Beautiful Flowers
Rudolfo Morales home, Ocotlan
Posts Tagged ‘Mexico’
Artisans, Marketplaces, & Churches
2010
04.04
04.04
Dog @ the pottery studio
Santa Maria Atzompa
March 12, 2010: Santa Maria Atzompa, Ocotlan, and San Bartolo Coyotepec
Dear Grandma,
Our last day in Oaxaca was much like our first day – filled with art, only this time we skipped the archeology. After one last miserable breakfast at “our” café (this time, sans eggs), I climbed on the bus and promptly fell asleep. I didn’t wake up until we arrived at Santa Maria Atzompa which is known for the emerald green glaze that is used on its pottery. Our group poked around in a pottery market for a while, looking at green pots, coffee cups, and … pumpkins? We were in the shop long enough that I had to pay two pesos to use the bathroom (the toilet paper held hostage at the checkout counter). By the time I emerged, the group was walking across the street to watch a pottery demonstration.
Now, I am always impressed by people who throw pots. I tried in graduate school, thinking that it would relax me, but I was a miserable failure. I was so stressed out that I never went back after the second day. So, when I watched this woman build a pot on nothing more than a manual wheel (no electricity in the studio), I was beyond awed. After she made the pot into a little goldfish, we were taken out back to see the wood-fired kiln, the well, and – as a side benefit, a dog that just plopped down in the sun, ignoring the crazy tourists (well, me) who kept whistling at him. I took a few photos while other people were shopping, including one of this pole that was covered in Mexican wrestling posters.
Pretty soon, we were back on the bus and headed to Ocotlan, ostensibly to shop at the famous Friday Market. The guide who came with the tour bus, however, had different ideas. First, we’d go to the home of Rodolfo Morales, and then we’d go to the market. Morales was a Mexican surrealist painter who used his fame to help the town save its church, the Templo de Santo Domingo. He also established the Fundación Cultural Rodolfo Morales to promote the arts, heritage and social welfare of the Valles Centrales. I guess that makes him a bit of a hero to the people of Ocotlan – and everyone likes a hero, so the detour seemed appropriate enough.
The house was interesting in its own way; like many of the places we’ve seen on this trip, it was built around a central courtyard which was filled with these amazing flowers and little birds in cages. We went upstairs to see his old art studio (Morales died in 2001) and a gallery of his work. My favorite was a lithograph entitled el portal which showed a woman floating above a tile floor, her feet obscured by a doorway leading out to the mountains. As we went downstairs to leave, a little Chihuahua poked his nose through a wrought iron gate trying to get our attention. We were also offered something called “squash water” which was murky brown and looked like it had a little bit of a chunky texture to it. Seeing how I was already hopped up on Imodium, I declined.
Wooden Spoons
Friday Market at Ocotlan
Finally we made it to the famous Friday Market, only to be told by the tour bus guide that we could not strike out on our own! While I am sure that she had her reasons, the implementation of “Project Stay Together” was not as easy as one might expect. You try keeping 15 or so people together in a crowded Mexican marketplace. Sure enough, by the time we were done, at least five people had disappeared from the group. She would have been better off giving us a designated meeting time and place.
Another downside to “Project Stay Together” was that we didn’t get to buy anything and that place was loaded: all sorts of fruits and vegetables (even sassafras!), breads, cowboy hats, wooden spoons that were at least five feet tall, dried fish and chiles. Anything you wanted, you could have found in this place, right down to live goats and turkeys. I took a lot of pictures of the produce, but when I tried to take a picture of a little girl, her mother pulled her out of the way – and I think she tried to put some kind of hex on me! I swear, she flashed some kind of sign at me! Who knows? Maybe she was just giving me the Mexican version of the bird? Either way, crazy!
After we emerged from the market and the tour guide found our missing people, we headed to the Ex-Convento de Santo Domingo. Formerly a jail, it is now a museum loaded with regional art including some of Morales’ work and a room full of folk art by the Aguilar sisters. The Aguilars’ ceramics were bright and colorful – and some of them were more than a bit perplexing. One piece (not the one to the left) showed a grown man suckling at a woman’s breast. Was this symbolic of Mother Earth/Gaia nourishing mankind? Was it making fun of the fact that many men are unwilling to grow up?
Sidebar: I looked on the ‘net to see how much one of these statues would cost. A piece by Josefina Aguilar was running around $650. Holy crap! I’m sure glad I didn’t knock one of these pieces on the floor or something.
From the ex-convento, we walked around the outside of the building so that we could enter the church. According to M., Templo de Santo Domingo is a 16th century baroque church. Anyway, here I am, sitting in a pew in the back of this dark, cool church, when I notice that there a little altar to the right of me. I look over and there’s a woman rubbing greens all over the glass case, muttering under her breathe before waving the greens all over herself and wandering off. Another woman came in and did the same thing. Then another woman, this time with a child! The saint is supposed to ward off evil spirits and keep you from getting sick. Apparently, this will protect your livestock as well – as we were leaving, a man was walking his goat into the church.
Wood and Finished Product
Jacobo and Maria Angeles studio, Oaxaca
After lunch at a café in Coyotepec (Nopalitos and rice pudding), the bus backtracked to the studio of Jacobo and Maria Angeles. Here we had the chance to see how the artisans make the little wooden animals that can be found all over Oaxaca. Now, I won’t bore you with the details (you can read about the process at this website), but I have to say I was impressed. I’m being to think that there is a lot of chemistry that goes into the artistic process. Well, that and some physical prowess too – some of those guys were hacking away at the wood with giant machetes. I’m not quite sure how they do that without losing a hand (or at the very least, a finger).
Jacobo spent a great deal of time talking to us about a variety of things: how to make natural colors, how to tell a female tree from a male tree, and how to know our Mixtec horoscope sign. My sign is completely embarrassing – a sea snail of some sort. Apparently this means I am a workaholic or something to that effect. Sigh. He also talked about how they trained the younger artisans to paint the animals. His workshop is rather large: either he employs 80 members of his family or eighty families from the region – I didn’t quite hear which one he said. The studio also had the most adorable cat that followed us around the place, eventually wedging herself into a display of wooden animals.
Sidebar: The studio also had a roof doggie, the first one I saw on this trip. Not only that, but it was also a Mexican hairless dog, known as a Xoloitzcuintle!
We were running pretty late by this point, but fortunately we still had time to visit the Dona Rosa pottery studio. This is the place where the shiny black Oaxacan pottery was invented — or rather, the technique used to make the pots shiny and black without using glaze. M.’s notes explain how this finish is accomplished: “The burnishing is done when the pottery is leather hard and then allowed to fully dry before it is fired. The wood fired kilns are dampened down at the end of the firing which holds in the carbon from the smoke of the wood. The carbon penetrates the clay body which gives the pottery its black coloring.”
As a part of our tour, Dona Rosa’s son demonstrated how to make a pitcher. Again, here was a potter who worked without electricity — and again, I was amazed at the artisan’s ability. The patience, the technique, the hours of practice that all go into making one pot is beyond imagination. But, it turns out, not beyond my pocketbook. I ended up buying a cross for my grandmother, a cat and a snail for my office, and a fancy vase. I’m not quite sure how I’ll get them home without breaking them [1], but I spent less than $50 US for the whole lot! M. has it worse: he bought a massive vase that won’t fit in any of his luggage. He’s actually going to have to carry it on the plane and hope for the best.
We spent a good portion of our last evening in Oaxaca stuck in a traffic jam on the way back to the hotel. I sure don’t envy the bus driver his job — I’m still not sure how he managed to get us down the narrow streets and around the double-parked cars. Maybe the music he was playing on the bus (the Beatles, music from the soundtrack of Hair) had him in a Zen trance or something. Who knows? When we did get back to the hotel, we ended up going to dinner one last time at Como Aqua Pa’ Chocolate — sinful!
And, that’s pretty much it for the trip. Next year: Guatamala.
Love and Hugs,
Your Granddaughter
Next Time: Three Final Photos from Oaxaca
Renovations & Revolutions
2010
04.03
04.03
Art Project @ the Public Library
Oaxaca, Mexico
March 11, 2010: In and Around Oaxaca
Dear Grandma,
I must be in vacation mode, because last night I woke up not knowing where I was. After a mild panic attack – Oh my god, where the hell am I? – I remembered I was in Mexico. The salty, dank smell of my hair clued me into the fact that I was not back in the Midwest, freezing in my drafty old bedroom. My room is fairly warm at night, probably because the hotel has a very odd ventilation system. Instead of air conditioning, the building relies on vents in the roof to let the heat out [1]. Yes, the hotel actually breathes! Even so, my room is on the second floor (that’s the third floor for you Americans out there) and since heat rises … well, that can be a little bit of a problem. Even though I have my windows open to the hallways and the ceiling fan running at full blast, the humidity builds up every time I take a shower.
Let’s just say that sleeping in my room is like trying to sleep through an Alabama summer when the air conditioning is on the fritz. My hair is definitely not pretty by the time morning arrives.
Luckily, I packed a bunch of bandanas to cover my frizzy hair and the air was crisp when I wandered out to “our” café for breakfast. Again, I had more nasty eggs (I really should learn to order something else), but the chocolate was good and I wasn’t that hungry to begin with.
For the first time ever – well, at least for the first time in three years – M. put a free day into our itinerary. I talked a couple other people into going to the Museo de Arte Contemporaneo de Oaxaca (MACO), so we wandered up Valdivieso towards the site. It was still pretty early for things to be open [2], so we poked around an open air market as it was setting up, then headed back to the museum. Alas! The museum was closed for renovations, so we couldn’t go past the gift shop.
You see, Mexico is celebrating the 200th anniversary of its independence and the 100th anniversary of its revolution. As a part of this celebration, the country has investing over 300 million pesos in various restoration projects. These banners are all over the city, hanging from at least three of the churches I took pictures of – and on the outside of MACO. Our timing was just bad.
Since we couldn’t get into the museum, we spent a good portion of the morning looking through bookstores and going back to la mano magica so I could buy my wooden animals. This time we weren’t so rushed – and as a result, we found a room that we had missed before, filled with prints and paintings. One of the prints has this great frame with little plastic figurines of Mexican wrestlers glued to it. Lucha libre anyone? There was also a print of a nude with this “highly stylized” pubic hair that made me laugh like a 10 year old girl.
As we wandered around, we found the public library – and free internet access. It was a little pokey, but I was able to send The Coach a quick email (Hey, I’m alive. Don’t forget to feed the critters!) before the room was filled with school children on a tour. The library itself was an architectural find – the collections in small rooms that opened to an open air courtyard/reading area [3]. In one corner, a group of children – all dressed alike – were working on art projects. So cute!
Later, we ran into other a couple other people that we knew, sitting in a café – but not “our” café – on the zocalo. Since B. was feeling slightly ill, he went back to the hotel, leaving K. and I to eat lunch with L. while her husband sat at another table writing poetry. I ordered something that was listed as “friend mushrooms,” thinking they meant fried mushrooms. Boy, was I sorely mistaken! When my plate came out, it was covered in mushrooms that looked like they came out of a can. I tried to eat them with my tortillas, but they were so gross and slimy that I gave up and drank my limonada instead.
By this time, it was getting pretty toasty outside, so K. and I wandered back to our hotel to take a little siesta before going back out to shop. We were also hoping that B. would feel better so we’d have some additional company. I never did go to sleep, although I did finish reading my copy of The Catcher in the Rye. When I was done, I looked inside the front cover and found that I had written my name in the book when I was 16 years old. I don’t know how I’ve managed not to lose the book, seeing how I have moved 11 times in the past 24 years!
Sidebar: My favorite quote from the book? “That’s the whole trouble. You can’t ever find a place that’s nice and peaceful, because there isn’t any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you’re not looking, somebody’ll sneak up and write ‘Fuck You’ right under your nose” (p. 204). Really, this quote ties in quite well with my feelings about tourists who don’t follow the rules and wander all over environmentally and culturally sensitive areas. Ugh!
Later in the afternoon, I wandered out again (with B. and K. in tow) and headed down to the Mercado Juárez and the Mercado 20 de Noviembre. Talk about sensory overload! Piles and piles of things that could be bought at Dollar General back home. Cheese and meat hanging on racks. Bootlegged DVDs, blankets and shoes. A small puppy pooping on the floor. Mole in bricks. Chapulines and peppers piled in baskets. Some seriously pornographic pottery. People everywhere, pushing through the crowds, stopping to negotiate for some small item.
La Avenida de Carne Asada
Mercado 20 de Noviembre, Oaxaca
That was just the first mercado! The second mercado was filled with food booths, takeaway counters (including one named Comedor Maria Teresa, and yes, I met the original Maria), and a smoke-filled indoor alley called La Avenida de Carne Asada, which loosely translated means “Avenue of Steak.” Too bad The Coach wasn’t around because that would have appealed to his little meatatarian heart. But, the smells were overwhelming and we found ourselves desperately looking for an exit – or at the very least, a pocket of fresh air.
Once we managed to escape, we got lost and ended up walking around aimlessly in the heat. Eventually, B. made us ask for directions – and we still ended up overshooting the zocalo by six blocks. By this point, we were all frustrated, hot and sweaty, so we stopped for drinks at yet another café on the zocalo [4]. As I sucked down my limonada, I watched a couple of small kids wander around patio including a dirty little boy with his hand down his pants, mother nowhere to be seen.
Our last stop for the night? Walking over to the Hotel Monte Alban to watch some folk dancing and eat dinner (sangria, tamales, and cheese). Although the show wasn’t as large as the one I saw in Mexico City two years ago, it was worth the 90 pesos it cost to get in the door. I loved the costumes, which were covered in intricate embroidery. I loved the feather headdresses that reminded me of the Mardi Gras Indians’ costumes. I was tickled by the highly stylized dances that included props such as pineapples and black pottery. My personal favorite, though, was the dance where the male dancer acted like a pigeon, strutting around and picking marshmallows off of the floor.
More later,
Your Granddaughter
Last Entry Coming Up! Studios, Museums, and Marketplaces
Last Night, I Ate a Cricket
2010
04.02
04.02
Garlic for Sale
Friday Market in Ocotlan, Mexico
March 10, 2010: In and Around the Zocalo
Dear Grandma,
Last night, I ate a cricket with my dinner. On purpose. A couple members of our group had been talking about eating chapulines ever since we arrived in Oaxaca, but it took a few days to work up the courage to scarf down the bugs. Now, technically, they are grasshoppers (from the genus sphenarium, I might add), but having spent many a teenage night curled up in my basement bedroom with camel crickets landing on me, you can see howI might like a little vengeance. When they came out, the chapulines were served with the most amazing guacamole that I’ve eaten in quite some time. When combined together, the dish was salty and sour, citrusy and crunchy. Really, they didn’t taste any worse than some of the things I’ve had at the Westside Nut Club Fall Festival.
But then, I’m only squeamish about things like undercooked pork, warm mayonnaise, or anything that might be considered a household pet, like a guinea pig.
Food is an intimate part of any country’s culture, so I always try to sample regional dishes. On this trip, I’ve eaten chiles rellenos stuffed with Oaxacan cheese while drinking a Victoria and listening to a mariachi band. I’ve eaten mole negro and Oaxacan tamales. I had a dish of arroz con leche that was possibly the most sinful tasting dish of rice pudding I’ve had in my life. And then there was the night when I had camarones la mojo la ayo while other people were struggling to disassemble their seafood stew.
My most decadent meal came from this restaurant Como Aqua Pa’ Chocolate. Yes, they swiped the name from the book, which probably makes the place a tourist trap, but I don’t care. They had some seriously amazing food in that joint. I started with this salad that was a mixture of purslane, squash blossoms, tomatoes, and ash coated goat cheese that was so fresh that I could have cried. It could be a candidate for that new Food Network show, The Best Thing I’ve Ever Ate. My main dish was a delightful combination of portabella mushrooms, pine nuts and spinach. And the dessert? Oy! I had these chocolate filled crepes that just melted in my mouth. This one meal alone made up for all of the nasty breakfasts that I’ve had this week.
Love and Hugs,
Your Granddaughter
Next Up: Renovations and Renewal
Can You Be Hijacked on Foot?
2010
03.29
03.29
Zona Arqueologica de Monte Alban
Taken from the Plataforma Norte
March 10, 2010: Monte Alban
Dear Grandma,
Today we went out to Monte Alban after having breakfast at the little restaurant on the corner across from our hotel. I have started to think of this little patio café as “our restaurant,” although I was sorely disappointed in the quality of my food today. Sure, the chocolate was amazing and the fruit was sweet, but my scramble eggs were cold, cold, cold. There’s just something about the texture of cold eggs that makes me want to vomit, but I digress.
The trip to the Zona Arqueologica de Monte Alban was probably more exciting than the actual site. You see, today we did not use a charter bus. Instead, M. said we should take the one of the tourist buses up to the site, seeing how they are pretty cheap (30 pesos, or less than $3 at the current exchange rate). The bus station was only eight blocks from our hotel – an easy walk through the flat landscape of this city. A couple of the tour’s older members, however, decided to take a cab over to the bus station as they wanted to save their energy for climbing around on the ruins. So, M. loaded them into a taxi, gave the driver some directions that ended up being translated through a couple of people, and sent them on their merry way. Long story, short: they never turned up at the tourist bus station!
No, they weren’t hijacked, although I was beginning to wonder when we didn’t see them until four or five hours later. Apparently, the taxi driver was confused by the translation and dropped them off at a hotel, or a health club, or an old folks’ home. I’m not sure which one because I heard the story three different ways. What I do know is that these two women were remarkably self-sufficient: they found their way back to our original hotel, found a tour guide, and made their own way to Monte Alban. We caught with them while we were having a limonada in the museum’s snack bar after wandering around the site all morning.
Sidebar: You’ll understand why I was so impressed with their self-sufficiency when I republish my Peru stories here at The Traveling Ph.D. Not every person is worldly enough to figure out how to find his or her way back to the group. We’ve spent plenty of time in past years tracking down people who were quite oblivious to the collective needs of the group, people who just get lost because they aren’t paying attention. Sigh.
While our women were being taken for a joy ride around Oaxaca, the walking group also had a small problem. The walk started out pleasant enough, as we made our way down a street lined with chocolate shops. The smell of Oaxacan chocolate is heaven – it’s much earthier than anything you’d find in a Swiss Miss package back home. It smells real, darn it, not processed or fake. Just walking down the street made the smell linger in the back of my throat, tempting me to run into a store and buy the whole lot. I didn’t, but I sure drank my fair share of chocolate while I was in town, let me tell you!
Anyways, a couple blocks from the station, this group of women came up to us and started telling us that the bus station had moved. They kept following our leader, pestering him, trying to hand him a flyer for their tour bus company. When he didn’t respond in a positive way to their heckling, one of the women zoned in on a student, trying to pressure her into going to the “new” location. It was confusing and loud, but pretty darned funny. I’m sure we looked like clueless tourists as we kept pushing past them.
Is it possible to be hijacked on foot?
As you probably guessed, these overly aggressive people were the competition of the original tour company. Apparently they like to take advantage of confused, lost tourists. And boy, they sure didn’t want to take no for an answer. M., however, handled the whole situation with great aplomb; he had just the right mixture of confidence and language-barrier to get us away from those people. We finally got rid of these pushy folks by dunking into the station that was our original destination.
Gallery of the Dancers
Zona Arqueologica de Monte Alban
Eventually, we all had our bus tickets (mine with the much more musical version of my name, Maria Teresa, written on it) and headed up the mountain to the ruins. Ah, those Zapotecs! They sure love building their cities close to their gods!
Over the past three years, I’ve seen more archeological sites than I’ve seen in my life prior to taking these University-sanctioned trips. Teotihuacan. Xochicalco. Raqchi. Saqsaywaman. Pisaq. Machu Picchu. Seriously, I’m beginning to feel a little like a female Indiana Jones here, minus the drama of enemy spies, monkey brains, and Christian icons [1]. The one thing I can say is that if you’ve seen one ruin you have not seen them all. Each site has its own special significance. Sure, a lot of the sites in Mexico have similar ball courts, but in some places the winners were sacrificed to the gods. In other places, the losers died. Some sites have serpents carved on the walls; others have codices painted in red. At this site, there were the engravings (or low reliefs, according to my tour book) of male figures in some very odd positions and with some very interesting mutilations to their genitalia. These engravings made up the Gallery of the Dancers, some of which are shown above. M. says these carvings show the Olmec influence from the Gulf Coast [2].
Monte Alban is important for other reasons too:
“The legacy of the Zapotec world comes to us through the magnificent archaeological sites scattered in the Valley of Oaxaca. Among them, the city of Monte Alban stands out because of its enormous importance as an economic, political and religious focal point (it was the first urban complex in Mesoamerica), because of its size, almost as large as the present capital of Oaxaca, and because of its long life, which began in about 500 B.C. and ended around 850 A.D” (Monte Alban: History, Art, Monuments, English Edition. Monclem Ediciones. 2004).
The Landscape Around Monte Alban
The sun bleached out the sky a bit
Our group killed several hours at the site, walking through the Gran Plaza; cramming into a small grotto (my word – it was a little hole in the wall, with more engravings of mutilated men); looking at the outside of the Observatory. Some members of the group climbed the Plataforma Sur, while others (well, me and two other people) stayed at the bottom talking with a man named Israel who was selling jade carvings to help support his family of six kids. That guy latched onto our group, popping up in other locations around the site until B. finally broke down and bought a little jade carving of a face. Eventually, we climbed onto the Plataforma Norte to take in the views before making our way back to the museum and – of course – the gift shop.
Now, a trip to Mexico wouldn’t be complete without having some sort of crazy bus ride – and today was no exception. On the way back, our driver was an insane tailgater. He’d speed up, then hit the brakes. At least he didn’t hit a little kid or a goat or something before we made it down the mountain into Oaxaca.
Taking Notes on the North Platform
We had amazing students on this trip!
I really don’t have much more to say about the day, other than I had an amazing tamale for lunch and a nice nap curled up with my old copy of The Catcher in the Rye or that M.’s sister tells the funniest stories about their childhood. I’ll write more later about the food, once I figure out the type of greens that were included in my salad at dinner. (Danger! Danger! I ate raw veggies in Mexico!)
Love and Hugs,
Your Granddaughter
Next Up: A Foodie’s Paradise
Wooden Animals and Aztec Soup
2010
03.28
03.28
On display at the Museo de los Pintores Oaxaqueños
March 9, 2010: Exploring Oaxaca
Dear Grandma,
I am a delicate southern flower who has been transplanted in Midwestern soil. The gray, damp winters depress me and make me want to curl up in my bed for large chunks of the day. Honestly, the area under my electric blanket is the only warm place in my life and even then it’s not a penetrating heat. In order to save energy in our old drafty house, the thermostat is set at 60 degrees for 20 hours a day. It’s not much better at work; my office always feels about six degrees colder than the hallway and there’s a distinct breeze that seeps through the window behind my desk.
So when I say that I am finally warm for the first time in months, it’s a really big deal.
Here in Oaxaca, the sun beats down on the square and seeps into my pores. I’ve been able to shed my sweaters and turtlenecks for tank tops and airy tunics. Even with my 85 SPF [1] sunscreen, I managed to get a mild sunburn. The heat makes me sweaty and red-faced, with wisps of salt-coated bangs plastered across my forehead. Sure, it makes me unattractive on the surface, but if my bones could talk, they’d be singing riotous ditties of joy.
The mornings, however, are slightly chilly as we sit on the plaza eating our breakfast. Fortunately, the little restaurant serves chocolate that warms you to the core while you wait for your food to arrive. Today, I ordered bravely and ended up with a weird amalgam of pancakes stuffed with chicken, covered with beans and chorizo, with creamy avocado and juicy papaya on the side [2]. Again, the vendors came to sell us a variety of goods, making the patio nosy and crowded, vibrant and fun. After a while, though, we headed out into the city, taking our time to poke our heads into galleries and stores, museums and marketplaces.
Our first stop was the Museo de los Pintores Oaxaqueños, a little museum just off the zocalo. Two shows were on display: one vivid, colorful and weird, the other more sedate and airy. My favorite picture was a part of this second show, a painting called “evasion” by Miguel Carrillo Lara. Standing in the foreground is a young girl in a white dress, with a red shawl hanging from one arm. In the background, mixed among the muted whites and grays, are pieces and parts of the human form. Another favorite was this odd mixed media piece that blended together computer keyboards, phone cords and a camera lens with a cattle skull with a realist human painted on top.
From the Agustin Portillo show at the Museo de los Pintores Oaxaqueños
This was one of the America paintings.
The other show was much more brazen, filled with pictures of strippers, gay men, and naked women (although, in some cases, they could have been transvestites). Of course, only the “America” paintings were full of decadent behavior; the “Mexico” pictures, although they shared the same style, had very different content. So, I’m not quite sure what the artist thinks of our country, but apparently we are a monolith, characterized by what the Christian right would call “sinful actions.” I will let the artist speak for himself — here’s a YouTube video discussing his “America” show in the United States.
Painted wooden animals @ la Mano Magica
I eventually went back and bought the purple jaguar (you can see its tail here)
and the black coyote (standing under the giraffe).
After the museum, the group – minus a couple of people who decided to strike out on their own – ended up wandering around the streets of Oaxaca, popping in and out of galleries while we headed in the general direction of the Centro Cultural Santo Domingo. At one gallery, one of the art teachers scored a set of free postcards to take back to her students; at another, some of us posed with a giant skeleton. At la mano magica, I drooled over the wooden animals, wondering how I’d ever get one home without breaking it [3]. Plus, everything in the store was expensive (one of the books that M. was looking through was close to $150!) and I wasn’t ready to part with my pesos so early in the trip.
Lunchtime found us crowded around tables in a small restaurant just off the market near Santo Domingo. This restaurant, El Topil, has apparently been reviewed by Esquire, but it was empty when we arrived. I only ordered a bowl of sopa Azteca, which was filled with strips of fried tortillas, Oaxacan cheese, and avocados and a glass of gloriously fizzy limonada. Other people loaded up on mole, chicken and pork. The problem, however, was that the waiter got incredibly confused about the number of dishes that were actually ordered and by the time everyone anted up their parts of the bill, we were still short. I guess they assessed us with a tax for being stupid Americans.
Santo Domingo Convent and Church, Oaxaca
Taken from inside the museum
By this point, the day had grown hot, so we sought shelter inside the Centro Cultural Santo Domingo which houses the Museum of Oaxacan Cultures and an ethno-botanical garden. M. escorted us into the room that housed the tesoros la tumba 7 from Monte Alban. I looked around for a while, but I’ll admit that my mind started to wander due to informational overload. Instead, I started to walk around, looking in the galleries, seeking out the modern, more political exhibits and some kind of access to the garden below. I found myself sitting in various nooks and crannies, savoring both the breeze and the quiet inside my head. You know, that’s one of the best things about these trips: although there tends to be a lot of external noise, my mind shuts out the everyday worries associated with my job. It’s a little bit like meditation, finding this calm, empty center inside myself.
The Garden with the Secret Entrance
I should note that while I did find the political exhibits, I never did get to go to the garden; by the time we found the entrance behind the convent walls, it was 4:30 and the guard wouldn’t let us in [4]. My consolation prize? Finding an UNESCO World Heritage Site plaque marking Oaxaca as a historical centre (I’m starting to chalk up a lot of these!).
More later,
Your Granddaughter
Next Time: Monte Alban and Wannabee Hijackers
Art and Archeology, Oaxaca Style
2010
03.22
03.22
Making red dye from cochineal bugs
March 8, 2010: Art & Archeology, Day I
Dear Grandma,
Ah, it’s always so enjoyable to be on vacation! Even though I am a part of a larger tour, I can always find time to be alone with my thoughts. This morning was a great example: I woke up, took a shower, and meandered out to the zocalo to take pictures of La Catedral de la Virgen de la Asunción in the morning light. The square was eerily quiet, with only schoolchildren and the occasional vendor wandering through. In many ways, the atmosphere felt like New Orleans the morning after a good party. It was so peaceful that I just sat a bench watching the pigeons search for food. Across the way, a man sat in the shadow of cathedral playing his guitar.
Eventually, the chilly air encouraged me to get up and walk around, so I wandered over to take some pictures of La Compañía de Jesús before heading off to breakfast at a little café on the plaza. I ordered a typical breakfast: eggs and cheese, beans and bread [1], amazing orange juice and Oaxacan chocolate. Every so often a vendor would wander up to our table, attempting to sell us rugs or purses, wooden spoons and weird toothpicks, necklaces and earrings. One member of our group started negotiating for a bolsa, only to tell the vendor to come back another day even though he matched her price. That seemed a little cruel to me. After all, why would you want to get the guy’s hopes up if you’re not actually interested in buying the purse?
Then the day started in earnest as M. loaded us up on the charter bus for round one of what I have dubbed the “Art and Archeology” tour. Our first stop was a little place in the Zapotec community of Teotitlán del Valle which is world-famous for the production of colorful weavings (at least, that’s what the Internet says). Now before I go much further, I should note that the majority of our group consisted of art students, teachers, and professors – and most of them had grants to fund their trip. Thus, it should come as no surprise when you learn that these individuals were always asking questions, taking pictures, and – and one point – participating in the demonstrations. In many ways, it’s a good thing these people were along because I probably learned more about natural dyes that I ever needed to know! There are shades of red from cochineal bugs, yellows from marigolds, moss tinged greens, deep indigo blues, and mesquite tinted blacks. The bark of an oak tree was used to make a dark brown dye while pecan shells created the softer beige colors. All of these colors could be made lighter or darker depending on the color of the wool being dyed, the addition of the acid of a lemon, or the use of some kind of alkaline product. I watched as a few group members took turns at the spinning wheel and completely embarrassed myself in an attempt to card wood (which apparently takes more finesse than strength). At one point, we observed a man operating a loom and learned that boys as young as ten were trained to be weavers by making small woolen coasters (a few of which I bought for presents).
Zona Arqueológica de Yagul
Taken from the fortaleza
After people bought their souvenirs, we loaded back on the bus and headed out to Zona Arqueológica de Yagul, home of the largest juego de pelota (i.e., ball court) in the Valles Centrales. This Zapotec walled city, built sometime between the 12th and 13th centuries, has two parts: the acropolis which is made up of the temples and palaces (see my picture above) and the Great Fortress located on a peak above the city. We climbed up a hill to take pictures of the acropolis, but I’m not sure that we actually went all the way up to the fortress. Maybe that’s a good thing because hiking paths in Mexico are not the same as hiking trails in the States – and it’s always worse coming down than going up. And, yes, I did end up on my ass a couple of times getting back down the hill because my legs simply could not reach the next “step” (and I’m using that word loosely) down. At one point, I ended up with a lovely scratched hand from grabbing some dried up plant on the side of the path, but at least I didn’t break my fool neck. {LOL}
Want a word of advice? Wear boots with grippy soles and put on a pair of pants in case you fall down.
Pix: Sweaty MT after hoofing it up the hill to take pictures of the acropolis at Yagul. Needless to say, I did not look this happy on the way down the hill.
So, my friends, what do you think was the next stop on our trip? If you guessed that we went drinking in the middle of the day, then you’d be right. Our tour guide made a stop at a fabrica de mezcal where we saw how the agave was composted, then fermented and crushed by a dangerous horse (who wasn’t present during the tour). We also had to taste the mezcal which, quite frankly, has an aftertaste that reminds me of farm animals. Of course, that didn’t stop me from having three mini-shots! And, fortunately, we were taken to lunch next; otherwise, that mezcal would have burned a hole in the lining of my stomach. Instead, we feasted on mole and rice, tortilla soup and peaches before heading down the road to Mitla.
Zona Arqueológica de Mitla
Spanish church built among the ruins
By the time we got to La Zona Arqueológica de Mitla, my supply of small change was running short [2]. In fact, when I tried to pay with a 200 peso bill, I was sent to the back of the line and told to find 37 pesos. I really had to root around my bag, but I managed to scrounge up enough change. The reward for my effort was to look around both the Grupo del Norte and the Grupo de las Columnas [3]. Sadly, the painted friezes had been vandalized throughout the centuries. In addition, the Spanish built a church among the ruins which makes it harder to visualize how the site must have looked during its heyday. I tried to be as impressed with Mitla as I was with Yagul, especially since Mitla had examples of both the Mixtec and Zapotec cultures, but mostly I was annoyed with the shortsightedness of the vandals who apparently have no sense of history.
El Árbol del Tule
Fortunately, the last stop of the day restored my faith in mankind for the time being. M. told us that we were going to see a ‘very large” cypress tree (technically, taxodium mucronatum) in Santa María del Tule on the way back to Oaxaca. For the record, he understated the size of the tree. You see, we got off the bus and started walking towards the church. Along the way, we passed a tree. “Is this the tree?” a couple of us stated under our breath. I mean, it was a pretty sizable tree, located in an odd place. Yeah, uh, no. Talk about bait and switch, eh?
So, we kept walking until we came to the fence that surrounded the church grounds and there it was, this massive monument to Mother Earth. Although it looks like a bunch of trees that grew together, the tree has been through DNA tests that say it is a single individual. My guess is that this tree is one of the largest in the world; without checking, I bet it’s probably the biggest tree in North America. And, it’s old. Really, really old: As in, somewhere between 1,200 and 3,000 years old, according to the estimates on Wikipedia. This means that the tree was around when Monte Albán was a vibrant metropolis.
Of course, I found out later that the tree could be in real trouble. An article at Planeta notes that:
The area surrounding the mammoth trees was formerly a marsh filled with cattails or bulrushes, known in Spanish as tules, which gives the town (and confusingly the tree) its name. Environmental degradation as well as increased urbanization and irrigated farming have diverted water from the aquifers. During the dry season, the water table decreases more than six meters (20 feet).
According to the local environmental group Mi Amigo el Arbol headed by environmentalist Jorge Velasco, if only two of the underground aquifers were restored, there would be sufficient recharge of groundwater supplies to ensure the survival of these trees.
“The most effective solution to ensure survival is to have enough water throughout the year as needed to replenish the aquifers and to be vigilant on water use so that it is appropriate for local needs and avoid wastefulness.”
If only I could read Spanish, I could do a little more research on this topic. Sigh.
While we were at the tree, a vendor reached through the fence and offered us samples of her sorbet in exotic flavors such as tuna and mamey. Obviously, the tuna sorbet was not made from fish, but we couldn’t communicate well enough with the vendor to figure out what exactly was in it. Later, thanks to Chowhound, I determined that tunas were the little cactus fruits found on a prickly pear. Apparently, these fruits can be found in France, where the tunas are called Figue de Barbarie.
I ended up eating the mamey sorbet, thinking maybe it was papaya or mango or something. The funny thing is that everyone who tried it thought it tasted like something else: sweet potato, pumpkin, and carrots were common guesses. I asked our Mexican tour guide to tell me what a mamey is but she couldn’t come up with the English name for it. It turns out that there isn’t one; mamey is actually defined in my English-Spanish dictionary as a “round, apple-sized tropical fruit.” It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that this was one of the best thing I have ever eaten, even better than the orgasmic orange juice that I came across in the Netherlands.
A word of warning: It probably isn’t a good idea to buy food through fences from street vendors in strange cities. But, hey, isn’t that what Imodium is for?
Love and Hugs,
Your Granddaughter
Next Time: A Tax on Silly Americans
The Curse of Gate 11A
2010
03.21
03.21
March 7, 2010: Louisville to Oaxaca
Dear Grandma,
It has been a long couple of days, traveling down to Mexico. When I left home on Saturday morning, I fully expected to be drinking Victoria on Oaxaca’s zocalo before bedtime. Instead, I was felt up by the TSA, delayed for hours in the Louisville Airport, and eventually stranded under the big, bright stars of Texas. By Sunday, though, my mood was greatly improved as the weather in Mexico was gorgeous and the crowd gathered in the zocalo had an infectious exuberance. After checking into our hotel and meeting up with the rest of our group – those individuals who had managed to make it into Oaxaca on the previous day – we headed out for dinner at an open air café. Sitting in the slightly chilly night air, while eating the most amazing chiles rellenos and being serenaded by a mariachi band, I was able to relax into vacation mode. By the time we went to back to the hotel, I was able to put aside my insomniac ways, despite the boisterous people on my floor and the bed that was harder than a slab of concrete.
But, perhaps I need to start at the beginning.
On my last two trips with M., our group ended up flying – or attempting to fly – out of Louisville at six in the morning. Because we live two hours from the airport (and because I am not a morning person), The Coach [1] and I have ended up spending the night before my flight holed up in a fancy airport hotel. This year, we had a more humane itinerary, so we didn’t have to leave our home for Louisville until 9 a.m. on the day of the flight. The Coach loaded up my luggage, drove me to the airport, and dumped me out at the curb. Inside the airport, M. was waiting to shepherd our motley crew [2] to the right gate.
This is when the fun started. The TSA must have my classroom bugged – or else karma just wanted to bite me on the butt for mocking silly airport security protocols during my class on Friday – but I ended up getting selected for an “enhanced” check. This seems to happen to me every time I fly out of an airport other than Evansville and it doesn’t much matter what I wear or how efficient I am when it comes to pulling out liquids and taking off shoes. Last week, for instance, I was pulled out of line in D.C. to have my hands swabbed. This week, however, it was an invasive, boob groping pat down.
Here is where I made my mistake: I made a snarky remark to the agent.
Yes, I know I should have just taken it in stride, but I was annoyed and – quite honestly this TSA agent should have been written up for sexual harassment. I’m an old, married woman, and the only people who should be poking at my boobs should be my husband or my doctor. The woman told me to improve my attitude, said I shouldn’t dress “comfortably” for a trip, and commented on the development of breast implant bombs. Now, while I can make sure not to wear layers on a flight, I sure can’t do anything within the realm of reasonable behavior about the fact that I have a woman’s body.
So, Gale Rossides, if you are reading this, please honor my request: If you’re going to have someone feel me up every time I fly because I have big ta-tas, could you at least send Brad Pitt to do my security check?
I finally made it to the gate, only to learn that our flight had been delayed because the plane had a flat tire. For a while, the Continental agent tried to keep our hopes up, saying that maintenance had been called, and for a while, I believed him. Soon, however, it became apparent that we weren’t going anywhere anytime in the near future – and then the gate agent confessed to the crowd that the Louisville airport did not have a spare tire in stock [3]. A new plane (and, I assume, a spare tire) were on the way from St. Louis but it would be a few hours before they arrived.
Needless to say, there was no way our group was going to make our connecting flight in Houston and there were no other flights to Oaxaca on Saturday. Furthermore, we couldn’t stay in Louisville and fly out the next day because, according to the ticket agent, every single seat out of Louisville was full on Sunday. Instead, the best they could offer us was an overnight stay in the airport Sheraton and $18 in food vouchers, with a flight to Mexico City and an Aeromexico connection to Oaxaca the next day. What choice did we really have? Of course we took it.
I am now convinced that Gate 11A is cursed.
I don’t really have much else to say about the trip down to Oaxaca. The Houston Airport is still obnoxious, with its warning announcements that even joking about a bomb is “an arrestable offense.” The Mexico City Airport has fallen victim to globalization. Aeromexico serves a version of mafer cachuate Japones sal Limón that everyone went crazy for. I saw an old CCCP symbol in the graffiti near the Oaxaca airport. Like I said, uneventful.
On the Zocalo in Oaxaca
After we finally made it to our hotel, a few of us decided to wander around Oaxaca until we went to dinner. We peeked inside La Catedral de la Virgen de la Asunción, then walked up to Santo Domingo, looking around a few markets. K. made her first purchase of the trip, picking up a small wooden giraffe for a friend back home. The zocalo was full of life, with couples necking on the benches and little kids chasing balloons around the plaza. Those balloons turned out to be a little dangerous as we had to dodge them quite a few times!
Love and Hugs,
Your Granddaughter
Next time: Art and Architecture, Part I
Fun, Food, & Fab Times: Oaxaca
2010
03.17
03.17
Well, I’m back in the moderately cold Midwest after spending five glorious days wandering through Oaxaca with a tour group from my University. Boy, did we have adventures: sweating our way through Yagul, Mitla, and Monte Alban; shopping in galleries while walking the streets of Oaxaca; going on art tours that included rug making, pottery throwing, and wooden animals. We ate intriguing food at a restaurant named after this book, sorbet bought through a fence at the Tule Tree, and disgusting breakfasts that included cold eggs for three days in a row. The company was amusing and the weather was amazing. Aside from this creeping crud that’s caused me to lie low for the past few days, I feel rested, happy, and ready to make the eight-week march to the end of the semester. So, stay tuned: the Oaxaca stories are coming soon!
Pix: MT standing at the museum at the entrance to the Monte Alban site.
Retrospective: More Travel Drama!
2010
03.15
03.15
A Sign for Mexico City
March 15, 2008: Mexico City to Louisville
Dear Grandma,
I am beginning to hate the Atlanta airport. Today’s travel saga wasn’t as bad as last Saturday’s, but I have to say that sitting on a regional jet with hail stones pinging off the windows is not my idea of fun. Seriously, I was having so much fun in Mexico that that the thought of coming back to the cold, dreary Midwest was a depressing thought indeed. Mexico was sunny and warm, colorful and exciting, full of new things to see and do — and my travel mates were awesome. The students were well behaved, smart, and funny. The “grown-ups” were amusing and interesting. Our leader was witty, knowledgeable and calm — even when our plans went awry.
I thought about changing my ticket so I could stay a few more days, but in the end, my status as a tenure-track professor brought me to my senses and I set my alarm clock for 3:15 a.m. so I could make my 6 a.m. flight home. Now, as you know from when I was a little kid, I am not a morning person, so when the alarm went off before the sun even came up, I thought about turning it off and going back to sleep. It’s probably a good thing that I packed the night before because even the hot shower didn’t fully wake me up. I’m sure I was a pretty sight when I finally made it down to the lobby with my overstuffed luggage in tow. At least someone else had the presence of mind to make our taxi reservations the night before, so all I had to do was climb into the van when it finally arrived.
Of course, I ended up in the second cab with a driver who could only be described as … confused. M. told him to take us to the airport and the guy asked, “¿Aeropuerto uno o aeropuerto dos?” Yeah, there’s only one airport in Mexico City, so that was a little disconcerting. Eventually, we figured out that he was talking about terminal one or terminal two — not two different airports. We told him that we needed the international terminal, but he ended up taking us to the wrong one. It’s a good thing that M. thought to jump out and check the sign at the Delta gate or else we would have had fun dragging all our luggage over to the other terminal!
Anyhow, we finally made it to the right place only to find that the Delta line was longer than one might expect at 4-ish in the morning. Honestly, I thought we might not make it through the line in time to make our flight {Okay, I had my fingers crossed that I wouldn’t make the flight because I really, really didn’t want to leave!} but they moved us up to some kind of expedited line.
While we were waiting, I had to reorganize my luggage because my big suitcase was over the weight limit. Seeing how I didn’t want to spend more money to get it on the plane, I pulled out my extra bag and started stuffing my books and papers into it. [1] In retrospect, I would have been okay if I had worn my Doc Martins instead of shoving them in my suitcase because those steel toed, lug soled boots are pretty heavy. But, I put them in my luggage because I expected to take my shoes off at the airport (which, incidentally, did not happen).
Pretty soon, it was just me and M. — who wasn’t taking the flight, but wanted to make sure that none of the travelers had trouble with their tickets — waiting in line. So, we’re standing there when this guy walks up and leaves his luggage sitting next to us. Now, remember, I am not a morning person and I had yet to have a cuppa, so I wasn’t thinking clearly when I said this next thing: “Holy crap, I hope there’s not a bomb in that suitcase.”
Oops.
Now, I suspect that if we were in an airport in the United States, I would have been in a world of hurt, because someone would have overheard me and security would have dragged my butt out of line. We’re completely anal about that kind of crap, especially when the TSA security guidelines are nothing more than a front to give people a false sense of security. I mean, one of the kids on our trip lost his pocket knife to the Mexico City security … a pocket knife he didn’t even realize he had with him because the knife made it through the security check in Louisville. Luckily, though, this was the Mexico City airport and my bomb comment went unheard by everyone except M. who gave me a weird look and told me, quite nicely, to shut up.
Eventually, I made it to the ticket counter (I was stuck in a middle seat all the way to Atlanta because the flight was full and he couldn’t move me), through immigration and security, and to the gate. Thankfully M. gave me a face mask and earplugs, because I was able to sleep most of the way to Atlanta. Really, the only horrible aspect of this flight was that they were only serving eggs in their airborne breakfast. Eggs? Seriously? Let’s just ask for food poisoning, shall we? Obviously, I opted for the fruit and yogurt … then watched the flight attendance say rude things to the people in front of me. Yeah, she was incompetent; she actually spilled milk all over the woman in front of me! Nasty!
When we got to Atlanta, I ate a pretty bad burger in a pretty bad restaurant where they wouldn’t take my $100 bill so B. had to pay for me. Oops. Don’t worry, I’ll just settle up with him later, seeing how he’s an adjunct at our school. Of course, Atlanta was having bad weather — it had just been hit by a tornado on Friday and it seemed like nature was taking a second stab at the city — so the airport was crammed full of people and we ended up sitting on a nasty, nasty floor. At least our plane was able to load on time … at least that seemed like we were making progress. I mean, the Girls’ Golf Team from our University was actually stuck in the airport (with half of them flying back the following day!), so we were lucky, or so I thought.
Hopped on the plane. Got all settled in. Pulled out the sleeping mask and prepared to nod off. And then we got stuck on the runway. Again. They loaded us up into a regional jet, put us out on the runway, and closed the airspace. We sat on the plane for 2 1/2 hours before the hail stopped and we could take off. We had the worst weather on our travel days, I swear!
Well, we made it home alive and now I’m planning my next spring break trip: Peru.
Love and Hugs,
Your Granddaughter
Originally Posted: March 28, 2008