Comfort Food

One of the advantages of living a nomadic life is experiencing the local food. Good memories are the result of great flavor and colorful situations. Such as the Pho we ate each morning in Hanoi. We sat on tiny stools; right on the curb, around a large pot heated by a kerosene stove, and ate the delicious soup in the company of other citizens on their way to work. Or the sticky rice served on a banana leaf during a jungle trek in Laos. We collected the rice with our fingers, rolled it into a little ball, and holding it between finger and thumb, dipped it in thick spicy sauce. We were amazed how such a small amount of rice can be so satisfying. Or the barbecued fish on Bali's Jimbaran beach. Our order was delivered from the wood-fired grill just as the sun set and the tide came up. Tiny wavelets washed over our bare feet as we utilized candle light to lick the last tender pieces off the spines.

However, eventually our palates craved something familiar, something from home. Since world-wide cuisine is not readily available where we travel, we knew that in order to eat comfort food, we will have to learn how to prepare it. The extended stay in Oaxaca, living in a fully equipped apartment, gave us the opportunity to become cooks.

Adi was the first to take the plunge. During her annual visit to Korea she received hands-on instructions from her mother, and soon after our arrival, she set out to prepare Kimchi, the holy grail of Korean dishes. To get cabbage, the main ingredient, we visited a large vegetable market. Lacking the Spanish name, we browsed stall after stall till we finally found it. Unfortunately, it was not the Chinese cabbage which tradition demands. We looked through many other stalls, but to no avail. Later that week, Gia, our Korean friend, told us that Chinese cabbage can only be obtained in Mexico City, a six-hour (one way) drive from here. Adversity leads to innovation. Adi decided to try the local variety. She cut and salted the cabbage, prepared the other vegetables, mixed them all with special Korean spices and left it to ferment overnight. It was a tense night. When morning came, Adi opened the large jar with visible apprehension. Like all Koreans, she is very picky about her Kimchi; so first, the contents had to pass the smell test. Then, she gingerly took a tiny morsel in her mouth. Immediately, her eyes brightened, and head held high, she clapped her hands with joy. "Successful!" she cried. I too like Kimchi, and soon agreed that this Mexican variation tasted just like the original. Adi's mother was very proud to hear that her forty-six year old little girl prepared, for the first time, a dish on her own. We thought she would frown on the use of the unconventional vegetable, but on the contrary. She was familiar with regular cabbage Kimchi. Koreans had to eat it during the hard years of the Korean civil war. "It was pretty good." she admitted.

I dreamed about Hummus. After obtaining the recipe on the internet, I embarked on my quest: chickpeas, Tahini, and Pita bread.

I readily discovered the chickpeas in Soriana, our favorite supermarket. Soriana provides, on a large floor, both a department store, and a grocery store. On my first visits, it was a bit disconcerting to walk along the dairy isle searching for cheese, and find myself looking at engine oil in the automotive section. Later, when I learned to pay attention to the narrow lane that separates the two functions, shopping became a pleasure. I found the Garbanzo beans right next to the maiz (corn). I was happy. Only several hummus spreads and many web sites later, did I realize that not all chickpeas are created equal, and that Mexican Garbanzo beans do not exactly replicate the Middle Eastern flavor.

Tahini posed a logistical challenge. If we would have gone to Mexico City for the cabbage, most likely we could find a Middle Eastern store. However in Oaxaca there would be none. I must have earned some good karma because just as I was losing hope, Kobi and Rivka'le announced that they will come to Oaxaca on El Dia De Los Muertos. They graciously agreed to allocate room in their light luggage for two cans of Tahini, and despite our concerns, the cans passed the security inspection without causing too much alarm.

While pondering the issue of the Pita bread, without which making hummus was pointless, I noticed that on every street corner in Oaxaca, stands a woman that, depending on her specialty, sells Memelas, Tlayudas, or Empanadas. All of which involve the baking of corn tortillas on a round baking sheet, heated by a charcoal fire. The tortillas are then covered with toppings, such as Frijoles or mushrooms, to form the aforementioned delicacies. A vague memory brought me back to Arab villages in Israel, where women bake Pitas on a tabun, a round clay oven. I reasoned that even though the Mexican baking sheet was concave, while the tabun is convex, it would do the job. Our corner's Memela vendor verified that the baking sheet is called comal, and that it can be found in the general-goods market. Although most street comals are metallic, some are made of clay, and it was such a comal that I found in a small shop inside the crowded and noisy building. My karma credits were still good and provided a comal that would fit perfectly in our oven. It was the only item in that size.

The rest was just following procedure. We doused the hummus plate with olive oil, sprinkled it with cilantro (a Mexican alternative to parsley), and enjoyed heaven on a Pita.

Hummus recipe:
http://humus101.com/EN/2006/10/14/hummus-recipe/

Kimchi recipe: http://www.davidlebovitz.com/archives/2008/02/a_kimchi_recipe.html

Painting

Sunday afternoon, after the State Band concluded its outdoor concert, adi and I aimed for an Italian restaurant. The last chords of Tchaikovsky 1812 Overture were still echoing in my head as I strolled the empty Oaxaca streets. The warm air, the shuttered shops, the quiet vehicle-free streets, all cooperated and allowed me to walk in an introspective, dream-like state, ignoring my surroundings.

"Yeobo, look at the view!" Adi interrupted my silence, "It is so special; it looks just like a painting."

'That's ridiculous,' I sneered to my unmeditative self, 'paintings are supposed to look like life, not the other way around.' yet dutifully, I glanced up.

I was immediately jolted awake. The mid afternoon sun, hiding behind the houses on our side of the street, illuminated the opposite side with its full equatorial force. The yellow, orange and purple colored facades of the Oaxaca houses radiated their bright colors. These surfaces, not the sun, were the primary source of illumination, providing a magical hue to everything around them. The low buildings on both sides, joined together by the darker cobblestones of the wide street, formed a classically proportioned frame that drew me into the inside of the picture. Shadow on one side, fire on the other, the empty street led my eyes in a ruler-straight line Northward, until it climbed up a hill and dissipated in a tree-lined village. Directly behind the village, without any indication of the intervening valley, stood a tall steep mountain. Its long south-facing slope glimmered in varying shades of green. The air was clear and the visibility was infinite. I could almost see the pine trees that grow at the peak. Above the green, rose the sky. A sky so blue, as to be impossible except in a postcard. 'It is the dry air' I thought. It sucked any trace of white out of the sky so that neither haze nor cloud interfered with the sky's bright primary color. The blue, which previously I could not see, now seemed to be everywhere. It filled the background beside the hilly village; then overflowed the boundaries of the picture's frame to rise above the roofs and form a blue canopy at the center of the street, directly above me.

I stood there for a few seconds, transfixed by the beauty. 'Thank you.' I whispered to the unknown painter that prepared Adi for this moment.

The thin-crust pizza with a glass of Italian Chianti, tasted even better than I remembered.

Oaxaca Melody

Oaxaca is a small city. You can walk from one end to the other in less than an hour.
Friday
He stood erect, almost rigid, amid the colorful stalls of Pochote Organic Market, and played the violin. His technique was good, and his interpretation of familiar tunes was modern enough to be interesting, but not so atonal as to be distracting. We often come to this tree-lined garden in front of the neighborhood church, and we found his music a welcome addition to the pleasant atmosphere. Gya, Adi's Korean friend, who sells here baked goods and Korean delicacies, told us that she found him playing in the noisy downtown market and invited him to Pochote. Young, tall, and slender, he had his eyebrows trimmed and put on makeup. The dark suit he wore was tailored a bit too tight around his legs and butt. He did not make eye contact with the happy crowd milling around the market, almost belying the donation box in front of his feet.
'Do the other shoppers notice his melancholy expression?'
Saturday
It's a big night in Teatro Alcala. This majestic, multilevel concert hall was built during the prosperous days of the Porfirio Diaz dictatorship, and recently, has been beautifully restored. Well-dressed Oaxacans came to attend a performance of the State Philharmonic Orchestra. When we entered, the musicians were already seated tuning their instruments. Immediately, Adi noticed him sitting in the violin section, right next to the stage. He wore the same dark suit, though tonight, his hair was held down by copious amounts of gel. He fiddled with his violin, wiping perspiration off his delicate face, and continuously scanned the auditorium.
'Who is he searching for?'
He did not stop his search until the invited German conductor came on stage. The orchestra presented a well played program of Mozart, and a world premier of an Oaxacan composition, inspired by a stone statute.
Sunday
Every Sunday noon at the Zocalo, the State Band presents a free popular music concert. We like to sit in the shade of the large laurel tree, sipping cold cappuccino, and listen to the wind-instrument adaptation of classical works. The enjoyable music may be attributed to the fact (which Adi noticed) that the conductor, is one and the same as the permanent conductor of the Philharmonic Orchestra.
Thursday
Tonight, Teatro Alcala is the venue for the Oaxaca Jazz Band. The large band is getting ready to jam.
Adi nudges me: "Look, look at the trumpet player."
Sure enough, the trumpet player also played during Sunday's band concert. Another familiar face in the band is Stan. Stan is a hippie refugee, grey pony tail and beard. He is a Sax player in a Jazz quartet. In contrast to the other musicians in the band, he is wearing a colorful Hawaiian shirt. He plays till the intermission, than he is gone.
"It's Thursday. He has a gig at Nueva Babel, remember?"
Later that night
Nueva Babel is a cozy bar with live music almost every night. On Thursday it's Miguel's quartet. The quartet's mellow sound blends well with the aged Mezcal we usually order.
Stan joins his quartet, and they start playing. In a corner table, two men are engaged in a hushed conversation. An almost untouched wine bottle sits on the table. The older man takes his partner's hand and holds it gently. The violinist smiles. Now he can enjoy the music.

Freedom

I was perplexed. On leaving California, I was sorely disappointed because my beloved motorcycle would not fit on the truck, and had to remain behind. Soon after arriving in Oaxaca, I found a good used bike, yet I observed myself delaying the purchase. I did not understand myself. I loved riding; then why the hesitation? The surprising answer came in chapter two of "The consolations of philosophy", a book I was reading at the time.

Epicurus, the Greek philosopher, is famous for his devotion to pleasure. Almost nothing remains of his vast writings, and our knowledge of his philosophy is based on second, or third, hand testimony. Therefore, I feel free to offer my own interpretation, even if I make a mistake, or two.

Epicurus believed that our goal is to be happy, and that happiness comes largely through sensual pleasure. (So far so good.) Pleasure is the result of eliminating pain. Since unfulfilled needs are the cause of pain, he placed all needs in one of three categories.

1. Natural and necessary
2. Natural but not necessary
3. Neither natural nor necessary.

Natural and necessary needs which are not met, cause pain. After eliminating the pain by fulfilling these needs we experience pleasure. Among those needs are the following

1.1 Food
1.2 Shelter
1.3 Sex (He was ambivalent about this one. I am not)

Yet these needs can be met with minimal and simple resources. After the pain is gone (stomach full) increasing the quantity of these items does very little to increase pleasure. He added three more needs that he felt were necessary, and here came my first surprise.

1.4 Friends (He was vague about family)
1.5 Freedom (Even a "boss" represents repression.)
1.6 Thought (to relieve us of the main sources of anxiety such as death, illness, and poverty.)

The list of natural but unnecessary needs can be long and personal. Among them you could list such needs as

2.1 Gourmet meals and fine wine (at fancy restaurants)
2.2 A grand house
2.3 Wild orgies
2.4 Korean Sauna

The fulfillment of these needs results in variations of pleasure, but since they do not relieve pain, they are not essential to happiness. (That was my second surprise, given Epicurus bad reputation through the ages)

Among the neither natural nor necessary needs he listed such items as

3.1 Power
3.2 Fame
3.3 Money

He asserted that we mistakenly seek such items in order to fulfill a lack for an essential need such as friends, freedom, or peace of mind. (Isn't that what advertising is all about?) Reading this section I reached enlightenment, and added my own item to the third category.

3.4 Motorcycle

Now it all made sense. Riding a motorcycle may once have substituted for my unfulfilled need of freedom. However, now I feel free enough, and riding is no longer important. In fact, I realized that all my first-category needs are fulfilled, and I have enough time and money to satisfy some in the second category. Both in Epicurus' definition, as well as my own, I am happy.

Post Script

I may still buy that bike. I moved it to the second category. Why not enjoy the sensual pleasure of fast motion in the company of a good friend?

To my friends: It would be interesting to read your additions or deletions to Epicurus lists.

House Warming

Since I can't hear nor speak Garrapatan, I was not aware of the festivities that occurred on the night of our arrival at the apartment.

"The Gringos are here" must have been the theme of the fiesta.

Adi and I toasted our first night in Oaxaca with a couple of shots of Mezcal, watched an episode of "True Blood" on the laptop, and thinking we were alone, settled down for the night. A short while later, Adi shook me awake.

"I have large, itching bites on my leg." she cried, and added in horror, "I saw an insect in bed that looked like a Lady Bug, and when I killed it, blood came out."

"I never heard of a blood-sucking Lady Bug." I told her as I turned back to sleep.

The loss of Papa Garrapata, must have been sad, but life must go on. In the morning Adi found two more bites on her body. A brief inspection between the bed sheets uncovered the source of her misery. It did not take an entomologist to recognize that "Lady Bug" is a tick.

Adi apologized, "I thought the legs were wings."

This time, I undertook the disgusting task of popping it. "Mama Garrapata?"

One tiny garrapata crawled on the bed cover. "I hope we got the whole family."

I emptied a large can of Raid in the bedroom and escaped to fresh air.

The doctor was amazed at our story. Ticks are not common in Oaxaca. After inspecting Adi's huge and glowing bites he subscribed antibiotics "Just In Case", and sent us home to a thorough house cleaning.

Since then, we haven't heard from the Garrapatans.

Hotel Paraiso

On a dark mountain highway, monsoon rain pouring down.
Heavy fog in the headlights, it's too far from town.
Up ahead in the distance, I saw a neon light.
My head was heavy and my sight grew dim; I had to stop for the night.
There she stood in the driveway, a towel round her head.
I was thinking to myself, 'This could be great, but probably bad."
Then she opened the garage door, and showed us the way.
As we stared at the pink Jacuzzi, thought I heard her say:

"Welcome to the Hotel Paraiso
Such a lovely place.
Plenty of rooms at the Hotel Paraiso
Anytime of year,
Many couples here."

The room was luxurious, it may be a good bet.
I was so tired, I can skip the internet.
"Others around us, will they be in the way?"
"Some come for an hour, none stay for the day."
So I called up Maria, "Please bring the remote"
She said: "Would you like some Tequila? It will make you so hot"
On TV, just a few channels: One straight, one gay.
Watching young lovers in action, I just had to say:

"Welcome to the Hotel Paraiso
Such a lovely place.
Living it up at the hotel Paraiso
What a nice surprise,
and such a low price."

Mirrors on the ceiling, marble on the floor.
Adi said: Please fill the Jacuzzi with bubbles galore.
In the bedroom mosquitos, gather for the feast
We lighted a repellent coil, filled the room with mist.
Last thing I remember, Adi holding my hand;
She smiled and said "My love, I hope tonight will never end."
"Adios" said Maria, as we shouldered our pack,
"You can check out anytime you like, but I know you'll be back."

Craving

Can you step twice into the same river?

All graduates of Goenka Ji (Vipassana meditation) know the answer. I decided to try anyway.

On the way south, we ate in two places that six months ago surprised us with delicious preparations.

In the middle of the Sonora cow country, La Fibra in Los Mochis served us the best veggie burger, and believe it or not, excellent home-made Labane. This time we had both for breakfast.

Driving quickly we made it to a fishermen's shack in Celestino Gaska, just north of Mazatlan, where we re-ordered Pescado Zarandeado (Shaken fish). On our first visit we had it for breakfast, on a cold windy morning. It tasted of heaven.

My conclusion? You can't go back. The food is not as wonderful as the initial gastronomic surprise, but still good. I will return to both places again.

Wall Street

I visited Wall Street three times in one week.

Wall Street is the destination of a challenging hike in Zion Canyon National Park. To reach Wall Street you have to walk up a flowing river inside a deep canyon called the Narrows. The first pool is the entrance exam. You abandon your dry and warm existence and gingerly step into cold chest-deep water. The rest of the hike is a test of determination. At the entrance to the Narrows there were random groups of visitors; before long, bonded by common suffering, we were friends. The LDS (Mormon) women were my first acquaintances. I first saw them at the shop, where we all rented specialized water boots, neoprene socks, and a tall hiking stick. Now, they stood on the far side of the pool. Tall and slender, wearing ankle-length blue denim dresses, now dripping wet, and holding the long wooden walking sticks, they were the perfect model of the pioneer spirit. Yet there were only two of them.

Where are the other two? I asked

"They changed their mind before entering the water."

As they answered, their stern pioneer faces turned into a cheerful smile. I have to admit that I too, felt a guilty pleasure each time I saw another hiker turn around. It was tempting to give up. Walking knee-deep in a cold fast moving river was hard but was also fun. However since the sun cannot enter the tall and narrow canyon, the air temperature was uncomfortably cold, and added to the suffering of my frozen feet.

The young Japanese couple, without hiking sticks, wearing light tennis shoes, looked tired and miserable, but they would not turn around. Looking at them I was glad I splurged on the rentals. Adi, feeling compassion for fellow Asians, congratulated them on their bravery. They grunted in reply and waded onward. Each time we stopped for rest or a photo opportunity, we looked back hoping they are still there, and cheered them on as they grimly passed by.

The middle-aged couple from Cape Cod made a spontaneous decision to enter the narrows with us. They used branches as walking sticks and kept their original footwear. He was wearing heavy hiking boots and she had crocks. They overtook us as we had lunch in one of the few sunny spots in the canyon. We exchanged a few words and they kept walking upstream, he leading, she cheerfully chatting at his back.

Remembering the "Into Thin Air" disaster, I pre-set a firm turn-around time. This time was approaching just as the onset of shivering started to erode my enthusiasm. Just then, I saw the two LDS women heading back.

"We reached the tributary junction" they said proudly "It's around the next bend."

This landmark is the official start of Wall Street. With renewed energy we waved them goodbye and kept moving. As we reached the junction, we lingered a bit, and were disappointed to realize that the Japanese couple turned back just minutes before reaching their goal. The red smooth walls that form Wall Street are spectacular. However, as I reached a pool that seemed deeper than my chest I decided to turn back too. Fortunately, the Cape Cod husband found a shallower path through the pool and we all happily reached the finish line. They way back took half the time, and the hypothermia symptoms disappeared. It is much easier to walk with the flow rather than against it.

Bryce Canyon National Park, with its detailed weather-carved formations, is the female counterpart to Zion's grand masculinity. It has many observation points along the rim, which can act as a single-word Rosetta Stone. We heard the same word repeated for the five languages Adi and I know, and we could infer it for the other seventeen languages we heard. I spent one afternoon perfecting my pronunciation of the word in the Australian language: "Ah_mahy-zing". Bryce too has a canyon called Wall Street, and thanks to Doron's pre-trip coaxing, we descended from the rim into the midst of fantasy land. Surrounded by the weather eroded columns called hoodoos, our imagination took over, and we had fun discovering shapes in the abstract forms. The two hour hike was amazing.

I visited the third Wall Street through the internet. Unfortunately the New York version disappointed. During our week in the canyons, the S&P 500 lost 22 points.

Well, two out of three ain't bad.

Smiles

"Which country do you like the most?"

"Laos." would have been my quick reply until recently (See note). However after visiting Indonesia, it is harder for me to choose. While analyzing the tie, I realized that both countries occupy the first place because of their people, and that the distinguishing feature of both peoples is their smile. It's an innocent and friendly smile that radiates a genuine joy of seeing me, a visitor, at their home.

The children are the best at it. "Halo Mister" they shout gleefully, regardless of the gender of the recipient. They have an uncanny ability to identify a foreigner speeding on a motorbike. The brave among them stand by the side of the road, arms extended, palms open. Since I am afraid to let go of the handle bar, it became Adi's job to return the expected "High Five" slap. Adults are quieter. They look at your eyes directly, but not intrusively, and smile. If I return the smile with a greeting of "Salamat Pagi, or another Salamat if it is not morning," the smile beams wide. "Pagi" they reply happily. Young women add a charming giggle to their response.

I cannot explain why youngsters and adults alike delight in greeting foreigners. It seems that in both countries the tourist is no longer a novelty to be approached with fear or curiosity, yet still rare enough to provide some fun and diversion. Unfortunately, it may be only a temporary stage in the developmental road. A road that leads either to a high quality, good value, tourism industry as in Thailand, or to a situation where exploiting the tourist is a national objective, as in Vietnam.

In the meantime, while riding my motorbike on a country road, I can still fall in love each time I see a slim young woman with long black hair, walking towards me, a warm smile on her tanned face, and those deep dark eyes, so inviting. My heart beats faster, until she disappears from my side-view mirror.

I think I watched the movie "South Pacific" one time too many.

Note: Oaxaca, which feels almost like a second home, was not allowed to participate in this contest.

A Family Affair

Mister Bittikaka's funeral will be a very lavish affair - A traditional ceremony of the first degree₁. His nine sons (from two wives) will each bring four buffalos, so at least thirty six will be sacrificed. Funeral ceremonies are private, but tourists to Tana Toraja, are allowed to attend. We parked our motorbikes at the entrance to the village and walked to the family compound₂. It quickly became evident that this is a grand event. Scores of temporary huts surrounded the compound. All built to provide housing to the hundreds, maybe thousands, of family members that came from far and near to attend the multi-day ceremony.

Each guest must bring a gift. The value of the gift is determined by Torajan etiquette, and negotiated prior to the funeral. A close, wealthy relative will bring a good buffalo, while others may bring a pig or less. We, only outsiders, came with a carton of very expensive cigarettes. Vony, a granddaughter (in-law) of the deceased was summoned to accept our gift. She quickly took a liking to Adi and invited her to sit on the bamboo matt, under the shade of the central rice barn. We knew it was a great honor since on our way to the ceremony, we were warned that sitting on the bamboo mat is strictly reserved for the noble class. Yunasdi, our guide, rushed to fix this breach of protocol, but the traditionally dressed elder gentlemen surrounding Adi assured him that she can stay. Nonetheless, I think he was embarrassed with our behavior and, from that point on, kept his distance. While I was away taking photos, a delegation of high ranking officers arrived to participate in the ceremony. Seeing an obvious foreigner sitting in such a prominent location, they must have deduced that she is a very important personage. One by one they filed by Adi to shake her hand. She put on her noble face, and responded politely to their "Hello". It was several days before her air of superiority faded.

Around noon, the coffin was taken out of the family home where it resided for almost a year₃. During this time, the deceased was considered a sick family member and politely invited to participate in meals and other social events. The coffin was decorated with a boat-shaped roof, and carried in a long merry procession around the village. Onlookers splashed water on the procession, helping to alleviate the scorching midday sun. With a lot of cheers and laughter the pole bearers played Tug-of-War with the coffin, each team "trying" to take the body to their own compound. Safely back, the coffin was placed on a high platform at one end of the courtyard and the proceedings were blessed by a Shaman, and then by a Catholic Priest. An invited speaker, utilizing a high powered PA system began an almost interminable speech, describing the patriarch's virtues. Hardly anyone paid attention. This social event was not going to be wasted on speeches. In the shade of the huts, the kids played with their cousins, the women chewed betel nuts and gossiped, and the men smoked and played cards. We talked with Vony.

Vony lives in the city, a ten hour drive from this village, and works at a branch of the World Bank. Unlike most other women in the funeral, she substituted the black sarong with a black shawl and jeans, yet she was proud of her Torajan heritage, and was happy to tell us about her experiences. All the Torajans we met share her sentiments. Early in the twentieth century, the Torajans, facing Dutch guns and bibles, lost their religion, but managed to maintain their language and funeral ceremonies. Now they are aware that they are the owners of unique and interesting culture and take care to preserve it in their daily life. They are also gentle and gracious hosts to the many tourists who come to visit.

"For Torajans," Vony told us, "an individual is not alone. We are taught that the family is the most important thing."

She had one complaint. She would like to visit the US but cannot afford to do so. All the family savings go towards funeral expenses. Each year, they gift one or two buffaloes and several pigs. I could understand her problem. In the Rantepao animal market we saw a prized buffalo, white-spotted, with large horizontal horns, being sold for $20,000. Even a lesser animal would easily cover her desired trip.

The speech ended, and more people surrounded the central yard. The chatter subsided as a young man led a large buffalo into the center, facing our platform. He pulled on the animal's nose-ring and lifted its head. He gently stroked its neck, then drew a large machete from his waistband, and with one quick stroke, slit its neck, arteries and windpipe. The crowd held its breath. Silently, the buffalo fell to the ground, large volume of blood gushing out of the opening. This signaled the beginning of the reception process. The chatter resumed as several young women, wearing gold embroidered traditional costumes, led a procession of family members into the reception hut. Inside, they will be served refreshments and snacks, and spend some time socializing with each other in the presence of a life-like wooden effigy of Mr. Bittikaka. Vony asked for coffee and Torajan cookies to be brought to us. The aroma of the freshly brewed Arabica barely masked the smell rising from the pool of blood accumulating in front of us. I brought the cup to my lips, hoping that I can control my trembling hands. After a while, our conversations resumed.

"Still, I would not want to change our tradition," she emphasized, "I do not know if I could survive without the family."

She told us about several hardships that were alleviated by the support she received from her extended family.

The afternoon continued with ritual dances, buffalo fights, and other events, Towards evening, we said our goodbyes, and walked back among the huts where men were busy at open fires. They were cooking the traditional Papillong: Meat and special vegetables stuffed into a bamboo tube and cooked for a couple of hours over the fire. It is hard, hot work. Definitely a men's job.

The receptions will continue for several days. The majority of the buffaloes will be sacrificed tomorrow. The meat, by the way, will be distributed to the clan in a similar fashion as the gifts; according to status. At the conclusion of the funeral, the coffin will be brought to the family grave, which is chiseled out of a rock cliff, and the wooden effigy will be placed outside it.

The next day, we did not return to the village. However, we did order Papillong in our favorite restaurant.

Notes:

1. A Torajan has to be given a funeral ceremony appropriate to his status in life. Otherwise the spirit will not go to heaven. It will stay around, causing trouble to the living.
   
2. A family compound is comprised of a row of houses called Tonkonans facing, an opposing row of rice barns called Alangs. The rectangular yard between then is a common meeting ground, playground for the children, and the location of the funeral ceremony.The Tonkonan is an impressively large wooden house, distinguished by a boat shape bamboo roof which overhangs the house. The overhangs are supported by pillars at each end. Buffalo horns are attached to the front pillar marking the status of the owner. The tonkonan walls are carved and painted with geometrical shapes. All tonkonans face North, in the direction of the gods.
   The Alang is a small windowless version of the Tonkonan, and serves as a rice barn. It too has a boat-shaped roof as well as carved walls. It sits high on pillars made of palm trees which are sanded to a polish to prevent rodents from climbing to the rice. A platform at its base provides a shaded rest or work area.
   
   
   3. All deceased stay in the family home until the funeral. The delay allows the family members to save enough money for the appropriate gift and to make travel arrangements. The body (injected with formaldehyde) is placed with the parents in the South room, which is the direction to heaven, the deceased final destination. The funerals are held during the dry season.

Nomads

Standing by the open door, the ground seemed a long way down. Our car, the last one on the train, came to a stop a bit short of the platform. I was in the Jogjakarta train station, less than 100 meters away from the hotel I selected during the ride here. I hesitated for a moment, yet after 36 hours of travel, I was not about to let a vertical drop stand in the way to a long-awaited rest. I tightened the backpack straps, and utilizing my Alpine skills, climbed down and helped Adi to follow. Now, with the rest of the passengers, we waited for the train to move on, so we could cross the tracks into town. This short pause was long enough for the man beside me to start a conversation. I answered the obligatory "Where are you from?" and in response to my counter-question, I learned that he lives in Jakarta and came to visit his parents for the weekend. Without any prompting, he added that the school holiday has begun today, and all the hotels in Jogja, are full.

'Impossible.' I thought as the train left and I eagerly led the way to "our" hotel.

We entered the lobby just in time to see a French couple, which we met on the train, receive the news that "Very sorry, we are full". It was the same answer in our second choice, the higher-priced neighboring hotel. I consulted Lonely Planet again, and entered the backpackers lodging quarter to continue our search. We searched several hostels only to find the same situation. Our paths crossed the French couple again, as they were still looking too. Many other backpackers, all with the same indigo-colored book in hand were frantically searching for the same non-existent vacancies. Often, we had to stand sideways, our backpacks tight against the alley walls to let them shuffle by. In the afternoon sun, the alleys were hot and humid and we started feeling the effects. I lost track of time. Adi was sweating profusely, and looked tired and unfocused. To bolster her spirit, or perhaps mine, I reminded Adi of our past Asian experience. There, we learned that hotels not mentioned in the "Bible" are just as comfortable, yet rarely fully booked. Adi, nodded wearily, and to her credit, did not remind me that back in Seoul, she asked me to make a hotel reservation. The change in strategy did not improve the results. Soon, we learned a new word in Bahsa: Penuh. Posted at the entrance to most hotels and guest houses, it conserved our waning energies by saving the effort of entering the lobby, only to hear "Very sorry, we are full." I cannot clearly recall at what point we were joined by an escort, who offered to take us to a hotel with a vacancy. As was my habit, and despite the situation, I thanked him, relatively graciously, and proceeded to ignore him. He quietly followed as we made our way.

"You don't trust me," he reminded me gently from time to time, "but all the hotels are full"

"Thank you," I replied and hurried on to the next hotel.

Afternoons are short in the tropics, and as evening approached, the need to find shelter became more pressing. Darting across the narrow alleys, made me feel like a caged mouse, and Adi seemed to be in a daze. I turned to our patient escort, and consented to see his hotel. Now our guide, he led us through some even narrower alleys, where, if I was in better condition, I would have enjoyed watching village life unfold, yet now, the scene hardly captured my eye.

The second-floor room at Hotel Harum was worse than my low expectations. Several of Lonely Planet's favorite adjectives such as scuzzy, dingy, and dumpy, here, came alive. I managed to catch Adi's blurry eyes, thanked the proprietor, and returned to the alleys.

It was getting dark. I was getting tired. I could only imagine how Adi was feeling, yet she kept walking without a word of complaint. There was another Lonely Planet listing a bit further down the road. I suggested we go there. All she could do is nod her agreement.

"You don't trust me, so we will go there," said our escort, without a hint of insult in his voice, "but it is also full."

He was right, of course. As we walked the darkening alleys, the inhabitants sitting on door-steps and window sills exchanged pleasantries with our guide. They seemed to occupy another dimension, a relaxed world, where shadows moved in slow motion. One of the shadows offered our guide new information about a vacancy. We walked to this new location only to find a room worse than the one we left behind.

"Why don't you take Harum tonight," suggested our guide, "and tomorrow look for another place. I know a place available tomorrow."

To a caged mouse, any logic makes sense. The option of going to a business-class hotel just a few minutes away, did not penetrate my fading consciousness. We hurried to see tomorrow's accommodations. Adi, usually a quick decision maker, was even quicker than usual. She liked the place, and with hope of a better tomorrow, we hurried back to Harum. It was 6 pm and totally dark when we returned to the hotel. The upstairs room was already taken, and we took the one next to the lobby TV. The windowless room was small, dimly lit and smelled strange. The narrow foam mattress was too soft, and the tiny ventilator struggled unsuccessfully to make a difference. We took a cold shower and collapsed into a coma. Around 11pm we woke up, decided not to go out, and despite the light and sounds coming through the opening above the door, we slept soundly until dawn. This room was promptly named, and will remain in our memories as "The Prison"

In the light of the new day, we left the prison, and with inside information from a friendly travel agent, booked a pleasant room in a hostel highly recommended by Lonely Planet. The hotel has a small pool and waterfall, which provide a cool spot to sit and write blog entries. I am still amazed that to this day, not once, did Adi mention the fact that my reply to her request to make a reservation was something like "Real nomads don't make reservations." One day, with a lot more meditation practice, I hope to achieve her composure.

El Curador

Imagine this scene: A warm sunny beach. On the beach, a palapa. Under the shade, two men. One, sitting on a white picnic chair, his leg propped on a bench. The other, a younger man, wearing a bathing suit, is hovering over the seated man, chanting.

Can you tell what is going on? Even Carlos Castañeda would not guess this to be an Indian healing ritual, yet that was precisely what I was going through.

Earlier that morning, as I jogged along the coast of La Manzanilla, two fishermen struggled to push their boat into the water. They gladly accepted my help, and with our combined effort, the boat budged. Somehow, in that spurt of heavy pushing I twisted my left foot. I ignored the pain until the boat was in the waves, but when I tried to resume the run, I yelped in pain and stopped. I could not put any weight on the front of my foot. As I limped in agony back to the campground, a debate ensued between Realist I, and Optimist I.

'This burning pain inside is familiar,' said Realist I, 'it was the same when you broke the right foot.'

'You only twisted the foot,' Optimist I reminded soothingly, 'it may be just a sprain.'

'Really?' scoffed Realist I, 'how about your son Ofer who broke a couple of bones in his foot by "only" twisting it?'

'Well,' smiled Optimist I, 'at least you can't feel bad about your bones becoming brittle with age.'

'It really doesn't matter,' Realist I concluded, 'in both cases the treatment is the same: Elevation, Ice, and Rest.' Realist I always has the last word.

Diagnosis and method of treatment concluded, Realist began thinking about the hassles of travel with a broken foot.

'It's not that bad,' Optimist interrupted, 'Ofer ran twenty miles on his broken foot.'

'That's not very comforting,' frowned Realist 'I don't like pain.'

I was in a dark mood when I returned to the sleeping campground. I found a crooked branch and used it to aid my mobility. One by one, the other campers emerged from their RVs and offered their help, advice, or sympathy. Among the last to wake was Rodolfo.

Rodolfo and Elena, a pretty blond from Columbia, occupied the tent next to ours. He was in his forties, handsome and in good shape. The sprinkle of grey in his black hair made him appear distinguished even in a bathing suit. He was gentle and spoke softly. I liked him. He was also an apprentice Curador, or Shaman. The other day, as we leisurely passed the time under the shady palapa, he briefly talked about his life. His mother introduced him into the Peyote culture. With her, he attended the religious ceremonies conducted by shamans, and usually held in the remote mountain villages of Mexico. Peyote, a hallucinogenic plant which is legally available to the shamans is administered in the ceremony. Under the influence of Peyote, participants in the ceremony gain access to the spirit world, and can have meaningful spiritual visions. The experience provided Rodolfo with increased self-understanding and peace. He began accompanying the village Shamans on their journeys. Eventually, after consulting with the spirits, his mentor concluded that Rodolfo is ready to heal others, and he started to practice. He admits there is still much he needs to learn. For example, he is not yet ready to administer Peyote. I expressed my interest, and he agreed that upon my return to Mexico, I could join him in a Peyote ritual.

Rodolfo approached and inquired into my situation. I provided my sad tale and self-diagnosis.

"I can't fix bones," he said, "but maybe I can do something good."

"Thanks, but later, when I am done here." I said, pointing at the vegetables I was peeling for the morning salad. I was not ready for a spiritual process, especially one administered by a camping friend.

After breakfast and with the pain not subsiding, I concluded that I have nothing to loose. I walked up to his hammock and stirred him from a morning nap. We settled in the shade, me on the plastic chair. He bent over my leg and held my foot with both hands.

I suppressed a scream of pain.

"Breathe, relax," he said as he pressed my swollen foot.

I tried to follow his instruction by using my meditation training.

His strong fingers explored the pressure points along my leg. He explained something about Energy Meridians. The terms sounded familiar. As he kept working, my body slowly learned to trust his hands. The sensation was strong, sometimes painful, but always benign. I became calmer, my breathing slowed, and despite the pain in some of the pressure points, I could follow his fingers tracing the energy paths in my leg.

"The left side is your emotional, spiritual side." he explained, "Something has weakened it, and I would like to find that cause."

His hands kept going over my body. "It was not the spirits of Mexico that caused this injury." he said quietly, "You accepted our country, and it has accepted you."

I liked that conclusion.

"I am trying to feel around us." he said, his eyes scanning our surroundings, his hands not loosing touch with my leg, "I do not sense any ill will. I don't think it is someone in this campground"

At times, he would close his eyes in concentration as if waiting for an answer. "It could be someone far away," he speculated, "you will have to find the person that is angry with you and ask for forgiveness." He then proceeded to massage my neck and shoulders.

After a while, Rodolfo stopped the acupressure and sat next to my foot. His demeanor became solemn. He stopped talking, and his eyes, dark and deep, focused on some far horizon. He placed his hand on my foot and started chanting. He seemed immersed in a universe composed only of him and the space around my ailing foot. His chant was melodious and soothing. As he chanted, his voice became deeper and it drew me into a similar focus. I no longer felt awkward. The bustling campground faded, the uncomfortable chair disappeared, and it was just him and I, suspended in a bubble of time. He placed both hands over my leg without touching it, and I could feel the connection. The chanting became a wordless humming. He passed his hands above my leg with long slow strokes that started at the knee and ended at the tips of my toes. As he completed each stroke, he gathered something invisible into his hands, then brought them towards his mouth, extended his fingers, and audibly blew air over his palms.

"We Curadores are like sponges," he explained, "We take in the bad energy, but then we have to get rid of it. Some spit it out, I blow it out."

The chanting and cleansing continued for a while, then the ritual ended, and I slowly came back to the palapa. Rodolfo and I hugged, and I got up. I still could not step on my foot, but my overall feeling was radically different. A dark night, a masked Shaman shrouded in smoke, the sound of rattles and drums would have been interesting to witness, but were not essential for the special experience I just completed. I felt well. Sprained or broken, did not matter. I knew I will manage. We exchanged emails, hugged again, and promised to meet each other in the fall.

Epilogue

A couple of days later, I was well enough to drive to Puerto Vallarta where I bought a pair of crutches and discarded the old branch. I saw the broken bone in the X-Ray film, so I also purchased an orthopedic boot. On crutches, I manage fine, yet I do not understand how Ofer ran twenty miles on a broken foot.

Custodio

On reaching maturity, sea turtles return to the same Michoacan beach where they hatched.

"Hey man," a cheerful voice startled me, "why don't you sit down?" The English was fluent, with only a trace of accent.

A young man, shaved head, emerged from the shady enramada, menu in hand.

It was early morning in Playa Azul. The sun just rose over the Ocean, and I was getting ready to jog. I was not in a mood for cheery voices, yet I was intrigued. "Where did you learn your English?" I asked.

"I lived in Washington State for twenty three years," the young man answered smiling,

"What brought you here?"

Lowering his voice he answered, "A bit of trouble man, you know"

More awake now, I noticed the tattoos that extended up along his forearms and under the sleeves of his neatly pressed shirt. "You did time." I asked, acting cool.

He lowered his eyes and nodded "Yeah."

"I'll see you later," I said and started jogging along the water line. I ran slowly, enjoying the cool air, the fresh sea smell, and the sound of the breaking waves. I felt sorry for the young man trying to earn a living on a beach totally devoid of tourists. On the way back, he was waiting for me in front of the empty enramada.

"Hey man, how about it?" he pleaded.

I chose one of the tables arranged on the soft white sand, and ordered breakfast. He brought the orange juice, and I asked for his name.

"Custodio"

I asked him to sit. He told me that his age was twenty-five, and he has been living here for the last two years. I remarked that my arithmetic placed his birthplace in Washington State.

"No man," he protested, "I was born right here". "I was a little baby when my mama took me to the states."

I asked about the father.

"He died when I was just a …, you know, just a…" he struggled, "…before I was born."

I wanted to know more. At first, I had to probe to get the details, but as his story emerged, his descriptions became more expansive.

"My dad was a fisherman. They say he brought in drugs. Who knows, man? Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. Anyway… they shot him." He concluded and left to get my coffee.

He brought a cup of instant coffee, nothing else. I asked for milk; he hit his forehead, apologized, and went back to the kitchen to get it. The coffee was lukewarm.

"I grew up a good boy. Then I started getting into trouble. You know, girls. Girls, and then smoking and stuff. …First smoking, later crack, crystal, and stuff, you know. Then I started dealing. No, I didn't drop out of his school. I am not stupid. I got good grades. I figured if I get good grades at school, than I won't get in trouble with my mom, and I could do whatever, after school. I could get away with it, you see."

A shout from the kitchen indicated that my eggs were ready, and he brought the plate to my table. Another smack on the forehead, and he went back to the kitchen to get the fork and salsa.

"Thanks man," he returned smiling, "for teaching me what costumers need"

I never saw a customer in this enramada, and I could not help but assume that I might have been the first one in the two months that Custodio has been working here. He sat down, and we returned to his past.

At the age of fourteen, he was sentenced to eight years. I was incredulous. Eight years are a long time for dealing drugs.

"Well, it wasn't drugs," he answered with the same apologetic smile, "I shot somebody."

"I was in this house, you know. There were a bunch of us kids living there. One day, I discovered that all the money was gone out of my pocket. I knew it must have been this girl. She was laughing right in my face. It must have been her."

"There was this automatic gun on a shelf. I was high on drugs. I wasn't thinking straight. I don't know what I was thinking. I went crazy, man." Custodio picked up an imaginary gun and pointed it, "I took the gun, she kept laughing, I pressed the trigger. The gun went trrrrrr." He fell silent, still pressing the imaginary trigger. For a few moments, I was silent too.

Sometimes, things are not as bad as they seem. The girl survived. Custodio completed his education in jail. During this period, he was transferred a few times into the adult jails. "They couldn't handle me in Juvenile." He used the prison library to learn the law, and managed to avoid deportation.

He got up to return with more tortillas, and I utilized the interruption to ask a rhetorical question.

"Custodio," I asked, speaking as clearly as I could, "Why is it that in the States, young Mexicans are considered bad, violent, gang members, while here in Mexico, all the people I meet are kind, friendly, and gentle?"

Custodio stayed silent, thinking. Finally, he looked directly at me and said, "Racism, man. Racism."

We talked about his mother. Custodio's problems got his mother in trouble with the Immigration Service. Unlike him, she did not want to go through the hearing ordeal. She moved to another city, and dropped out of the system. Custodio does not have much contact with her.

"I am a grown up now," he says inflating his chest, "I can't just come to her door and say: Mom take me in. Can I?"

For a while, things went well. He even got married. However, the lure of easy money was too great. He started dealing again.

"If I did less than 100 grand a month, it would be a bad month." "My wife didn't know, man. She thought I inherited the money or something." "Later in court she called me a dirty Spic"

The police got him while he was making a delivery.

Custodio described the incident, his pitch noticeably higher. "They surrounded me, man. I ran, I threw the stuff away, but they got it anyway."

This time, he could not avoid deportation. His wife moved in with another man. Custodio came back to Playa Azul. He lives here with his cousins.

"Now I am staying clean, man."

I looked at him skeptically; I had a different impression.

"Well I smoke some. How did you know, man? After the shower in the morning, I smoke a joint. I have to. I have some here. I can roll you one."

I declined the offer.

"I really don't know why I am here," said Custodio looking around him, "I don't make any money. I guess I need the calm. "

Holding his head, he continued, "There is this bad side of me, you know, and there is this other side, and I am trying to put them together. It's hard. Sometimes, all of a sudden, I need to clear my head and I start running along the beach. People think I am crazy. I just need to clear my head, you know."

Eventually, I paid and left. I wished Custodio well. I hope that one day he will put himself together and accomplish his goal of becoming an accountant.

Justice

In "Beach Bungalow" I described the burglary of my trusted pickup, while it was parked by the bungalow. The story continues here.

The way to California led me back through Play Azul. The road ends at "Lucas", the most popular enramada (thatch-roofed restaurant) on the beach.

"Welcome back," Lucas the young proprietor greeted us with a hug. "Will you stay at the bungalow again? (He also owns the infamous dwelling.)

"I don't think so," I replied with a grimace "I am afraid."

"You don't have to be," he beamed proudly, "they caught the thieves"

"When?"

"Two or three days after you left"

His answer surprised me. I may believe in Karma, but not necessarily in the efficiency and speed of the Mexican Police.

"And what happened?" I asked in vengeful anticipation.

"They both got three and half years," said Lucas, "JUSTICIA"

I agree.

A visit to the State Police in the nearby town, yielded no new information. Maybe in a few days they will be able to tell us if any of our stolen items has been recovered. I am not holding my breath.

Butterflies

In memory of Yael

For me, travel is a magical adventure. I prepare a little, I plan only in broad strokes, and mostly, I let the people and events I meet along the way determine the actual itinerary. I think that is why Adventure and sometimes Magic feel welcome to join my travels.

We were on our way to the state of Michoacan to visit a Monarch Butterfly Reserve. Lonely planet names three of the four reserves, and claims that the one near the city of Zitacuaro "by far" the best location. Traversing Mexico City traffic took more time and more energy than I anticipated, and it became clear that we would not reach Zitacuaro that night. I remembered that Valle de Bravo, one of Mexico's Magic Pueblos is along our route. It was easy to substitute a large industrial city with a small colonial town. We arrived in Valle de Bravo just as the sun was setting over the mountains. The town is nestled among tall, forested mountains, and its steep cobbled streets lead down to a pretty lake. The Zocalo at the town center is an elegant example of colonial architecture. This was a charming place, and I thanked the traffic jam that brought us here.

The familiar image of the Monarch Butterfly jumped at me out of a brochure lying on the hotel's front desk. Apparently, there is a butterfly reserve near town. I was skeptical. First, we were in the State of Mexico, not in Michoacan, which is "Home of the Monarch Butterfly". Second, if Lonely Planet did not mention this place, it could not be very good. However, I felt that unlike my younger son who avoids restaurants unless they have a Zagat rating, I could afford to make mistakes. I reasoned that this could be the fourth reserve, the one not named in Lonely Planet, and that half an hour drive is worth the try. I decided to postpone our departure for Zitacuaro by one day.

We left early in the morning. As we ascended the scenic road leading to the reserve (Elevation: 3000 meters), an orange blur passed by the windshield. Then another one and then many more Monarch Butterflies were in the air. I slowed to a crawl, not wishing to harm any of the pretty creatures. A short distance further, we met the local guides and their horses. We hired a guide, declined the horses, and entered the dense forest. As we ascended the steep dusty trail, the butterflies diminished in numbers, and then disappeared. It did not make sense.

"Where are the butterflies?" I asked the guide.

"They have a different way down" she answered shortly, in a typical Indian style.

Seeing the question mark on my face, she continued.

Each day, she explained, as the sun warms the forest, the butterflies fly down from their habitat in the fir trees to a water source below. They all return up the mountain just before dark.

As we neared the rim of a narrow wooded canyon, we were confronted with a dreamlike vision. Beams of sunlight, made visible by the dust in the air, shone through the tall dense forest. Like floodlights, the sunbeams directed our attention towards the main characters of the scene. Thousands, if not millions of golden butterflies, formed a fluttering, undulating river flowing just below the canyon rim. The silent river shimmered orange and gold in the sunlight. After absorbing the view, we resumed climbing the winding trail. As we turned one corner, another miracle happened. The trail, and the butterfly river merged, and we found ourselves immersed in the three-dimensional flying river. The three of us fell silent, appreciating the wonderful encounter. I was transfixed, I stretched my arms, and large, beautiful, airy creatures flew around me. They flew close, but did not make contact, and unperturbed they continued on their way. I lost track of time. The butterflies looked so light, calm, and free. If there are spirits, I thought, that is what they would look like. I had to force myself to start walking again.

Luckily, we were first on the mountain. On our way down, we encountered a large group, some on foot some on horses. Their laughter and chatter may not have disturbed the butterflies, but it would have certainly broken my spell.

On the road home, we encountered the butterflies again. I drove only slightly faster than walking speed, extended my arm out of the window, and keeping pace with the butterflies surrounding my hand I wished them good bye and good luck in their travels.

P.S.

This encounter occurred on the morning of Tuesday, March 3.

Carnaval

Day 2

Wailing sirens stopped me from the final act of despair. I was getting ready to stop the horror. Four hours ago, I took my place on the cold metal bleachers waiting for the opening parade of the Veracruz Carnaval, and I was still waiting. I tried several remedies for my growing frustration. I walked the parade route one mile in each direction, I watched bikini-clad girls gyrating their hips on an elevated stage, and I attempted to meditate in the midst of thousands of people. All the attempts failed, and my depression deepened. I watched street vendors dispensing gallon-sized beer bottles, and maybe perversely, decided against this sort of depression medication. After the warning sounds, the crowd in the street below started moving slowly but uniformly away from the direction of the sirens. Soon, a police phalanx, carrying transparent shields, and wielding long batons, cleared the route. The parade has arrived. One uninspired float followed another, interspersed with marching bands composed of middle-aged men. Only one Samba school, featured feather plumed, half-naked dancers, and managed to introduce a bit of sex appeal into the festivities.

It was after eleven pm when the parade ended, and we hurried to the masked ball at the Cultural Center. We arrived just as the costume competition was about to begin. Formally- dressed guests sat around an elevated walkway and voted by clapping. The costumes were elaborate. It was clear that the competitors put a lot of thought and effort into the preparation. The audience eliminated my favorite contestant in the first round, but I have to admit that the winning costume was colorful and imaginative. When the Danzon band returned and dancing resumed, Adi and I got onto the dance floor. Danzon classes as well as Wednesday night practice in Oaxaca, allowed us to have fun without embarrassing ourselves. In fact, several of the guests provided us with compliments as well as dance tips. Another dancer who also drew attention was Cha-cha-cha from Guanajuato. He competed as "El Danzonero" wearing a bright red suit with matching hat and shoes. His color and flair stood out, as he masterfully guided several partners through elegant Danzon maneuvers. It did not take long for Cha-cha-cha to ask for my permission, and escort Adi to the dance floor. I watched them dance, and after concluding that although he is a better dancer, I look better; I relaxed, and accepted the invitation of an elderly senora. Around two in the morning, the band concluded, and we bade goodnight to our new acquaintances. Before departing, Cha-cha-cha made us promise to meet him at tomorrow's Danzon event.

Day 3

Torrential rain hitting the roof woke us up the next morning. Towards evening, the storm subsided, allowing the parade to proceed as scheduled. We decided to skip it. Armed with a schedule of the Carnaval activities, we went to the first public event of the evening, a Salsa band. Salsa was another subject of our dance curriculum in Oaxaca, and we happily joined the celebrating crowd in the small plaza. As happened the previous night, being obviously foreign, and displaying a passable skill at Latin dancing, we attracted several new friends. As I warmed up with the fast-paced Salsa and lavish praise, I had my epiphany. Carnaval is about dancing in the street, not about sitting in a parade.

"Hola amigos" a loud hoarse voice hailed us.

I turned to see Cha-cha-cha, weaving his way across the packed plaza, wearing the same fancy red outfit. Soon he was dancing with Adi. At the end of that dance, a short white-haired octogenarian saw his opening. He stood up from the bench where he sat with his son (sixty plus), and asked Adi for a dance. The cute couple had great fun inventing comic variations of the traditional Salsa. The son and I watched them intently. I was looking for a good camera angle, while he probably hoped that this would not end in a stroke. The dance ended safely to the thundering applause of the audience surrounding the plaza. As the band concluded the last dance, Cha-cha-cha, again, promised to meet us at the Danzon event.

Getting to the Danzon plaza required a taxi ride: Skip. Another stage featured a rock band: Skip. The Zocalo main event was already too crowded for fun (See day 1): Skip. We chose a Latin band playing in another small plaza. With his back to us, next to one of the tables surrounding the plaza, we saw Cha-cha-cha in his flaming red suit. He did not go to the Danzon. We chose a different table. He came to our table to talk, but did not follow up with an invitation to dance. Maybe he suspected we were avoiding him. For the rest of the night it was just the two of us. We danced Salsa, we danced Cumbia, we danced Son… We danced until our shirts were wet and our feet were sore. Then we went home. Carnaval is fun.

Day 1

I did not forget day 1, I just try to ignore it.

Dense fog on the highway made the four-hour trip from Oaxaca a ten-hour ordeal. I had to apologize to the hotel receptionist for being irritable. After the annoying check-in process, we walked to the Zocalo. It was after ten PM, the main event was already in progress. I could hardly see Alejandro Fernandez (A Mexican celbrity) on the giant TV screen, let alone the stage itself. We walked back to the hotel.

Day 4

The Carnaval will continue without us. We headed for the beaches of Costa Esmeralda to decompress.

Post Script

Just prior to publishing this blog, a crowd was gathering in the center of Jalapa (Home of the Jalapeno chili) to watch a mini Carnaval parade. I learned my lesson, and went instead to "Shalom", an Israeli restaurant, to try their Labane. It is almost authentic.

Danzon

Oaxaca is not Paris. A tall metal tower does not hover over its squat skyline, a river does not cross its dry, sunny streets, and most importantly, no bridges wait for lovers to embrace and kiss. Nonetheless, Oaxaca generates its own warm romance. On Wednesday nights, when the marimba band plays under the giant laurel tree, magic flows over the Zocalo. If the old tree could speak, it would tell many stories of couples, young and old, that fell under the spell. This is one story.

Claudia did not want to take the midnight flight back home. She enjoyed her week in Oaxaca. In Oaxaca, she was again that Claudia from a long time ago, young, optimistic, and vibrant. She did not look forward to returning to her empty apartment in Buenos Aires, but the thought of the children, her Dance Therapy students made her smile. She decided not spoil the last few hours of her visit with gloomy thoughts. She packed her suitcase, said her goodbyes, and set out to stroll the Zocalo.

By the time she arrived, the sky was already dark, and floodlights illuminated the stone-sculptured saints on the cathedral façade. She was wearing only T- shirt and jeans, and she hoped the air would stay warm a bit longer. She approached a gathering of people near the cathedral. A large band sat under the laurel tree, trumpet players warming up their instruments and marimbas running thorough limbering routines. A smartly dressed audience sat on folding chairs, which were arranged in a U shape, leaving a large empty space in front of the band. Tonight, she realized, was Wednesday Danzon night, a Oaxacan tradition. A special farewell party for me, she happily concluded.

A slim and energetic older man took the microphone and welcomed the audience. The band sounded the first beats, and a few dozen couples stepped unto the dance floor. They were mostly over-fifty, and looked very elegant in their formal dresses and evening gowns.

I am almost the right age, but definitely underdressed, she thought.

Engaging arms, the couples walked majestically to the center of the floor, facing the band. After a few more beats of the music, the women twirled to face their partners and stood in a ballroom embrace. As the music switched into a new rhythm, all couples began dancing in unison. The slow measured rhythm of this Cuban dance, reminded Claudia of the Tango of her native Argentina. This is simpler than Tango, she thought, I could dance that. She moved closer to the dance floor and tried to imitate the steps.

Mike's flight arrived from California earlier this morning, he just concluded his first shift as a volunteer physician at a village clinic, and he was now watching the dancers in the Zocalo. He was not tired. He liked this pace. He came for a week, and he intended to experience Oaxaca fully during this time. A colleague at the clinic, knowing his love of dancing, showed him the Danzon steps and directed him to the Zocalo. At first, Mike observed the dancers from the sidelines. He focused on an older, formally dressed couple that danced simply yet elegantly. His long experience with different dance styles helped him to grasp the steps, and within a few minutes, he was ready to start dancing. Next, he scanned the audience for potential partners. A slim woman in her forties wearing a tight white T-shirt stood out among the aging couples and heavy-set matrons. She stood in the isle, watching her feet, and moving to the music. He liked the way she moved. He watched her intently, willing her to look up.

When Claudia did look up, she saw a pair of dark eyes looking at her. It was an older man, grey hair, medium height, looking athletic and strong. She did not avert her gaze. Neither did he. She saw him smile, and smiled back, unaware that her feet were still moving to the music. The music stopped, and without breaking eye contact, he made his way across the dance floor towards her. She observed him with a professional eye. Confident and well coordinated, she thought, he would make a good dance partner. The introductory notes of the music sounded again. Now facing her, the man extended his hand.

"Hi," he said in English, "Would you like to dance?"

Without replying, she took his hand, and together they walked to the dance floor. Watching the other dancers, they listened for the musical signal, then began to dance. He was a good dancer and her Tango training allowed her to move with the rhythm and comfortably follow his lead. Gradually they grasped the dance sequence and became a team, flowing smoothly with the music.

"You dance beautifully." He said.

He maybe exaggerating a bit, she thought but returned the compliment. "Thanks. You are a much better dancer."

"I am Mike."

"Claudia."

He looked at her, and she felt his hand tighten its hold on hers. They turned their attention back to the dance. The music transitioned to a faster pace, and their movements became livelier. He was clearly more comfortable in this free style, and she liked the way he made her twirl right, left, once and again. This was fun, she concluded, as the music ended with a flourish.

The announcer approached them while they were walking to the sidelines and wanted to know where they are from. In the few minutes that followed, after establishing that her English is better than his Spanish, they quickly exchanged basic biographical information. The announcer that stepped the front, microphone in hand, interrupted the exchange.

"Ladies and Gentlemen! Visitors from all over the world come to the Wednesday Night Danzon," he proclaimed, and pointing as he spoke, he continued, "Here, we have a couples from Mexico city, there, from Canada, over there, in black, a señorita from South Korea, and in the white shirt, a couple from Argentina and California"

The crowd applauded as Claudia and Mike raised their arms and bowed.

The introductory music resumed, and they returned to the dance floor. This time, Claudia was more relaxed, and let her body enjoy the movement. She knew that their embrace was tighter than protocol allowed, but she welcomed the feeling of a man's body so close to her. It has been a while, she thought. She could feel Mike was also enjoying the intimate embrace. The fast music arrived, and they let themselves go free, twisting, circling, and turning in quick succession. The workout made her sweat, and at the end of the song, she accepted Mike's suggestion to get a drink.

They picked a table under the arched walkway surrounding the Zocalo. Around them, tourists and locals alike were drank and ate while watching life on the square. Claudia asked for a beer, and agreed to taste the Mezcal that Mike ordered. They talked, eager to learn more about each other. She saw the disappointment on Mike's face when she told him of her midnight flight.

Mike took her hand, "Why don't you change your flight and stay a few more days?"

"I am sorry, but I can't," she said, placing her hand on his, "I have to be back at work"

"Come to my room, then?"

"This is crazy," she said flushing, "I have never done something like this."

"Come to my room, and then decide," implored Mike, caressing her hair and cheek.

She did not reply, examining her feelings, and then she smiled and nodded.

The short walk to his room, passed as in a dream. They walked side by side, holding each other tightly, stopping every few steps to kiss. She liked his soft lips, and tried not to think about the flight home. In his room, he turned the iPod on, and they danced. She liked the music, and wanted to know the source.

"Enigma," he replied, "my favorites."

They moved slowly to the soft sound. Their embrace tightened as they gave themselves to the music. She felt his hand on her bare back. It was warm and strong. Suddenly she became aware of being alone with a stranger, in a strange house.

"I am not sure I like this," she whispered.

Mike loosened his embrace, "I will walk you home anytime you like," he said, and looking at her eyes he added, "I hope you stay."

She looked at him carefully. He is a good man, she concluded, then closed her eyes, and let her tension dissipate with the music. She felt Mike leading her to the bedroom and his bed. Without opening her eyes, she let herself down on her back. He softly kissed her lips. The kiss was not enough, she wanted to feel his body. She peeled his shirt off, and let him do the same to her T-shirt. She pulled him close to her.

"I like your smell," she whispered.

Mike cupped her breast with his hand and kissed it. He touched her gently at first, then with increasing pressure. She felt an invisible conduit transferring the energy of his kiss from her nipple down to her vagina. Her hips were writhing, seeking his presence. Mike placed himself between her legs and kissed her other breast. Her breath became shallow, and she heard herself whimpering softly. She needed him, now. She felt Mike lifting himself of her, and walking to the dresser. She was relieved to realize that she would not have to remind him to use protection. When Mike came back, he stood next to the bed, caressed her face with one hand, while his other slowly travelled over her body, as if tasting her neck, her breasts, her thighs... He put his hand between her legs and she pushed herself against him. His fingers inside her made her arch her back in desire. When she thought she could no longer stand the anticipation, he took his hand away, and slowly entered her.

He was on top of her, his hands holding her face. She felt his gaze, and looked up. She saw kindness and happiness in his face, and she lifted her head and kissed him. This is right, she thought. She felt love flowing between them. His hips started moving slowly and she responded. Older men are better lovers, she concluded. Now, they were dancing a different kind of dance. She could feel him inside her, caressing her, loving her, and she did the same. They moved faster. "More, more" she cried. "You are beautiful" he responded. She lost awareness of her surrounding. She was floating in a warm darkness. All she could feel was a hot white pressure rising within her, until she could no longer contain herself and with a loud cry, she came.

As they relaxed on the bed, he wiped tears of happiness from her eyes. She could not remember feeling so good before.

"You are wonderful," he said.

She nodded in silent agreement. I want to stay like this forever, she thought, but said, "I have to go".

They knew that outside would be cold, and she wore Mike's sweater for the walk back to her room. They walked side, holding hands. In the Zocalo, the Danzon was over, the crowds were thinner, and street musicians entertained the café clients.

"Are you hungry?" asked Mike.

Claudia realized that she was. They walked over to a street stall and ordered corn on the cob.

"Con todo?" the vendor inquired with a smile.

She agreed, and took a corn covered with mayonnaise, coconut chips, chili powder, and a twist of lemon. Never did a corn taste better. Life was good. She was ready to go home.

Love to Ride

It's almost a year since I last rode a bike. This Sunday, I rented a Honda Rebel for a day. To paraphrase an old-men joke: I remembered riding motorcycles, I just forgot why.

I had low expectations of enjoying the ride, so I planned an itinerary of interesting locations around the city of Oaxaca. I visited the Sunday Indian market in Tlacolula, and then rode to Mitla to see the remains of the pre-Hispanic Zapotec capital. The sights were interesting, but the straight and level roads and the faster-than-me traffic confirmed my low expectations. As I continued to my next destination, the traffic thinned, the road started to climb, and most importantly, it began to curve. Soon I found myself smiling. This was becoming a nice day.

The Rebel, a lightweight imitation of a Harley-Davidson, brings with it some illusions of being a hippie rebel. However, it is not the "Easy Rider" fantasy that made me ride. I do not have a ponytail, and I wear a helmet, not a bandana. My love was born from the meditative feeling I get while riding. My mind sheds all thoughts and focuses only on the road ahead. The curves begin to flow in perfect rhythm as the bike and I become one unit, effortlessly leaning into the turn. Immersed in that slow motion rhythm I feel invincible, I feel peaceful. Usually, after the invincible phase, another, less meditative phase of the ride emerges. It starts with a simple question: "Can I go faster?" As my speed increases, the lean angle in the curves becomes steeper, and the battle begins. The adrenaline-addicted brain twists the throttle, while the primitive brain, whose responsibility is survival, screams "Don't you dare lean any further!", and tries to untwist my wrist. My feelings at this phase swing between satisfaction, when everything works well, to terror, when I enter a curve too fast for my skill level. Eventually, the addicted brain gets its fix of adrenaline, and I conclude the ride tired and happy. This Sunday, the second phase did not happen. Maybe I kicked the adrenaline habit. On the other hand, maybe I reached the turn-off to my next destination a bit too soon.

The side road to Hierve Del Agua soon turned into dirt. Once off the asphalt, the Rebel forgot that it is a cruiser, and behaved like a red-blooded dual-sport bike. Within minutes, my "Easy Rider" image evolved into "Motorcycle Diaries". The scene I remember best from this movie is when Che and his friend take a nasty spill on a dusty road. For me, this is the essence of off-road riding: Keep the bike upright. Enjoying scenic trails is only secondary in importance. It takes good eyes, quick reflexes, and a good sense of balance to ride trails in any semblance of speed. On the trail, there is no feeling of invincibility since I know as a certainly, that somewhere along the ride I will fall. I can only take comfort in the assumption that at these speeds, the fall will not be deadly. However, breaking some bones is a definite possibility, which on some occasions, I managed to turn into a painful reality. They say that as you age, reflexes and balances are the first to go. I prefer to believe that exercising these skills keep you young. It definitely keeps me happy.

When I got home this Sunday, I could clearly remember why I love to ride.

Gratitude

When Maria and her sisters got off the bus, the sidewalks were already overflowing with people. It was the Day of Our Lady of Guadalupe, and entire families were on their way to Morelia's historic center, to visit the Santuario de Guadalupe. The girls and women were brightly decorated. They wore wide blue skirts and white blouses embroidered with colorful patterns. They tied their long hair in a bun, and decorated it with flowers. The men, less colorful, displayed their fancy boots and best sombrero. The little boys were all dressed as the saint Juan Diego. They wore the traditional indigenous white pants, and had a black mustache painted on their face. On their back, they carried a small leather pack, and in their hand, they held a red rose. One day, thought Maria, I will be going to church with a cute Juan Diego of my own. Today however, she was not in the mood for people watching. She had a tough mission to perform. She prepared for it at home by wearing old sweat pants, tying her hair in a loose ponytail, and applying minimal makeup. Today, she will crawl to the church on her knees. Maria was not the athletic type; she disliked exercise as much as she liked to eat; yet despite her supple dimensions (she preferred to think of herself as feminine) this was a pledge she was determined to complete. Maria remained unusually quiet as she and her sisters moved slowly with the festive crowds.

Finally, the three sisters arrived at the entrance to the Calzada de San Miguel, the pedestrian alley leading to the church. It is about half a kilometer long, and paved with cobblestones. Trees line both sides of the alley and join above it in a green arc that keeps the alley cool and pleasant. At this afternoon hour, the alley was almost dark. They paused as they entered the shade. Maria looked for the church ahead, but could not see it. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people filled the narrow alley, blocking her view. She knew that interspersed within the dense crowd, would be dozens of believers making their way on their knees, just like she intends to do. The knowledge that she is not alone, gave her comfort. "Are you ready Gordita?" asked her older sister, using Maria's nickname in an attempt to cheer her up. Maria saw the love and concern on her sister's face, but just nodded in reply. Her sisters spread the first of the two blankets they planned to continuously place under Maria's knees to soften her ordeal, but Maria reconsidered, and in spite of her sisters' protestations, she had them remove the blanket. She slowly placed one knee on the bare stone, and then the second. The stones felt cold and hard. She closed her eyes, put her hands together, and prayed for strength. When she was done, she crossed herself, and took the first step.

Initially her movements felt awkward, but after a while, her body became accustomed to the new mode of locomotion. She moved slowly and calmly. The crowd passed by, avoiding her and forming around her a circle of quiet and respect. Many turned to stare, but she did not mind. She was proud of her devotion. Maria kept moving on as the afternoon was turning into night. To the left of the line of trees, she could see the paved walkway and its multitude of food stalls. The smell of barbecued meats was the most dominant, behind it, she could smell the potatoes frying in the deep oil pans, and fainter still she discerned the smell of barbecued corn. What she could not smell she could imagine: The sugar cane, the cotton candy, the ice cream, and the many other delicacies that she loved. There were just as many people snacking in the brightly lit walkway, as there were walking the more serene alley. Maria almost asked her sisters for a hot dog from her favorite stand, but decided to resist the urge. As if to test her will, some people carried the food from the stalls and consumed it while walking in the alley. From time to time, she had to deviate around disgusting salsa-covered litter. Maybe it was the annoyance with the litter, which eventually allowed her craving to subside. She kept moving, and slowly became absorbed in her thoughts and memories. The distracting surroundings faded, and she imagined her dear mother, sitting at home, waiting for her daughters to return. It was only last year that her mother started loosing her strength and vitality. Neither the curandero, nor the village doctor succeeded in making her mother well. Maria's daily prayers became longer and more intense, but her mother got weaker and weaker. One day, Maria took the bus to Morelia, went to the Santuario de Guadalupe, lit a candle, and asked the beloved Virgin to cure her mother. Maria pledged that if the Lady would do that, she would prove her gratitude by returning to the church on her knees. Miraculously, over the next few months, her mother's health improved, and now she is keeping her promise. Maria kept moving, focused inward, noticing neither time, nor pain.

The shrill sound of screaming children jerked her back to the present. She realized that she arrived at the amusement park, constructed for the holidays, just next to the food stalls. "More than halfway to the church." she thought, as she moved on. Amusement parks never held much of an attraction for her. However, gaining her sense of place, she also became aware of her body. Each time she lifted her leg, she felt a dull pain in her hips, which was followed by sharp pain, as her knees met the hard irregular stones. It was more than she could bear. She stopped, tears forming in her eyes. Her sisters rushed to her side and offered to hold her arms while she crawled. The option of relief reassured her, and renewed her resolve. She thanked her sisters and unassisted, moved on. More time passed. Her face turned red, and her body was drenched in sweat. She was tired, and she was in pain, but she had a debt to pay, and she will pay it in full.

The crowd thinned as the trio emerged from the alley into the plaza. They reached the large wooden doors, and her sisters lifted Maria over the threshold. Inside, the beauty of the church filled her with emotion, just as it did on her first visit. The whole interior glowed in dreamy pink. The bright gold on the walls filled her eyes and saturated her sensations. The walls were finely carved in intricate detail, and rose high over her head to reach the stained glass ceiling. From every facet of the carvings, glass gems reflected the candlelight in bright primary colors. This is what heaven must be like, she thought. The center isle was empty except for other pilgrims like Maria, making their way on their knees. The marble floor was cool and silky smooth. It comforted her knees, and made her feel as if she was effortlessly gliding forward. From the many paintings hanging on the walls, the Holy Virgin looked on, lovingly following her progress. She reached the priest standing at the altar and accepted the communion and his blessing. Now she allowed herself to cry. These were tears of joy and gratitude. She looked up at the beautiful dark woman behind the altar. Through her tears, she could see the Lady of Guadalupe warmly smiling at her. "Thank You" murmured Maria. She felt her Lady's hand gently caressing her cheek. "I love you my daughter" she heard her whisper softly.

Maria crossed herself and turned to leave. Her sisters rushed from the side aisle, and helped her to her feet. They hugged each other silently, rested for a while on a bench, and went out. The cool air outside brought with it the sounds, sights, and smells of the celebration. Maria turned to her sisters, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Now, I would very much like a hot dog."