After our Spanish lessons on Monday, we ate at the place next door, run by the same family as our B&B. There’s a large case in the one room, devoted to the Virgin of Guadeloupe. On the back wall is a framed picture, lit up in the back with constanly moving rays of colored lights. Along the sides are bunches of grapes which light up in various patterns. And around the edges is gold tinsel. There are Virgin pillows on the bottom of different shapes. The whole thing looks like some kind fo Virgin pinball machine.
We went to a textile museum after that. Sandra’s very interested in seeing different textiles, partially for being an old 4-H girl, and partially for the art work. The museum was very nicely laid out with some striking pieces in semi-dark rooms, from different villages and from different times. The notes introducing the exhibit spoke of the artists as belonging to the people known as “The People of the Clouds.” Even with the strong traditions here, you still have the usual gradual disappearance of the older arts, patterns, symbols, and this exhibit was meant to show the lines of continuity that still exist. Again a reminder of one of the differeneces between humans and other life forms on the planet, as these don’t serve a function, but come from some other need. And they are not merely decoration either.
We continued south to the zocalo at the southern end of which was a continuing demonstration by Indians of the San Juan Copala pueblo. There are at least 15 different indigenous groups in this region, each with its own language. This group was protesting the use of paramilitary troops to terroize their population, which wanted more autonomy for self-government (at leat, that’s what we could make out). 10% of the women have been raped, many folks killed, etc. Sounds way too familiar. The women dress in red shifts and look different than the on-street Oaxacans that we see daily. I didn’t take any pictures.
We continued around the square. People selling all kinds of crap, just like anywhere else where there’s a fair or a crowd. But not an unfriendly crowd, and no one in a rush. Also, very few cigarette smokers. I don’t know if this is based on economics, or the ban on smoking in public places that’s supposedly in effect. Unlike in Greece, we can eat in restaurants without any smoke whatsoever. The few people we’ve seen smoking are mostly young, and mostly male. In that regard, this place isn’t that different from the rest of the world, where the men seen hellbent on killing themselves, if they don’t kill the rest of all of us first.
After a nap,we went out to the restaurant I thought had moved to Houston. Turns out they were open after all. You enter through the door and find yourself in an open courtyard, with tables in the center and around the sides. There’s a tree in the middle of everything, but the feng shui isn’t right; Sandra and I both felt it. It might have helped to light up the tree, or something. Anyway, we placed an order with our disinterested waiter (the guide book said the food was good, but the service was “dodgy.”) The first dish after jicama wedges for starters was a quesadilla sampler, with some excellent sauces. It was so big, that we asked the waiter to hold one of the soups we’d ordered, and he did, bringing us only one of the watercress soup with corn dumplings. Again, really delicous, wihtout the bitterness one usually associates with watercress.
Then the story begins: we had ordered one more dish, Zandunga, which was a chicken with papaya sauce and other things. The busboy brought me a plate and set it down with a flourish, saying, “Pata Negra.” We didn’t know what to make of this, since it looked like a pile of prosciutto on top of jicama, nothing “negra” about it, and certainly not what we had ordered. We called the waiter over and he insisted that we had ordered it. So, now we had a dilemma; Sandra & I both hate to send things back, as the food usually just gets tossed (the waiter did offer us to change it). And we stil didn’t know what this was in front of me. Sandra was too full to eat anything more anyway, which meant I would have to eat the whole thing. And, while we were debating what to do, the two people behind us, who were Spanish-speaking and probably from Mexico City, got served two portions of what looked suspiciously like Zandunga. I was starting to think that this was a get the gringos kind of situation (the dish I had in front of me was the most expensive thing on the menu). So, Sandra went back to the waiter, and explained again that we had not even said the words Pata Negra and that we had ordered Zandunga. At that point, the waiter said, “Well, we’re all out of Zandunga.” Sandra came back to the table, and we had a good laugh at how crazy this was, and I ate the whole thiing and still don’t know what it was. It was pretty good, though.
After this experience, we strolled down the pedestrian Alcala (named Calle Macedonio (!) for reasons I have yet to determine) back to the zocalo to see if there was any music. Earlier in the day, we saw workers putting up a large stage and sound system. Sandra had asked a family what was going on, and the father said there was going to be cumbia tonight. Since she is a big cumbia fan, we wanted to catch this. Well, when we got to the square, there were a zillion people around, and a band was playing with a loud system and all kinds of lights and smoke. They actually were pretty horrible, unfortunately, with the kind of pop schmaltz that you apparently can’t get away from no matter where you go. A few numbers that almost got going. The announcer had that commercial voice which sounds very loud, is very fast, and emphasizes certain parts of words, rolls the r’s with exaggeration, etc. Classic.
Fortunately, there was a second band, on a second stage, and this was a Norteno band, Colvillo Norteno. There were excellent, tight, professional, good musicans, and knew how to work the crowd. They played one hit after another, which I determined by hearing most of the crowd singing along every verse of each song. Not a lot of dancing, but we had some fun. I tried to read up on them yesterday, but there’s not much that I could find. They were mentioned in a Wikipedia article on narcocorrido, but I don’t know how much to trust that source. All in all a fun evening.
Yesterday, after our morning routines, we had the goal of visiting more artesanos making textiles. We went first to a women’s cooperativo, MARO (Mujeres Artisanes de la Regiones de Oaxaca). It was practically around the corner. Many rooms with all kinds of things, including some Day of the Dead stuff. Sandra’s mostly looing and assessing at this point. I don’t know that we’re even going to buy anything, since we pack very light on our trips (just carry-on). But there may be something we come across that she would like to have, more as a way of honoring the work than as a necessity, of course.
We then headed back toward the zocalo to try to find the covered artisan market. We stumbled first onto the chocolate street, which had shop after shop of chocolate beans, drinks, and bars. They were roasting the beans there, as well. I think we’ll take some of this home before we go, just for the souvenir. We did have chocolate in the morning at the cafe across the street, and it was frothy and delicious.
Anyway, after much wandering, we finally found the covered market. Inside were many stalls of textile work, and everyone wanted us to stop. It had the feeling of being attacked by piranhas, but you really can’t blame them. There’s so much of this stuff around, and most of the quality is similar, so you snag whom you can. There some younger, modern-looking folks selling, as well as some ancient women. Sandra said that the Tree of Life is a common motif in this area. She’s planning on doing more research on it. She has included one beautiful piece from a Navajo in New Mexico in her slide show, but nothing from this far south. I’m curious about it.
After escaping from the market, we headed back, first taking a look inside the covered food market. All kinds of stuff here. This reminded me of two things: Blade Runner, and my imagined Hong Kong. Many people, smoke, food smells, unidentifiable things to eat. There were three fellows set up playing marimba and guajiro. Sandra said that this is one of the traditional forms of music here. I’m guessing that somehow the marimba made it here from Africa via the slave trade, but I wonder if it might be an indigenous creation, also.
As we made our way on the outskirt of the zocalo, I got my first look at the famous chapulines, your local grasshopper. Piles, thousands of them in volcanic-shaped mounds on flat woven baskets. There were roasted and all reddish-brown. I don’t know much about this, but I hope to learn more about how this came to be a part of the diet here. You can order it on most menus as a seasonal dish. At the market, you could buy a bunch, or just have a dish of them with salsa right there. I don’t think I’m ready for this yet, though!
Coming into the main square we chanced upon a parade, with huge human figures and a little brass band. They were publicizing a two-week outdoor market north of our B&B in a small park of yet more textiles and crafts. We followed the parade, of course. Every so often, they would stop, and the band would play some tunes, while the big figures (housing small boys who moved them), would dance in place, and young girls in colorful costumes would swish their skirts from side to side. Older women would throw candy to the crowd. It was all pretty cute.
We ended up going to that market after our dinner (this time we had mole colorado; red, more subtle than the negro, still smoky and delicious), as it was pratically down the street from the restaurant we chose. Some really beautiful pieces, including a lovely vestido and some stunningly-colored small rugs, including one with a Tree of Life motif. We will go back today for a closer look.
