Hello all …

Since it costs both arms and most of a leg to call Porterville, I promised to write to keep in touch. And now you need to write back so I can know what's happening there.

I am sitting in a very crowded Internet ''café'' that is across the street from a branch of the local university, and is therefore mobbed with ''estudiantes'' who need to use the computers for their classes, and dozens of others who are just attracted by the high hormone count in the air. The café also offers long distance and local phone service, a popular business here because ''larga distancia'' calls from a home phone can be quite expensive - recall above reference to both arms and a leg - and are cheaper from these types of businesses. At this hour - 7 p.m. - classes are ending, so the phone booths are filled with students who either prefer to, or must, make their phone calls from the privacy of these booths rather than the living room of their homes, with some family member certainly listening in.

Today was actually my first day in Oaxaca. I spent Saturday and Sunday nights at the home of my friend Henry Wangerman, who lives outside of the city in a small town called San Agustin Etla. San Agustin is located on canyon north of our house in the same municipality, Etla. Our house is located in San Pablo Etla. Henry is the fellow who owns the book and folk art stores here in Oaxaca. He has a lovely wife, Rosa, and a cherubic son, Zach.

Sunday, I went with Henry and about 20 other people on a road trip to the mountains east of Oaxaca, where the villagers were holding La Feria de los Hongos - the Festival of the Mushrooms. It was much more fun that it sounds. The festival took place in a very tiny village called Cuajimolayas - Kwah-hee-ma-loy-ass - that is located far up in the mountains at an altitude of almost 9,500 feet. The floor of Oaxaca Valley is 4,500 feet, so the road to Cuajimolayas climbs steeping, offering views that are at once breath-taking and heart-stopping. I'm glad I wasn't driving and could at times close my eyes and pretend I wasn't driving along rutted dirt road that bordered a 1,000-foot cliff. Ignorance, I found, can indeed be bliss - or at least comforting.

The high forest climate of the region seems to provide a fertile atmosphere for mushrooms, dozens of varieties of which spring up during the rainy season. The festival was organized by the villagers, who derive income from harvesting and selling the mushrooms, and by a new breed of businesses here the sponsor ''eco-tourism,'' tourism geared toward those who like dirty hands and tired legs. The festival had three features: A hands-on exhibit of the exotic plants, a mid-afternoon meal, and a post-comida hike. I'll admit that a short tour of the exhibit was sufficient for me; I prefer my fungi fried with butter and garlic, and maybe on a hamburger. Also, a botanist explaining in Spanish the latin names and the differences of the various varieties stretched my tenuous language skills to the breaking point. So, I spent a good part of the afternoon playing ''futbol'' with the kids we had brought with us and some of the locals. At first, as the 9,500-foot altitude mugged by sea-level lungs, this seemed like a suicidal idea and I at least once tried to calculate how long the ambulance would take to arrive from the far away city. But then, after a quick acclimation and perhaps a giddiness brought on by oxygen deprivation, my competitive spirit took held and I worked up an appetite that would come on very handy shortly afterward.

Some members of our group had voiced trepidation about dining at mushroom festival, harboring visions of plato after plato of funghi cooked over open fires by people who haven't even bothered to learn Spanish, sticking with the Indian Zapotec language they've used since the days of the Maya. These fears, of course, disappeared when first small glasses of mezcal appeared, followed by steaming dishes of fried vegetables, rice, corn chowder, barbecue chicken and pork, new potatoes, various moles and, of course, mushrooms - porcini mushrooms the size of hubcaps grilled on iron and seasoned with garlic. One of these would have cost $30 at Whole Foods. Suffice to say, we ate, we enjoyed and - laugh at me you will when I tell you this, knowing my loathing for the Sound of Music - we sang song after song, version after version of Cancion Mixteca (LISTEN to LILA DOWNS, READ THE WORDS), exhorted to do so by a local singer and made sound of voice by more mezcal.

There's only a bit more.

A gang of dark rain clouds reminded us that we had yet to complete the third part of the festival - a hike. As we tossed on sweatshirts and sweaters to block the chill, we set out toward a mountainous protuberance on the edge of town. Out route through the village covered several blocks, and offered the backyard view of rural Mexican life - seńoras washing clothes by hand in large steel tubs; pantless children with dirty faces running after chickens and expressing wonderment at the parade of gringos; the incongruous sound of Carlos Santana being pushed out of a shack made of flattened oil cans and wood that didn't appear strong enough to withstand the pounding of the music.

From Santana onward, we climbed a forested trail, passing under towering pines that surrounded sunny clearings filled with giant magueys, those long-leafed spikey cacti whose heart is used to make mezcal and tequila. The season's rains were producing a colorful crop of wildflowers, one of which, a guide explained, contains so much oil that the local people use it make a wonderful perfumed soap.

To make a long climb short, we reached the top after about an hour, arriving at a flattened peak that shared its natural beauty with a pair of flimsy radio towers. Ah, progess. The view was, well, immense. You could see all the way back to the city of Oaxaca, lying in the mist several valleys to the north; and since it was a day of clear air, you could also off in the last distance, the peak of Mt. Orizaba, an active volcano and one of Mexico's tallest peaks at 15,000-feet-plus.

There was more that day, but it is about the people I was with, but they are interesting enough - to me at least - to be featured in their own email. There were also tacos, the best I've eaten, but they, too, are deserving of a separate note. Besides, thinking of them is making me hungry.

I could also tell you about my visit today to our house with Enrique, but that was work. We made some good decisions, and will act on them this week and next.

I miss you Mom, Dad and the rest of the Porterville gang. Talking to you all is one my favorite things to do. But, if you have gotten this far, then I have talked your ears off. Send me a note when you have time. I love you all.

Hasta pronto …

Tim