Unfolding Stories

Space between the lines

One of the things about travel writing is that it doesn't leave you room to capture the ordinary, everdyay, mundane things that happen.  But these things are as much - if not more - a part of the experience as the more exciting or exotic places and people that appear in the pages of the journal.

I haven't told you for example about the evenings we go round to a friend's or neighbour's house to play dominoes.  Drink coffee.  Eat chilli peanuts.  Talk about the latest goings-on of the APPO.  How children are getting on at school.  Marital disputes.  Who has and hasn't been invited to a wedding.  The verdict on the new president.  How much fruit and vegetables cost at the local supermarket.  A good place to buy jelly moulds.   Or just forget your distractions and concentrate on the game.

Friendship, humour, neighbourliness.  Female support. 

The stuff that makes the world go round.

Perspective

It's a good forty minutes walk to the top of the 'mogote', and a steep, hot climb in the burning December sun.  It's worth it for the amazing views though, mile after mile of red, sandy countryside, blue mountains in the distance. 

This hilltop above the village of Jaltepec was the stronghold and defence post in prehispanic times.  It was the palace, and later the tomb, of their most famous ruler: Queen Nana Luisa, or 6-monkey, one of the few female rulers in all of Mesoamerica.  Before the Spaniards came the people would climb up here to make offerings to the gods, praying for rain in the spring.  Now there are crosses where once there were idols - but still the people come in early May to pray and give thanks for the water.

We stand on the top of the hill, admiring the view, imagining ourselves the footsoldiers of this queen back in the 11th century, scouring the countryside for signs of enemy attack.  And my companions point out landmarks - another fort in the distance, the main market town, the line of the carretera snaking up a hill, tiny communities of 80 or so people dotted across the domain of Magdalena Jaltepec.  And as we talk, and look, my perspective shifts, and I start to see more and more of the detail.  The roof of a tiny chapel.  A field of goats.  Sand of different shades of red.

And my companions talk proudly of the colour, contours and terrain of Jaltepec, how in one place the earth is a different colour, in another there is a river, one community is on the plain, another perched on the hill, how each has different cactus plants, trees, fruit, animals, birds, insects.  How many faces Jaltepec has, they breath with satisfaction.

And Jaltepec is but one small municipio in the district of Noxichtlan, one of over 500 municipios in the state of Oaxaca, one of 31 states in the republic of Mexico.  My mind boggles for a moment at the vastness of it all.  How huge is this landscape.  How small a part of the universe.

Of course it's beyond comprehension.  So what can we do, us mortals who can only ever see a fraction of the whole? 

Climb to the top of the hill.  Soak in the panorama.  Wonder at what lies right there, right in front of us. 

Magdalena Jaltepec from the mogote

Escocia

The community in Jaltepec still can't get over the fact that I'm from Scotland.  Every so often you'll hear one of them say "Escocia!" in a tone of awe and wonder, as if it remind themselves that it's really true.  They pore over the few coins I have with me in astonishment. 

And I don't think I've ever been asked so many questions that I'm incapable of answering (in comprehensible Spanish.)

What are the main forms of vegetation on the mountains?  What is the oldest fortification in Scotland?  What were the main tribes and where did they come from?  What is the most important brand of whisky?  How many men wear kilts and on what occasions?  What are your most important feast days?  How many people go to work in the United States?  Do people in Scotland drink more Corona or Sol?

Their pride and passion for Mexico is matched in equal measure by interest in what happens elsewhere.  It's an attitude we would do well to learn from.  It shames me slightly that I, that we, are so disinterested in our own history and culture.  I will have to write and send photos when I get home.  There's no way I can do justice to their curiosity from here. 

Go on, you ask her the next question

Autumn

In this hot, sunny, dry December some of the leaves are finally beginning to turn.  I find myself taking picture after picture of russets, yelllows, reds and golds.  And I realise that I am missing, have missed, the autumn. 

Guess I've been through a different change of season.

The stage

The zocalo has been at the heart of the protest for the last six months.  At the beginning it was where the teachers marched and made their protest.  After the skirmish with the government in the summer it became the encampment for the teachers and the APPO.  Reclaiming the zocalo was a key stage in the PFP operation at the end of October, and for the last month the federal riot police have been camped out there.  Now that the city is quiet and the police are mainly gone it is time for the people to reclaim the space.

An Oaxacan friend has been promising to take me for a coffee in the zocalo ever since I arrived.  We finally managed to go on my last weekend.  It was a balmy night, perfect for perambulating in a colonial town centre.  We could hear music near Santo Domingo so started there.  There was a dance display on - groups from different Zapotec communities showing off their fabulous dresses, dances, music and traditions.  It felt slightly staged - "Oaxaca your time is now!" the posters proclaim - and the whole thing is, after all, paid for by the state government.  But some music, colour and dancing is part of what the city needs as it starts the slow process of recovery and we enjoy the show.

We move on to the zocalo, look at the Christmas tree and religous display, and finally get to take our coffee at one of the many pavement cafes that border the square.  My friend is emotional.  It is six months since she has been able to do this.  Finally it feels like the city is returning to normal.

A short while later and some state riot police walk past in formation.  They look tense, and stop close to our table.  The atmosphere shifts and we look back to see what they're watching.  It's the governor, surrounded by a large group of journalists, bright TV lights, and - no doubt - bodyguards.  (He also has been unable to go out in the city for most of the last 6 months, for different reasons.)  The group walks round the square a couple of times, the governor giving interviews as he goes.  He too is claiming this space. 

And suddenly it feels like we're all part of his stage, bit players, on hand to prove to the waiting press that "all is well".   Something in the atmosphere sours.  This was meant to be a celebration of the noisy, vibrant, musical life of the city - a spirit that will continue come what may.  Not trying to prove that one man had won.

Ulises walks round his stage

Travel advice

The FCO continues to advise against all but essential travel to Oaxaca City.  "The situation remains tense" they tell me.  I don't know.  Somehow that doesn't quite capture the atmosphere in town today.  There don't appear to be any federal police left in the town centre.  Yes, there are still state police here, but their presence is muted.  The riot shields, canisters of tear gas, tents and washing lines have gone.  There is a large Christmas tree in the zocalo and the "nacimiento" (representation of the Xmas story) has just gone up.  The square is full of locals soaking up the atmosphere - for the first time since I've been here.

The square is a riot of colour, covered in red plants donated by people in the city as a gesture of peace and renewal.  It is impossible to do justice to the zocalo with one photo: it's men repairing the bandstand, old gentlemen getting their shoes polished and reading the newspapers, street vendors, tall green trees, birds twittering, dappled sunlight, children screeching as they throw shaving foam at each other, lovers canoodling on the wrought iron benches.

As I walk up Calle Alcala, trying to keep out of the burning December sun, there are tourists meandering - again for the first time.  Not many , but it's a sign that perhaps the town has turned the corner at last.  In the little square just off the street there are artists and artesans selling their wares.  Wooden skeletons playing the guitar or drinking mescal.  Hand made blouses and colourful dresses.  A woman weaving.  Brightly coloured animals.  Artists sketching.  The light is soft and gentle - the artesans too.  They smile broadly when I comment that there are visitors here again.  Yes they say.  Oaxaca is a city of peace.

And I can only agree.  To be honest, here, today, in the dappled light, it would be hard to imagine somewhere more tranquil.

Artist's market

Edinburgh eat your heart out

They have been hard at work since early in the morning.  There are a team of men, women and children working patiently to construct the "castle" of fireworks that will form the centrepiece of the party at night.  They are supervised by an elderly gentleman with a cowboy hat, white moustache, and face that has seen a lot of fireworks parties....At the start of the day they are piecing together bits of wood and plastic into intriguing shapes.  By lunchtime the outline of the castle has been built and young men clamber up the inside to add wheels, circles, pictures and lights.  Everyone is looking forward to the show:  I can hardly wait.

The fireworks start at 10pm.  There are a few wild catherine wheels shooting round and then spinning off into the night sky.  There are ginormous "bombs" that explode over our heads, gold and silver raining down on us.  They seem as big as anything that goes over the Castle Rock, but maybe it's just because I'm standing directly underneath them.

The castle starts to flicker and then illuminate from the bottom up: circles, stars, then some letters M... E ...X....it turns into a picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe, with the words "Queen of Mexico" underneath.  At the end of the show her crown will burst into flames and shoot off into the sky....

My favourite of all are the three "toritos", models of bulls that you can pull down over your head, part of a wooden construction that the crazy volunteer uses to manouevre the animal.  It is covered in fireworks and catherine wheels.  I can hardly believe someone is going to get inside this, but of course they do, and have a fabulous time dancing around the square as the bull explodes in flames above their head.

The band are playing the whole time so the whole affair is pretty noisy, but at the highlight of the show, just as the crown is getting ready to fly, there is a complete explosion of noise.  The band to the right of me, rockets blasting off in front, all the church bells suddenly ringing furiously on the other side.  Totally stereophonic sound.

Building the tower

Queen of Mexico

Toritos

Teacher

At the end of the party we are walking back to the museum so I can get my bag.  My friend the poet spots one of his school teachers and calls me over to meet him.  This is my teacher, he helped me so much when I was at school.  This is a friend from Scotland who is supporting the work of the museum.  He turns to his former tutor and says "Teacher, it is because of you that I am here, doing this, working with the museum".  And I can feel the connection between them. And the years and the miles: collapse.  Because in some way it is because of him that I am here too, that we are working here together, teaching and learning, growing in understanding.  And I think of all the people who have helped me, too, to be here, in this precise moment of time.  And that you never really know what impact your words, your actions, your presence... might have...

At the bandstand

As the night time party is getting into full flow I am invited to go and listen to the band playing.  I've been enjoying listening to their music all day so this seems like an invitation I can't refuse. 

We climb up a steep step ladder in the centre of the kiosk and push open the heavy trap door.  I poke my  head through and: there we are, in a completely different world.  The band is playing like crazy, a group of about 20 youngish men, sitting around in a circle, wearing cowboy hats, gloves to protect their fingers from the cold.  There's a circle of beers and cokes in front of them.  They look slightly surprised to see me, but keep playing.  The music is amazing: loud, outrageous, happy, contagious.  It fills all your senses.

The MC - slightly drunk - asks my host, a senior official from the town council, to say a few words.  He takes the mike and starts to make a speech, but - and I don't know if this is a joke or just that they can't bear to stop - the band immediately starts to play again, the music drowning out his vote of thanks.

The trap door opens and another crate of beer appears as if by magic.  It's a donation from the mayordomo I guess, payment for the band's work.  It's followed shortly afterwards by a very, very drunk little guy, following the scent of the beer.  He can hardly stand up and I am scared he's going to fall straight back down the hole.  (This isn't just my European sensitivity, they shut the trapdoor again pretty quickly, though it's not at all clear how he's going to get down again.)

The drunk MC asks me to dance but I turn it down - for one everyone in the village is watching us, for another I know it will only lead to an invitation from the guy who can hardly stand up.  In any event our attention quickly shifts as he tries to steal the mike from the MC.  They have a gentle, drunken struggle while the band continues to play.  My host radios to other members of the committee that they'd better send someone to get rid of the intruder before he falls out of the bandstand.  Later a group of community policemen turn up and escort him away, cowboy hats their only uniform, carrying scary looking riding crops to deal with anyone who gets too rowdy.  I guess the little guy will spend the rest of the party in the town jail.

And I know it's a cliche, but nonetheless true.  You never know what's going to happen when you push that door and walk on through.  You might just find yourself in another world....

Jaltepec moments

I don't know if you've ever had one of those moments when everything seems completely normal, natural, an inevitable consequence of what's just gone before.......and yet at the same time everything is completely extra ordinary, surreal, magical.

In Jaltepec this happens a lot.

It's sitting in the comedor eating breakfast, discussing the works of Robert Burns with my friend the poet.  Trying to find the Spanish to describe a haggis, and quite why a poem was dedicated to it.

It's being presented to the president of the town council and the 'mayordomo' of the fiesta (the sponsor, who pays for all the partying) in a corner of the town square.  Accepting a very large glass of tequila, topped up with a smidgeon of grapefruit juice in recognition of my being a female, from Europe at that.

It's being invited to the top table at the fiesta for the taxi firm and graciously accepting more tequila, and mescal.  Watching people present their gifts and flowers to the altar created on the indoor basketball court (a very practical arrangement).  It's standing up and accepting a round of applause from the two hundred or so gathered citizens, thanking me for my work.

It's travelling home at the end of the party, bumping along a dirt track for a good 20 minutes - the main road is being repaired and we have to go cross country.  My host turns to me and asks me if I can sing any Scottish songs.  My mind goes blank and I say no (I'm also a bit nervous that if I say yes I'll be asked to sing at the big party the next day).  He looks a bit disapproving, turns back to the wheel, and then, of course: starts to sing.  A famous song from Oaxaca, and then his favourite, a song about a man who is a long way from his Mixteca home, singing about the beauty of his land.

And as he sings I am completely present, and at the same time somehow outside of myself, wondering at the magic of the moment, overwhelmed by a sense of gratitude.  Knowing how lucky I am to be here.  Just to be.  Here.

Basketball altar