oaxacama

Chapter V: return to family, puerto angel

Tue, 06 Dec 2011 23:55:05 -0500

I came to live in Puerto Angel for a spell in 2007, and try to go back every year to visit. I was blessed to find a second family here, the Pacheco-Herreras, who welcome me back each year with fresh fish and open arms. It’s no stretch to say they have changed my life for the better.

Agapita

Tue, 06 Dec 2011 23:51:08 -0500

Agapita

back at the beachremembering how to speakhow to swear If it weren’t for the babies, now...

Tue, 06 Dec 2011 23:38:00 -0500

back at the beach
remembering how to speak
how to swear

If it weren’t for the babies, now speaking in sentences, wanting motorcycles instead of milk, it would seem as if time had stopped. The abandoned boat turned pelican nest floating in the bay. The truck selling oranges, announcing the fruit with the same pre-recorded sales pitch, through a large megaphone tied to the roof.
The fish tasted as good as ever; even better when I remembered I didn’t need a fork to eat it. Fresh tortillas picking up each bite.
It took only slightly longer to remember I didn’t need shoes.
This place is a constant lesson in what you do not need.

How long until I remember that I don’t need my comb?
How many days must pass til I remember that I don’t need my calendar?
And what happens when I remember that I don’t need anything
that isn’t already here?

Zauri

Tue, 06 Dec 2011 22:05:48 -0500

Zauri

Andi

Tue, 06 Dec 2011 22:05:13 -0500

Andi

in Puerto Angel, everyday at dusk, the birds call hundreds of...

Tue, 06 Dec 2011 22:04:44 -0500

in Puerto Angel, everyday at dusk, the birds call

hundreds of them.

Photo

Fri, 02 Dec 2011 11:49:40 -0500

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Fri, 02 Dec 2011 11:49:14 -0500

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Fri, 02 Dec 2011 11:48:53 -0500

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Fri, 02 Dec 2011 11:47:27 -0500

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Fri, 02 Dec 2011 11:46:57 -0500

Pablo y Uri

Fri, 02 Dec 2011 11:46:36 -0500

Pablo y Uri

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Fri, 02 Dec 2011 11:45:21 -0500

oaxacama

Fri, 02 Dec 2011 11:45:00 -0500

things i have watched from this bed:
maria candelaria, marcario, and countless tin tan movies
every episode of ‘fuego en el sangre’
karate kid dubbed in spanish
babies sleeping under make shift mosquito nets
agapita’s face changing as she told me the news
darkness as i listened to the waves breaking across the street
hoping for the familiar sound of a motorcycle
come home safely

Chapter IV: from the mountains to the sea

Fri, 02 Dec 2011 01:10:42 -0500

Photo

Fri, 02 Dec 2011 01:10:13 -0500

churchbells

Fri, 02 Dec 2011 01:08:00 -0500

churchbells

Teotitlan de Valle

Thu, 01 Dec 2011 12:02:00 -0500

I arrived just as the shadows began to stretch away from the buildings. Walking down dusty streets, past open doors, past a creek with a white bull tied to a post, and a few goats, penned in by a wall of bare rusty mattress springs. The Martinez home is perched at the base of a mountain that boarders the town, providing the weaving studio an excellent view of town once the wooden shutters are lifted away. Looms with a view. That silly pun floated around in my head for months when I was last here, as did so many of my thoughts without an English ear to fall on. For the most part the town speaks their own dialect of Zapotec; most everybody also speaks Spanish, but no one really cares to. There is an amazing civic and cultural pride in this town, from the preservation of its craft of weaving the most beautiful woolen rugs, to its mandatory town council terms. It seems to serve them well, as the town has been functioning thus since 1465.

I wondered just how old the bells in the church were. They sounded like they were cast of some lost metal, delightfully dissonant, singing continuously for the two days the dead would be among us. Tomasa explained that there are a certain three bells that get rung when a woman dies in town, and a separate four that ring when a man dies, so the whole town knows who has passed. They all ringed now.

They welcomed me into their home with their usual warmth and bottomless hospitality. Immediately I had a plate full of small sweet tamales with the darkest mole I have ever tasted. We visited I their dining room, at a long table in front of their offrenda, overflowing with flowers. It was a good thing that I started with the tamales because I had little idea about what the evening had in store. On the 1^st of November it is tradition to visit your friends and family and bring them something for their altar. And just as soon as my fourth and final tamale was resting comfortably in my belly, the stream of visitors began. Each group that came brought something up to the altar, a flower, some bread, some nuts, a candle, or more often, all of these things, paid their respects to the departed of the house, and waited to be greeted by their hosts. A flurry of teotitlan two handed handshakes, and whispery sounding Zapotec hellos, and our guests were invited to sit for a pour of mezcal. Followed by a small beer and some conversation. Followed by a cup of chocolate and a piece of bread. Followed by a take home gift for their own altar at home, of nuts or fruit or bricks of chocolate or, more likely, all of these things. The women all traveled with hand embroidered oversized napkins they would use to ferry in their bread, and knot back up around other bread that would travel home with them. It was a carousel of food and flowers and smiling faces, and as I watched a two liter coke bottle of homemade mescal drain, it seemed it would be unending.

It grew dark outside. Another round of tamales and we gathered our candles to go pay visits to parents, and a few close compadres. Our first stop was the home of Sergio’s parents. Like most homes in town, they had a tiled, built-in altar at one end of their dining room, which held paintings of saints, pictures of loved ones, and any spare bottle that could be used for flowers. We added our roasted peanuts and oranges to the menagerie, and lit the two foot candle, striped with a blue foil ribbon, selected especially for this house. Our hosts came to greet us; bright eyed eighty-eight year olds, who seemed both filled with vigor and impossibly ancient. Soon enough we were on our second beer, and I was trying hard to remember the last time I had a drink with someone that could recall the dawn of radio.

At every house it was the same: altar, mescal, beer, chocolate, laughter, gifts. Practiced ritual. Except, I was not so practiced. This town was drinking me under the table. I asked silly technical questions like, “how do you know who’s coming when? How do they know you’ll be home?” and “do you ever end up taking home the same pan de muerto that you brought?”, which seemed to amuse them. My Spanish seemed to improve with every pour of mescal, and we joked that by the end of the night, I’d be speaking Zapotec.

By some miracle I woke up the next day clear headed and earlier than I expected. We had chocolate for breakfast and once again packed up some bread. It was our turn to go feed the bell ringers, still perched on top of the church, reminding us all with each ring of the millions of souls that have passed through town. I packed up my peanuts and headed for the coast.

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Thu, 01 Dec 2011 12:00:40 -0500

“Para todo mal mezcal, y para todo bien también”

Thu, 01 Dec 2011 02:42:44 -0500

“Para todo mal mezcal, y para todo bien también”