it down. "You ride
the horse, and I'll ride the bike. I know how to ride a bloody bike."
We finished off the day with Teresa, and returned to Oaxaca City
with Esaeu, thanked him for his company, left him out front of his
house. Later we saw Ian and Margo and after drinks over candlelight
bade them farewell, too. And finally Rogelio saw us to the hotel,
and wished us bon voyage, for this was our last night in Oaxaca
City.
At one stage or another we saw all those people had planned to
meet, and had met and befriended here - all on this last day. Are
friends electric? Ron's email acquaintances had suddenly been made
flesh and blood - and they were good people doing good things in
Oaxaca, each in their own way dedicated to furthering the ideals
of the community in which they lived.
Ron had gained valuable information about the ways in which individual
action is making a collective difference in attitudes toward and
notions of the environment: Rogelio bridging the communication gap
between foreigners and locals, opening up cultures; Shawn and Valerie's
responsible farming, and improving the food supply; Margo and Ian
networking between groups and individuals, learning about new means
of simpler living and disseminating the knowledge in their books;
Teresa and Esaeu assisting the local Zapotec and Mixtec communities
in the eco-friendly management of their regions, who in turn teach
visitors to tread a sensitive balance while still openly enjoying
nature.
...In many ways we'd barely touched on what Oaxaca had to offer
- a number of Prehispanic ruins, towns and villages went unseen,
the purlieu beyond Mitla remained unknown, the route to the Pacific
coast, that high Sierra haul ending in the bed of the tropics, the
Isthmus of Tehuantepec was not experienced - no more time and no
more money, only dreams to be fulfilled another day.
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