Hola Familiares and Amigos …

One reason KT and I like to introduce newcomers to the charms of Oaxaca is that we get to re-experience them ourselves. Unlike San Francisco, where playing tour guide to out-of-towners can mean negotiating the curvy bricks of Lombard Street or dodging panhandlers on Powell Street, Oaxaca's attractions are neither fully discovered nor completely commercialized.

Thus, on Friday, we found ourselves in the company of a crime reporter from the Orlando Sentinel (law-breaking in Disneyworld? "Tall Orange Dog, Said to Talk, Wanted for Mickey Mouse Crime") who is living in Oaxaca for a few months to de-gringoize her Spanish and take a break from writing about the murder and mayhem that occurs outside the walls of South Florida's version of the Magic Kingdom. My ex-boss at the San Francisco Examiner now manages the Sentinel's news staff and she suggested Vicky, the name of the reporter, look up KT and me when she got here.

We headed out to Ocotlán, a good-sized town about 20 miles south of Oaxaca best known as the home of the painter Rodolfo Morales, who died two years ago after a career of painting fanciful oils of the town in which he grew up, became wealthy and eventually bought for his own studio the very house his mother, a maid, spent a lifetime cleaning.

Friday was market day in Ocotlán, so the main square and the adjoining side streets were abustle with hundreds of vendors and thousands of shoppers. The sellers used a variety of means to display their wares. The biggest produce stands were elaborate pyramids of wooden shelves that held mounds of fruit and vegetables, some of them stacked several feet high, washed and polished to an enticing gleam. Bright, red Roma tomatoes beckoned for a squeeze; clumps of onions, bound tightly by the greens, stood together, seductively flaunting the pubescent roundness of their white bulbs; mangoes of all sizes, some still firmly immature, others ripe to the softest touch, reveled in their variety, as diverse as apples in the United States. The green grocers were all women. They presided over the commerce from an elevated platform in the middle of their stands, setting prices with their voices - "Platanos! Veinti-cinco por kilo!" Other women, many older, perhaps widowed or too frail to farm vigorously, some younger, no doubt unmarried and therefore sharing their parents' farmland, had only one type of food to sell - chilies, nisperos (a cherry-sized yellow fruit that grows wild) or bulging bunches of epazote tied with twine. The oldest of them sat on the ground, a single row of bright green Serrano chilies laid on a cloth before her. The more ambulatory walked the crowded aisles, or stood at a corner, a sack of produce slung over their shoulders, a one-kilo bag held aloft as an advertisement.

We wandered idly through the maze of the market. Vicky stopped to buy a slice of peach cake, so sweetened with whole, creamy milk that the locals call it "pastel de tres leches" - three-milk cake; KT bought a bag of churos, long, ribbed strands of dough that are deep-fried, glazed and then encrusted with diamond-sized bits of sugar. I dashed in a small store for bottles of water, which we needed to wash down the sweets.

In front of the Ocotlán government building, a space normally belonging to the haberdashers who sell dozens of varieties of the ubiquitous straw hats every campesino wears, a green tarp about half a football field in size was raised high and held taut by ropes. At the edge of the tarp, taking advantage of the shaded archways of the city hall, a banda del pueblo (literally, the town band) played traditional traditional songs. It was preparing to lead a calenda - a parade like the one KT and I had to kick off our wedding - that would opena three-day celebration of Ocotlán's patron saint day. The tarp covered what, the next evening, would become a dance floor.

Some bandas del pueblo are sad affairs. They consist of a pair of aging trumpet players, men (they are always men) with willing, or inebriated, spirits but tubercular lungs; drummers who would have difficulty walking and chewing gum at the same, and set a beat accordingly; and a fit young man tuba player, drafted for his ability to carry the weighty instrument in the summer heat - any musical ability was a blessed bonus. The Ocotlán band, though, rocked. It had more than a dozen musicians, a flashy horn section, solid drummers and even a name, Banda Gitana (The Gypsy Band), written in orange lettering across the head of the bass drum. The music was simple, yet strong, and, like indigenous music everywhere, often sad. Depending on the circumstance and talent of the musicians, the same song, one like the rhythmic La Pinotepa from the Oaxacan coast, for example, can be sung by someone like Lila Downs with a lilting cadence that extends from the trough of melancholy to the crest of exuberance, or it can be pounded out Sousa-like by a marching banda del pueblo. Either way, La Pinotepa reminds KT and I of our wedding. That night, as the calenda reached the Esesartes' house where we would be married, we danced in the street to La Pinotepa. Surrounded by the towering papier mache figures of the calenda, we circled round and round, enveloped by the music, the sound of the fireworks and the laughing faces of our family and friends, lit in the darkness by the candles they carried.

In Ocotlán, we stood in the crowd listening to the music. I watched children dance the awkward, wavering steps of the young, their arms akimbo, their wide eyes shimmering with unfettered delight. I saw innocence and happiness and openness, all the goodness of children. Mexico can make you cry and sometimes here it is better to know too little than too much. As these children, Mexico's future, immersed themselves in the musical moment, they did not know the depth of their poverty, they did not know only a third of them will finish high school, they did not know that their fathers, their mothers, their brothers, or they themselves might some day ride a freight train to the United States for the privilege of cleaning toilets, making beds or picking crops.

The band left the plaza, accompanied by its troupe of dancers - women in bright red, green and yellow skirts, men in the plain white country suits of the campesino and towering heads made of papier mache carried atop metal frames by nimble-footed men who made the caricatures bob and weave to the music. Every block or so, the band stopped to play, the dancing started and a crowd gathered. Some shopkeepers, prepared for the calenda, emerged from their stores carrying trays of green and pink cookies - anise, sesame, chocolate chip - which they passed out to the dancers and the audience. When the third round of cookies arrived, we knew it was time to go. It was late afternoon and we wanted to visit San Martin Tilcajete, a nearby village known for its alebrijes, the colorfully painted wooden animals carved by artesans from Oaxaca's native copal tree.

As we walked to the car, we passed a shop selling mescal and stepped inside for a taste. An agreeable young man behind the counter explained his different varieties and KT and I opted for a sip of añejo, an amber mescal distilled with apples and other fruit, which provide a layer of soft sweetness atop the sharper bite of the agave alcohol. The counterman's father entered the shop and joined the conversation. He stood beneath a large painting of the Last Supper. Too bad, I told him, that Jesus didn't have mescal for his last meal. He laughed. You're right, he said, laughing, all Cristo had was red wine. We bought of a liter of the añejo, said our goodbyes and left to reclaim our car from the parking lot.

Ten miles down the road I missed the turnoff for San Martin, as I always do. I doubled back and we drove into town looking for a wood carver KT and I once visited with our friend Henry Wangeman. Of course, we couldn't remember his name and, since the relative wealth of selling wooden animals had enabled many of the townspeople to replace their adobe homes with newer, larger concrete houses, neither could we find a familiar landmark that would lead us to him. But there are many artesans in San Martin, so we stopped in front of one house that displayed the Figuras de Madera sign, and knocked. We had made a poor choice. The owner had only a dozen small animals, none of which appealed to us. We thanked him, walked across the street and knocked on the sheet metal gate of another house. A short, older man answered, beckoned us inside and led us into a small dark room that contained three tables of wooden animals, beautifully painted but rustically carved. As KT and Vicky examined the artesania, the old man and I talked. I told him our story, that we had a house in Etla, that Vicky was a student, that we had just come from Ocotlán where we had scene a marvelous folk art exhibition in the museum. The old man was shorter than I, even with his straw hat on, and he stood with difficulty, canting forward at the hips, one hand always on a table to take some of the weight of his substantial stomach off his bowed legs. His name was Feliz Ortega. He was 69. He was born in San Martin and his son, too, was a wood carver. Am I wrong, I asked, or does this room smell like mescal. Felix laughed. Yes it does, he said, would you like some? I declined on our behalf, explaining we had much driving to do. He said had never been to Etla but had heard it was beautiful. It is, I said, and very windy. Invite me, said Felix, invite me to your house. Of course, I said, you are invited to come at any time. KT chose a fierce-looking black cat for our house, and Vicky bought a half-dozen smaller blue cats to take home as gifts. Saying goodbye in Mexico requires time because each person present must be acknowledged. So, outside in the patio, as we said adios to Felix, his son, his daughter and his grandchildren, KT noticed a large tree with bulbous yellow fruit hanging over our heads. Are those toronja, she asked, using the word for grapefruit. Yes, said Felix, and he motioned to his son, who picked up a long pole, wedged it under the stem of one of the fruit and twisted, deftly dropping the orb into Felix's waiting hands. He gave it to KT and we left the Ortega family with two bags of wooden animals and one grapefruit.

Although it was already 6 p.m. and dark rain clouds hung low above the surrounding cornfields, we made one more stop, and proved that often the best does come last. From the car window, through an open door of a house, I saw a very dirty man laying bricks in a patio. He smile when he saw me looking at him, exhibiting a brilliant array of gold teeth that seemed to sparkle even brighter against the layer of mortar dusted than covered his brown skin. I stopped. Podemos entrar? I asked. Can we come in? In moments I was shaking hands with Pablo Sosa Hernandez, wood carver and all-around handyman. As hard as I tried not to, I kept staring at the mother lode that was his dental work. To distract myself, we talked construction. He was building a covered passageway of brick and cement to shelter his workshop from the sun and the rain, and so far had done beautiful work. Four strong, but elegant arches of red brick, each about eight or nine feet high, framed one side of the patio, providing functional but artistic platforms to support the as yet unfinished roof. Did you design all this? Yes, said Pablo. In a different world, one with educational opportunities, Pablo Sosa Hernandez might have been an architect instead of a wood carver, not that the latter was dishonorable or didn't provide his family with a generous enough living. I am referring only to choices vs. necessities.

Behind me I heard voices. KT and Vicky had entered the front room of the house through a different door and had been greeted by Pablo's wife, whose name I cannot remember. (Oddly, though, and surely this speaks sadly about how I perceive the world, I recall clearly the names of the family's two dogs, Buffy and Bella. Note to myself: Get a notebook.) La Señora Sosa, as the wife henceforth shall be known, had turned on the lights and revealed two tables brimming with a magnificent selection of wooden animals, among them a half-dozen pegasuses artfully painted in oranges, reds, yellows and blues. I am not an expert in alebrijes, but this was some of the finest woodwork I've seen in Oaxaca. One of Pablo's daughters walked into the room, a trim, attractive women of about 20. Each time KT or Vicky would comment on the beauty of a piece, or the difficulty in choosing just one or two, her face betrayed the pride of authorship. She was more than her father's daughter; she was also his partner. He carved; she painted. And she had, pardon the pun, branched out into working with found limbs, twisted by drought and wind, converting them into sinuous snakes or upright nopales.

About an hour passed as choices were made, questions answered, bargains gained and jokes attempted. After being told that Buffy, an unsually fat dog in a land where canines generally run from thin to skeletal, was "castrada," that is, spayed, KT remarked that Buffy was so fat because eating was her only remaining pleasure. La Señora Sosa laughed heartily and explained how Bella, the other dog, got her name. Mexicans love wordplay and when Bella was a pup, she was so ugly ("tan fea" in Spanish) they called her Beautiful (Bella). In other words, she was "tan fea" that she was "bella."

We left with two plastic bags of flying horses, snakes, more cats and one monkey. The rain began moments later and during the drive into Oaxaca we decided to treat ourselves to margaritas at the Hotel Victoria, which overlooks the city and provides an airy vantage point from which to watch rainstorms. In a day of good decisions, we had met yet another one. We arrived at the bar just before 8 o'clock and ordered a round of margaritas and water. The waiter reappeared carrying a heavy tray containing six margaritas, six bottles of water, a bowl of spicy peanuts and another of potato chips. It was la hora feliz - happy hour -- and drinks were dos por uno (two for one). Who knew? We drank, we ate nuts and chips, ordered more margaritas and, after a bit, convinced ourselves we were still hungry.

A few minutes later by car we had journeyed from one of Oaxaca's most expensive hotels to one of its cheapest taco stands, La Brasa. To describe an evening at the counter of La Brasa would require more of your attention that I can ask. Suffice to say, though, that this humble taqueria, located across from the bus station and so popular among Oaxaqueños that they double park in front of it and eat in their cars, is worth the price of the plane ticket from the States. We ate - no, that is wrong - we fed on plates of al pastor (slow-roasted pork covered in chile sauce, then shaved thin and served on coaster-sized tacos with onions and cilantro), carboncita and gringas, topping it all with a spicy, pork pozole soup. The bill, for the three of us: 80 pesos, about $8.

Vicky lives nearby in a small apartment she is renting for $10 a day so we dropped her off and made the 20-minute drive out to Etla and home. A full moon lit the dirt road up to the house, softening the harshness of the car's headlights, which make the ruts seem deeper and fiercer than they are. We slowed at the one-lane bridge that spans the creek and KT saw, sitting on the periphery of the light, a small gray rabbit waiting for us to pass.

The wild-eyed cat KT bought from Felix Ortega now sits in our living room, but the pegasuses made by Pablo Sosa Hernandez are still wrapped in old newspapers - at Vicky's house. She and KT mistakenly traded bags at the evening's end, no doubt as a result of that final bowl of pozole.

Come visit.

Cheers,

Tim