A few weeks ago, the Zocalo was transformed from a tranquil, shady plaza, a pleasant destination for strolling and listening to street musicians, into a hectic marketplace. The walkways were invaded by a horde of traditionally-dressed indigenous women and rasta-haired hippies who spread their wares on the ground.
'Oaxaca has enough handicraft markets,' I whined to myself, 'why do they have to be in my favorite spot?'
To me, the added color, did not make up for the crowded feeling , nor for the smell of frying snacks. I asked an acquaintance what happened. As far as I could understand, he attributed the change to the newly elected Governor. I assumed the new Governor relaxed the regulations to provide more attractions for tourists while at the same time increasing his popularity. This evening, I realized again, how lack of language fluency can lead to wildly wrong assumptions, and leaves me still a visitor in a foreign town.
Before dusk, Adi and I went into the still warm air to shop for art supplies. Walking towards the Zocalo we passed a large villa whose exterior was being painted. We attributed the strange smell to the fresh paint. However as we moved on, the smell did not diminish and ours eyes began to water.
'Something is wrong' I thought.
It took a while to register that most people were walking in the opposite direction, all of them with teary eyes. Some were trying to cover their faces with shawls or handkerchiefs.
Coming towards us, I saw our Danzon instructor, his face red and puffy. Although he did not want to linger, he explained that the police deployed tear gas to expel illegal vendors from the Zocalo. Apparently persuasion did not work, and the police resorted to force. It must have been quite a show of force, because six blocks away, we were still finding it hard to breath. I could only imagine what was going on at the epicenter.
"Is this like 2006?" I asked.
"Not exactly" replied Lucio.
This was not the appropriate time for a lengthy political discussion. I suppressed my inclination to go the Zocalo. and turned back home. It took a while for our eyes and throat to return to normal.
I guess the street vendors assumed that the change of administration is a moment of weakness, which provides them with an opportunity. The 2006 uprising erupted in the Zocalo when the Governor clashed with the middle-class teachers union. I doubt whether the squatters of today have this kind of political organization or will. Meanwhile, I am feeling slightly guilty. True, I wished them gone, but I certainly did not wish them to be drowned in tear gas.
Barely Acceptable
I was in eighth grade, and "Barely acceptable" stood out boldly on my graduation certificate. It was my grade in the Art class. Even while trying to hide my disappointment, I had to admit that this score, just barely above "Failed", may have been a generous gesture by the teacher. For as hard as I tried, what showed on the sheets I grudgingly submitted, was painfully different than what I had in mind. I have been carrying this trauma ever since. Eventually, I learned to joke about it while sketching stick figures.
When Adi suggested we take a drawing class, I recognized that after a long life of analytical activities, this may be the chance to finally give my right brain a workout. I reasoned that even if I didn't learn to draw, I would benefit from improving my observation skills. Furthermore, paying more attention to detail may decrease the occasional forgetfulness.
It was with significant trepidation that I came to the Casa de la Cultura Oaxacena, and sat at the large paint-smeared table. All my public school frustrations were bubbling just below the surface. The instructions for the first class were simple. Take a large sheet of paper, use a pencil, and draw the cube in front of us. I started to work, and it was more than an hour before I came up for a breath. Time flew, and my apprehension was greatly reduced. On the second class, it was a bottle. This time, it took the entire two hours before I raised my eyes from the work. I was totally exhausted from the intense concentration, and the anxiety was a thing of the past. Surprisingly, my sketches resembled the models, and surpassed my own criteria for "Acceptable". Over the next few weeks, my mental stamina increased, and with it, my concentration level. As I translated what my eyes saw, into the fine movements of my hand and fingers, I was transported into an isolation bubble. I could not hear nor see anything that went on around me. My absorption became a source of amusement for Adi and the other fellow students.
For the last project this quarter, we used pastel chalk to draw an object of our choice. A razor is used to scrape the variously colored sticks onto a rough-surfaced sheet, and then using a finger, you rub the powder into the paper. I am not sure what element in this style caught my fancy. Maybe it was the freedom from the laborious task of shading in pencil, or maybe it was the infantile urge to put my fingers in a colored mess. Whatever the reason, the new media changed the game from an interesting challenge into challenging fun. It's hard for me to believe, but the apples shown above, are my graduation piece.
Meanwhile Adi, who in middle-school had her own painful experiences with art, was also surprising herself with her new-found skills. She did the pomegranates. I think the difference between having fun and having talent is obvious.
Tomorrow
At any gathering of expats, the conversation will eventually turn to annoying generalizations of Mexico and Mexicans. Recently, I realized that these conversations are not just a way to feel superior, but may provide a way to accept and cope with reality. This blog is my attempt at acceptance, and it may be just as annoying.
It is one thing to speak a language, it takes deeper knowledge to understand it. For example, what does the sentence "I will do it tomorrow.", mean, when spoken in Spanish? Many times I experienced that a promise does not turn into action, and if it does, it is usually late. In either case, no apologies are offered or even implied. This sentence should therefore be taken as, "I understand that you would like me to do it soon."
Two general characteristics (sorry) may explain the gap in translation. First, Mexicans do not like to disappoint. I rarely have been refused here. The second cause may be a difference in attitude towards time. D.H. Lawrence, who lived a few months in Oaxaca, and wrote stories about it in his book "Mornings in Mexico", claims that until the arrival of the white man, the local Indians had no concept of time.
One insight led to another. Whenever I committed myself to do something here, I was repeatedly questioned about it.
'Quit bugging me!' I would think, while affirming my commitment.
Now I understand that the repetition is the accepted way of telling me, "Your action is very important. I hope you do it."
Another example. After asking for directions, you hear, "It's close. Go down this street, then turn left.". What does this sentence mean? First, ignore the word "close". Everything is close. Second, it could mean exactly what it says, or it could mean, "I don't really know." The ambivalence is due, again, to the inability to disappoint. "You expect directions, and I am doing my best to please you...."
To resolve the ambiguity, watch the responder carefully before he begins to reply. If you notice any hesitation, thank him politely, but ignore the answer. It is crucial not to miss that initial instant of uncertainty, because after verbalization begins, all answers will flow with the same confidence, whether correct or not.
Que le vaya bien.
It is one thing to speak a language, it takes deeper knowledge to understand it. For example, what does the sentence "I will do it tomorrow.", mean, when spoken in Spanish? Many times I experienced that a promise does not turn into action, and if it does, it is usually late. In either case, no apologies are offered or even implied. This sentence should therefore be taken as, "I understand that you would like me to do it soon."
Two general characteristics (sorry) may explain the gap in translation. First, Mexicans do not like to disappoint. I rarely have been refused here. The second cause may be a difference in attitude towards time. D.H. Lawrence, who lived a few months in Oaxaca, and wrote stories about it in his book "Mornings in Mexico", claims that until the arrival of the white man, the local Indians had no concept of time.
One insight led to another. Whenever I committed myself to do something here, I was repeatedly questioned about it.
'Quit bugging me!' I would think, while affirming my commitment.
Now I understand that the repetition is the accepted way of telling me, "Your action is very important. I hope you do it."
Another example. After asking for directions, you hear, "It's close. Go down this street, then turn left.". What does this sentence mean? First, ignore the word "close". Everything is close. Second, it could mean exactly what it says, or it could mean, "I don't really know." The ambivalence is due, again, to the inability to disappoint. "You expect directions, and I am doing my best to please you...."
To resolve the ambiguity, watch the responder carefully before he begins to reply. If you notice any hesitation, thank him politely, but ignore the answer. It is crucial not to miss that initial instant of uncertainty, because after verbalization begins, all answers will flow with the same confidence, whether correct or not.
Que le vaya bien.
Nico
We accepted his invitation of comida (midday meal), "Irma is a great cook", and a Danzon class. The four of us sat in the small living room of their rented house in the outskirts of Oaxaca, had a mezcal, and waited for the chicken to be ready. We chatted about our grandchildren (an icebreaker in any society), the water supply (a crucial topic in Oaxaca), and eventually age (the first topic in a Korean conversation). Adi started gently, by asking for the age difference between Niko and Irma. Thirty six years seemed larger than their apparent age difference, but was still plausible. We gasped when we learned that Irma is fifty, because that made Niko eighty six. To us, Nico looked and behaved like a man in his early seventies.
"A miracle" Adi cried.
The couple laughed. Nico enjoyed our compliments, but it was clear he was aware of his gift. After the excitement subsided, I asked him for the secrets of such a well-maintained life. He was ready with the answer.
1. Work. He worked a truck driver until five years ago. Till this day, he misses his work.
2. Exercise. He used to jog until a couple of years ago. He stopped after the installation of a heart pacemaker.
3. Drink. During his years as a truck driver he would consume a liter of mezcal per day. He does not drink it now because of the medicines he is taking.
He stopped there.
"What about the young wife?" I asked.
"Oh yes," he agreed, "as we say here in Mexico, You should give an old cat a young mouse."
There is not the slightest hint of a heart condition in his demeanor, and according to him, the secret to drinking without damaging the liver is taking it with plenty of food.
The chile-spiced chicken, wrapped in minty Yerba Santa leaves, was wonderful. After the comida we acquired several new and elegant Danzon steps. I also acquired a new role model in addition to Bob Teichner, my ninety-four year 'young' friend.
Oaxaca Rodeo
On Sunday, the sky was clear. The rains that caused death and destruction during the previous weeks, finally abated. It was a good day to visit Tlalixtac, an indigenous town at the outskirts of Oaxaca. As part of the celebrations honoring the town's patron saint, a free jaripeo was scheduled for the afternoon. Having missed the Calgary Stampede during our Canada trip, this would be an opportunity for Adi to attend her first rodeo.
We arrived at the jaripeo site a bit early, only to find it almost empty. Above the bleachers someone was hooking thick cables to a set of gigantic speakers. He told us that the jaripeo is at least an hour away. We strolled the street leading to the town center. The late afternoon sun enhanced the rich primary colors of the painted walls, giving the town a Technicolor hue. The street was dramatically empty and silent; even the dogs were taking a siesta. I felt like Clint Eastwood striding through a terrorized Mexican town. In the town square, toiled a lonely technician, lubricating the wheels of the idle amusement rides, and in the church, a fifteen year old girl dressed in a pink evening gown, obediently sat and listened to the priest conducting a subdued coming-of-age ceremony. Two identical pastry stalls, like English palace guards, lined both sides of the church gate. Both displayed a wide variety of sweets arranged in a neat tapestry of shapes and colors. I was not hungry, yet the spicy vegetable, mushroom, and cheese omelet that I prepared for brunch demanded a fitting dessert, and I chose a sugar coated, custard filled roll.
At the jaripeo, there were still only few spectators, but the grounds were teeming with activity. Snack and beverage vendors were setting up their stalls, and a continuous procession of muddy trucks arrived to deliver the stars of the event. The drivers, local farmers and their sons, unloaded the bulls, and pulling on a rope tied to the animal's nose, led them inside the corral. Adi and I stuffed our ears with tissue paper, as protection against the deafening music, and joined the boys that were gathered around the corral. The boys explained that bull riding is the only event in a jaripeo. Observing the bulls, it was obvious that we are not at the Calgary Stampede. These were not the fire breathing, wild bucking monsters one would encounter there, but rather ordinary farm bulls which seemed more afraid than angry. There was a large diversity of animals inside. While some were full sized, with large impressive horns, others were much younger and smaller. The purpose of the diversity became clear to us during the event itself, which more than two hours after our arrival, was about to start.
We sat as far as possible from the speakers, with a good view of the starting gate. By now the place was full. Next to us sat an indigenous woman, wrapped in scarves and breast feeding a baby. Also with her were her young son and daughter. Accompanied by the energetic music of the local boy's band the first rider, a professional cowboy, provided an exciting display of riding skill. Then the fun began. It was the local youth that were the invited riders. The event organizers matched the bull size to the participant age, and let them on. We watched as riders of all ages lowered themselves gingerly onto the back of a bull crammed in the starting gate, grab the two-handled grips tied around the bull, and then, as the gate flung open, try to stay on top of the bucking animal. Just as I was thinking of Ofer, who as a boy would not miss this opportunity (maybe not even as an adult), I saw our neighbor's son, who could not have been more than six years old, climb the starting gate, and ride the bull for several long seconds. He hit the ground, barely missed being trampled, dusted himself off, and widely grinning limped out of the arena. Throughout this time, his mother's expression did not change. Neither did she react when he came to collect his jacket and went off to play with his friends. She is definitely not a Jewish Mother. Like the boy, it seemed that for all riders, a heroic limp was a required injury. Even on the one occasion where the ambulance crew went into action, the rider eventually limped back.
We had fun, but as night fell, we left. We came unprepared for the cold front that drove away the rains, and had to escape to the warmth of our home.
Deer Eyes
For a limitless instant, the deer and I looked intently into each other's eyes. Despite our fear of the inevitable future, we recognized our common bond as living beings, and forgave. Then, time resumed. The deer and the car continued their converging velocities, Adi screamed, I swerved, tires screeched, a dull heartbreaking thump combined with the sharp clatter of splintering glass, the deer rolled on top of the hood, almost reaching the windshield, then disappeared. It was over. I slowly drove off the road, Adi frozen beside me. We are not hurt.
I stepped out of the car into total silence. There was no traffic on this road that leads from Canada towards Helena, Montana. The sun shone through a patch of blue sky illuminating the rolling prairie that extended to the eastern horizon. To the West, clouds lingered over the peaks of the Rocky Mountains. The majestic view accentuated the deer lying still on the road. An eagle approached, and watchfully spiraled overhead. The deer eyes were still open wide. I pulled the deer off the road to spare him any further indignities.
The silence was broken by a large SUV filled with parents and kids that came to a stop offering help.
"Yes, we are OK." and "Yes, please call a tow truck."
The couple was sympathetic, but not surprised. "This happens all the time in the Montana. Especially on country roads"
Up the road, Adi, got out of the pickup, and walked towards us. In front of the dead deer she stopped, joined her palms in front of her chest and bowed deeply.
Silence returned as the SUV drove off, leaving us to wait for the Highway Police and the tow truck. Something in me was incomplete.
"Yes, it would be good." Adi answered.
I turned towards the deer, joined my palms, and expressed my sorrow, wishing him eternally green pastures wherever he may be. Somehow, I felt better.
_________________________________________________________________________________
Intermittently during our long wait, other vehicles passed by. Everyone stopped and offered help. Some drove on, and some lingered to chat, telling us their stories of deer encounters, most of them ending worse than us. I realized that deer encounters are part of Montana life. So much so, that it was hard to extract favorable treatment by describing our circumstances. In Helena, the rental car agent responded by telling us about her mother that hit a deer on her way, then hit another on her way back.
"You are lucky you didn't hit a moose." was the unsolicited comment by a man that overhead my story.
The repair shop manager regretfully explained that all body shops in Helena have a queue of at least two weeks, caused by deer collisions as well a hail storm that hit neighboring Bozeman.
In our room, after a dash to reach the repair shop and rental car before they closed for the weekend, we were grateful that Friday the thirteenth is almost over.
Bodega
A thick coastal cloud covers the town of Bodega turning the midday into evening. Only a few minutes inland from the highway, Bodega inhabits a different universe than Bodega Bay its touristy neighbor on the coast. The one-block main street is almost deserted and the fading buildings make the town look like an old maiden that gave up all hope, and no longer spends any time in front of the mirror. Alfred Hitchcock chose Bodega as the locale for the atmospheric thriller "The Birds", yet apparently fame did not translate into prosperity.
The renovated historic schoolhouse, which featured in the movie, stands in contrast to the dilapidated stores around it. In front of the school house, two middle aged women, wearing tight leotards and white feather hats place a laptop on the pavement. They adjust it until the webcam captures the building, and then they stand in front of the laptop, flapping their arms. Are they dancing or maybe trying to recreate a scene from the movie? I inquire about their activities, but they bluntly disregard me and continue to talk to each other in a language that sounds like a hybrid of Swedish and Dutch.
Across the street, a large man wearing faded denim overalls is watching the feathered women. He is standing besides an old wooden cabin with a barely readable "Antique" plaque in the storefront window. The window is dusty, and is obscured by a faded curtain. He watches intently, but his face shows no emotion. I cross to his side of the street, but he does not avert his eyes. He assumes I am not a costumer. It has been a long while since the last costumer stepped into the store.
Next door a red neon signs reads "Casino". I peer through the narrow window, but it is too dark inside. In the doorway stands a wiry man in boots, jeans, and a leather vest. His grey pony tail is tied tightly by a leather strap. The end of a elaborate tattoo peers out of his collar. I am sure his Harley is somewhere around.
"Is this really a casino?" I ask.
"No," he answers, boulders gurgling in his throat as he speaks, "It's just a name."
He barely moves aside to let me through. I let my eyes adjust to the dark. I am the only costumer.
"Hello Honey," the plump middle age blond welcomes me from behind the bar, "how are we feeling today?"
I sip my beer quickly and go out, past the ponytail, to the street and my pickup parked by the schoolhouse.
OR
I sip my beer quickly, hoping to finish it and get out. However, with each sip, the music is transforming to a pulsating sensual flow, and the waitress is becoming attractive. The side of the bar that until now was in darkness seems to be faintly glowing. There is a door in that wall and when I touch it, it opens into a brightly lit room.
Edgar
Little Edgar was fascinated by the sea. He loved the sound of the waves crashing on shore. After a couple of years, his parents decided that this fascination was not so cute any more.
"The sea is far, far away," they explained patiently. But how do you tell a little boy that their tribe has been living in this desert for generations, thousands of miles from the nearest body of water?
When the rest of the boys played soccer on the arid desert soil, Edgar would wander over to the beach and enjoy the moist and cool ocean breeze.
"How was the beach? " his friends teased him, "Catch any fish?"
He learned not to invite them, and they got used to his absences. He could walk around the whole Island before the rest of the teenagers wrapped up their games and went home for dinner.
"You can't be a sailor" said the tribe elders, "Look at all the land we reclaimed from the desert and turned into green. You need to contribute your share."
Edgar focused on the drip irrigation systems. He would get up early to work under the desert sun, but during the long lunch break, he would wander off to the beach, sit under the palm trees, and longingly look at the hints of other islands on the far horizon.
The young women were intrigued by his handsome looks and mysterious absences, some even became his friends. None walked over to the beach with him, and even those who loved him, eventually decided he was too strange, and left.
He became known as an irrigation expert and was asked to help the other tribes in the desert. Between trips, he would go to his special cove, where he constructed a small wooden sailboat. He trained younger men in the intricacies of the irrigation technology, and spent most of his days sailing. He even reached some of the surrounding islands. At first people marveled at his stories of the far away islands and the strange people that live there.
"What a wonderful imagination," they said, "you should write a book."
However, with time, less and less people wanted to listen to his stories. His friends too avoided him. For the first time in his life, Edgar felt that he did not belong.
One morning, an unusual fog lay low over the water. A tall sailing ship emerged from the fog and glided towards Edgar. There was no one on board. He stood on the deck, and the ship moved silently away from shore. Edgar watched as the land slowly faded into white, then walked to the bow and faced the parting mist.
Without Guayabera
Nomads again. All our belongings stacked on Nemo's back, we left Oaxaca heading north. We reached Puebla in the late afternoon, and headed for the Zocalo. As per our usual luck, that Sunday was the opening day of the Barroquisimo, a month-long festival of music and art. Before we joined the crowd waiting for a popular rock star to appear on stage, we needed to fulfill our craving for a banana split. In the ice cream shop, we stared at a wall-size poster.
"An afternoon of Danzon!" it proclaimed.
According to the poster, the event was already in progress, and the last band on the schedule would have started to play about an hour before. Within seconds, I overcame Adi's reluctance by reminding her of two facts. First, the band "Danzonera La Playa" is one of the most famous Danzon groups, and second, they probably started later than schedule. We did without the ice cream and the rock star, and rushed to the event, a few blocks away. In our haste, we went just as we were, wearing T-shirts and sandals. Almost out of breath, we pushed through the thick ring of onlookers, and joined the couples on the dance floor.
Within seconds of moving to the familiar rhythm of the Danzon, my adrenalin dissipated, and I was calm, and happily enjoying the music. I noticed the big smile on Adi's face, and I knew that we made a good decision. Then, I paid attention to the other dancers. They were all dressed in fancy ballroom attire, much more elaborate and sexy than the Oaxaca crowd. It also seemed that they were all staring at us. According to Lonely Planet, the residents of Puebla are considered to be aloof and snobbish, and I felt uncomfortable in my casual outfit, until I realized that instead of frowning, the couples around us were beaming smiles while signaling Thumbs-up. Foreigners that can dance Danzon are welcome even in Puebla.
Adi, in her uncanny ability to remember faces, discovered that we saw this band performing last year, in the masked ball of the Vera Cruz Carnaval. The lead singer recognized her too, and asked her to the stage to introduce herself.
"I am Adi; I am from Korea; and I love Danzon!" she shouted into the microphone.
The audience erupted in thunderous cheers. After that, we became the afternoon's attraction. In the short breaks between dances, many couples approached, and congratulated us on our dancing ability. We repeatedly had to answer where we are from, where we learned Danzon, and what is our opinion of Puebla. Despite the adoring atmosphere around us, we did not fail to mention that we didn't know about the event, otherwise we would have been wearing our evening dress and Guayabera. This last statement seemed to seal our acceptance into the "Snobish" Pueblan society. We promised to come back in September, this time wearing the proper clothes.
"We shall await you" was the courteous and friendly reply.
Salomon
I stepped out into the bright morning sunshine and instantly woke up. Inside the cabin, the air was lazy and warm from many hours of a soothing and romantic fire; outside the door, at an altitude of three thousand meters, it was invigoratingly cool. I breathed deeply, savoring the fresh pine scent permeating the forest. The sun in the cloudless sky, illuminated, on the opposite ridge, a family coming out of their isolated hut to begin their day, yet left in the shade, the fog that filled the deep canyon, and whose shaggy surface transformed the ridges into green islands in a white sea. Our hike today will lead us down into the canyon and on to the next village.
After breakfast I stayed outside to soak in this beautiful morning. I watched Salomon hurry up the steep village road. He was a few minutes late, but I was in no hurry. I shouldered my daypack and, with Adi, followed Salomon down the road. The road took us through La Neveria, Salomon's home village, a remote Zapotec community of ninety-six residents. La Neveria joined its neighbors and developed an "ecotourism" cooperative, where visitors can hike a network of trails, and stay in comfortably furnished cabins. On the village's only street, several of Salomon's grandchildren were on their way to fetch water. We helped them carry the water up the hill until our paths diverged. The grandchildren live with him and his wife, whereas his four adult children left the village in search of work. They are now residing, close to each other, in Tijuana. Salomon did not visit them there.
"It is an ugly place, with bad people." he says.
I knew that migration is common in Oaxaca's poorer regions. Almost everyone has a relative living (usually undocumented) in the US. I was surprised by the presence of the grandchildren. However, it was easy to assume, that the village is a healthier environment for children then the crowded and violent border city of Tijuana.
We left the road and followed Salomon into the forest. On first impression, he did not resemble my stereotype of an Indian tracker. He is sixty years old, wearing western clothes, and he walks keeping his arms fixed at the sides of his stocky body looking a bit like Charlie Chaplin. However, once inside the forest, he became agile, smooth, and calm. The forest floor was carpeted with a thick layer of pine needles which made the scarcely used trail invisible. Yet he walked quietly sidestepping bushes and fallen branches. From time to time, he would halt in mid stride, holding his hand up signaling us to stop too. He would direct our attention to a bird singing among the trees. He named the bird, and tried to point it to our unaccustomed eyes. Eventually we learned to see the birds, and the ones we couldn't see he described in colorful and intimate detail. At other times, he strayed from the trail returning with some leaves in his hand which he made us smell or taste. Some were good for reducing fever, other for stomach ache, and so on. When I complained about my slight altitude headache, he came back with some branches growing small pale leaves, which should be boiled before drinking. He learned about the medicinal plants from his mother who was a curadora (healer). As a child, he participated in her foraging trips in the forest. Now her art is lost. Salomon does not have his mother's healing knowledge, and his children do not even recognize the medicinal plants. Many aspects of the indigenous culture have been lost. However, the Zaptec survived as the spoken language is Zapotec, while the children learn Spanish at school. Furthermore, there seems to be a growing trend of native pride and cultural revival. Maybe one of Salomon's granddaughters will be able to become a curadora.
Down by the clear flowing creek, resting in the shade of a large pine tree, Salomon reluctantly shared our snacks. He told us about the small farming patch (milpa) where he grows all the food that his family consumes. Although he has no cash crops, he occasionally sells a turkey or two. He goes down to town only once or twice a month. All he needs to buy In the market are salt and sugar, staples introduced by the white man, which he cannot produce at home. It sounds like an idyllic existence, until one remembers the four children that had to leave. The ecotourism enterprise is intended to provide some of the sorely needed cash. Members of the village accept one year assignments in project, while the income is shared by the whole village. As it happened, we arrived on the last day of the yearly rotation. Lupe was happy the year is over. She felt that waiting all day in an empty kitchen, is boring. She much prefers working in the field. Salomon's only worry was whether his fitness level will go down when he stops the daily guiding trips.
Rested, we continued up a dirt road. The pine forest was gradually replaced by oak trees and bushes, and the combination of more sun and an uphill slope made the talking difficult. It was Salomon's turn to satisfy his curiosity. He wanted to hear our impressions of the distant places we visited. He never left the state of Oaxaca, yet he accumulated a lot of knowledge by watching travel documentaries on satellite TV. He guided our accounts by asking specific questions about locations and cultures, and he often supplied place names which we forgot.
We reached Latuvi just in time to escape the hottest sun. Waiting for us in this village of a few hundred inhabitants was a traditional Temascal (Steam cleansing). We bid goodbye to our new friend, and promised to return next season. He promised to be our guide again. He will now walk back to Neveria, and we will return to the big city with a new understanding and respect for the life of the indigenous population of Oaxaca.
A global-warming anecdote:
La Neveria was named after its ice-making industry. In the winter months, at this high altitude, it used to be cold enough for water to freeze. The ice was conserved underground, and sold in the summer. It has been many years since water freezes in Neveria.
Danzon Duet
A Danzon evening in front of the Oaxaca cathedral. Unexpectedly, the MC asked us to perform. We were happy to show off our new skills. Despite my hairstyle, we are now local celebrities.
Press the "Play" button.
The Guayabera
Guayabera: A men's shirt, popular in Latin America. It has four pockets and two finely pleated strips running along the front and back.
I am not a good dancer. Years ago, when I tried my feet at Israeli circle dancing, Yossi and Kobi would have to place themselves at either side of me and steer me in the correct direction, almost lifting me off the ground in their enthusiasm. I do have a good sense of rhythm, and without the restrictions of choreography, I enjoy free, disco style, dancing. In Mexico, I liked the sound and feel of Latin dance, and even took a few Salsa lessons.
In Oaxaca, we encountered the Danzon. Every Wednesday night, Danzon enthusiasts gather in the Zocalo and dance to the sounds of a live band. On the first evening, the syncopated music and the elegant style captivated us. We made our way through the ring of onlookers and entered the dance area. The first part of each partitura is slow and romantic. Embracing at the appropriate distance we could gaze at each other while enjoying the smooth movement. The music then erupts into a fast rhythm which allowed us to utilize our newly learned Salsa moves and go wild. It was love at first dance, and we became Wednesday night regulars. The MC made it a habit of introducing us as the "Visitors from Korea." and the crowd responded with enthusiastic applause.
Soon we realized that the Danzon has more structure than slow-dance and Salsa, and we took classes to learn the rules. As our style improved so did our standing in the dancing community. We were no longer just ignorant gringos that hop on the dance floor, but respectful, bona fide danzoneros. We would exchange hugs and kisses with the regulars as is the customary Hello and Goodbye. In the small city of Oaxaca, we became local celebrities. Walking the streets, people would stop us and exclaim "We saw you on Wednesday night!" As Adi pointed out "It is more fun to be head of the snake than tail of the Dragon."
Over time, I became a less frequent target of our Maestro's admonishments "Point your toes!" "Don't lift your feet!", and enjoyed an occasional compliment of "Mas o menos". Our repertoire increased to over two dozen standard moves which we could mix during each dance. With more confidence, our sense of intimacy and enjoyment grew. We also received more compliments on our style from the other dancers.
Now that I was a visible representative of our Maestro's Danzon group, it became clear that my formal attire of (faded) white T-shirt and jeans was not to his liking.
"You need to buy a Guayabera." Lucio would remind me after each class.
I tried to explain that my wardrobe is already one shirt over the allocation (Three T's and one long-sleeved shirt.), but he persisted. Maybe for a man that owned several differently colored Guayaberas, and whose girlfriend collected about a dozen flowing dresses just for Danzon, a garment allocation was too hard to comprehend.
One Wednesday night we arrived as usual at the last minute, when all the seats around the plaza are already taken. As usual, the group of elegantly dressed "Golden age" couples sat in the front row. They come early and save each other seats. As I looked around for an available chair, the diminutive silver haired lady who is a prominent member of that group waved and gestured to a couple of empty seats which they were reserving, this time for us. This was a major status step up from the hello and goodbye hugs. Later during that evening, a man who introduced himself as a Danzon teacher, approached, complimented us on our dancing, and continued to say that I should wear a Guayabera. These were just too many signals for me to ignore. The next day, I selected a white Guayabera, and while already in the swing, added a pair of black pants.
For the following Danzon night, Adi wore her glamorous green dress, and I put on the costume. I was surprised to realize that a shirt can alter my mood. I felt dashing and handsome, and furthermore, I felt that I was dancing better. Whether or not it was due to the Guayabera, at the end of that evening we were invited, for the first time, to join some of the other dancers for drinks at the nearby café. Sitting there, one gentleman invited us to join his group at a future dance event, and a couple of attractive single women came over and told me that I am a good dancer. I just hope that the Guayabera will give me enough confidence to reciprocate by inviting them to dance.
To see the Guayabera in action, click on the link below.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Sd0kuRnrxs&feature=related
In Search of a Serpent
We walked, single file, along the narrow jungle path. The lowland jungles of Guatemala are teeming with life, and the night was filled with unfamiliar, sometimes eerie, sounds. We were here to catch reptiles, and Ofer, in the lead, was intently listening for the subtle rustling of snakes slithering in the foliage. Suddenly, a loud roar echoed through the darkness. Ofer stopped moving.
'Sounds like a jaguar,' I thought, 'Lonely Planet says they are out here.'
We shone our flashlights into the thick vegetation, hoping to get a glimpse of the elusive predator. Another roar, this time directly above, dispelled my hopes. High in the tree canopy ahead, was a howler monkey proclaiming his territory. We continued moving deeper into the forest. With the aid of Ofer's giant flashlight, we encountered other interesting creatures, some of them he could even name. A pair of crocodile eyes shone back at us from the shores of a small lagoon. Ofer directed me to keep my flashlight on while he circled the lagoon. I understood his plan, and I didn't like it. Last night at Finca Ixobal, I witnessed how he swiftly shed his clothes, jumped into the murky water and came out with a large frog (or toad) in his hand. Fortunately, this time the crocodile swam away before Ofer had his chance. We concluded the night's walk without sighting any other reptile; not even a frog.
"No frogs, no snakes." Ofer summarized, in a sentence that would become our mantra on this expedition.
We settled into our tent.
"Don't be discouraged," Ofer consoled me, "it will take several days for our senses to get accustomed to the new environment and enable us to see and catch something."
I fell asleep despite the loud and annoying racket of the howler monkeys in the surrounding trees.
The next morning as we walked to the Mayan ruins of Tikal we encountered many other birds and mammals that seemed unafraid in our presence. Like all tourists we were impressed by the size and height of the stone structures erected by this civilization. Unlike other tourists, when Ofer reached the top of the 50 meter temple, he approached the sheer edge, and kicked into a handstand. I thought he abandoned that practice thirty years ago.
In the afternoon we moved our camp to the shore of Lake Petén Itza. The result of the night hike was the same as the previous night.
"No frogs, no snakes."
This scenario repeated itself for several days. In the mornings we visited places of interest (to me), where Ofer amazed tourists with handstands on tall ancient structures, and at night we went into the jungle, coming out empty handed. Reluctantly, Ofer consulted his "Amphibians & Reptiles of Northern Guatemala" guide, and confirmed that during the dry season, the frogs are gone, and the snakes are mostly dormant. Our frustration scientifically confirmed, we decided to continue our nightly searches while travelling towards the highlands and visiting other famous natural attractions.
On the last day of our expedition, as we were driving down into a deep canyon, Ofer slammed on the brakes, left the stalled car in the middle of the dirt road, and jumped out of the car yelling "A snake!" The creature disappeared out of sight into the thick grass. Ofer searched for a while, and after concluding that it was gone, took the opportunity to relieve himself. As he was doing so, his trained ear and eyes caught a movement in the grass. Without hesitating, he pounced forward and came back with his pants wet, holding a furiously struggling snake by its tail. I instinctively moved away. I saw a green triangular head, and the words Green Mamba, rang alarm bells in my head.
"Is it poisonous?" I asked.
"I am ninety-five percent sure it is not," Ofer answered while staying focused on the snake's attempts to double up and bite his hand, "and Green Mambas live only in Africa."
Not satisfied with these odds, I kept my distance. Slowly the snake relaxed and allowed Ofer to place it in a plastic bag, and retrieve his guide book. We had a Bronze-Backed Parrot Snake. It is one of the few diurnal species in Guatemala. I also relaxed, and admired the serpent's long, colorful body.
At the bottom of the canyon was Semuc Champey. We could not find a more wonderful place to celebrate Ofer's success. After a refreshing dip in the blue pools, and a couple of beers in the laid-back jungle hostel, we photographed our green companion and released it back to the jungle.
In total, we spent a week in the jungle, and caught one snake.
"It was worth it," Ofer concluded, "I never caught this kind before."
Hummustenango
When we arrived at San Pedro La Laguna, I was surprised to find a Guatemalan town that could fit well on the Mekong. The sidewalks were lined with hand-written signs in Hebrew, and aromatic bars provided pillows and large-screen TVs. We followed a group of young Israelis into a shorefront restaurant called Hummus-Ya. We chose a table over the water, and admired the blue lake surrounded by high volcanoes. Hummus-Ya would become our favorite spot during our stay on Lake Atitlan. Maria, the Israeli owner/chef is married to the young French bartender, and employs an Italian cook. She plays only Reggae music and occasionally reads Tarrot cards. After a couple of days, I dared to ask her about the Tahini, which I could not obtain in Mexico. I was impressed to learn that she produces her own Tahini by grinding sesame seeds in a corn grinding station. Her falafel was excellent. Adi noted that my version of Hummus has a bit more lemon. After four days of Hummus and falafel, Adi renamed the place Hummustenango.
Laguna Chicabal
By eight am, after a hearty breakfast in Café Shalom, it was warm enough to start our trip. At the trailhead, Nemo looked up the steep dirt road and declared "I can do it". I let it maneuver us gingerly up the rutted path, and saved forty minutes of walking time. Hiking from the ranger station, the ascent warmed us up. We reached the rim just ahead of the clouds, and witnessed the hourly eruption of the neighboring volcano. On the other edge of the rim we got our first glimpse inside the crater. The view was breathtaking. Dense tropical vegetation lined the inner slopes, converging on a round emerald lake whose shore was decorated by several white beaches. Except for the birds, the forest was quiet. We admired the view in soft voices trying to maintain the peaceful atmosphere. Suddenly, a puff of mist appeared in the center of the lake, and before I could convince myself that it was really there, it vanished. I could understand why the Mayans believe that spirits inhabit this place.
A few hundred steps lead down to the shore. A light wind ruffled the surface, making it shimmer under the bright sun. I resisted the urge to plunge into the crystal clear water partly because I was not sure it was "spiritually correct", but mainly because of the cold air. On the path surrounding the lake we passed Mayan altars where the villagers left offerings of flowers and fruit. Suddenly, the silence was broken by human sounds. To my relief, those were the happy sounds of children. An indigenous family, a father and three kids, arrived along the path. The girls were pretty in their colorful costumes; the father carried a large machete. In the short conversation that followed, I inquired about the weapon.
He tried to put me at ease, "Do not worry, the machete is for cutting firewood, not against thieves. These days, the thieves do not come here."
We met the family again on the next beach. They were not performing a religious ceremony, but simply enjoying a family picnic in this wonderful surrounding. The children looked so happy, and so innocent. We sat nearby and philosophized over the merits of the simple life. Does it really lead to a happier life? Eventually we fell silent and observed the clouds as they worked their way over the rim and then slowly down towards the lake. Soon we were enveloped in mist. The rest of the walk took on a mystical quality. All sounds were muffled in the fog. The trees appeared as we approached, and disappeared behind us. Dead trunks in the water looked like imaginary creatures. The lake indeed became a sacred place.
Driving back, we passed a different family. Adults as well as small children walked hunched under the weight of huge bundles of firewood that extended well over their heads. This sight was a stark reminder that the simple life may be happy, but is definitely not easy.
Guatemala Salad
The city of Quetzaltenango (Place of Quetzal) is a surreal initiation to Guatemala. The public architecture is Neo-Classical, or in other words, a copy of Roman buildings. Yet the women walking besides the somber columns of the Temple to Minerva wear vibrantly colorful dresses, not Togas. It is the phosphorescent colors that caught my eye and provided the initial impression of Guatemala. No fashionable pastels here. I believed that the indigenous Traje of Guatemala can be found only on postcards or in remote mountain villages, yet here, in the second largest city, it is the everyday wear of most women. Without repeating the words "Glowing colors" it would be hard to describe the intricate designs of the hand woven skirt, the cloth belt or the embroidered Huipil (blouse), so I won't try. Except for the headdress, the traditional dress is worn by women and girls starting at a very early age. The headdress is reserved for the adults. It is a long cloth ribbon which is wrapped several times around their hair, and then adorned with tussles or pompons. Adding to the city's mixture is the proudly advertised Evangelical presence. It is painted in giant letters on all walls. We had breakfast in Café Shalom, fixed the cell phone in Israel Electronics, and took care of Nemo in Car Wash Elohim.The cultural clash continued in Momostenango (Place of Peace) a highland town not far the city. Next to the Immanuel Church we visited Don Rigoberto who took upon himself to maintain and promote the Mayan heritage. Using corn grains placed on a home spun wool blanket he explained the basics of the intricate Mayan calendar. Not far from Don Rigoberto's house, we met the powerful San Simon. A chain smoking, rum drinking effigy of a drug lord, San Simon is a not a Catholic saint, but a hybrid of a Mayan deity, Judas, and Alvarado, the vicious conqueror of Guatemala. I purchased and lighted a pine nut (San Simon likes the smell), and asked him to cure my high-altitude headache. He did.
Guatemala is going to be fun.
For more photos, click below to see my Picasa Web Album
http://picasaweb.google.com/isaac.ohel/Guatemala#
The New Testament
For some time now, I have been curious about "Rough Guide", the British competitor to Lonely Planet. On this trip, I took along both the Bible (LP) and the New Testament (RG). My observations in one sentence: Lonely Planet has more information, Rough Guide is easier to use. For the winners by category, read below.
Data – LP.
Lonely planet lists more accommodations and restaurants. It also has some additional useful information. In Momostenango we received a private lecture on Mayan Cosmology by an indigenous teacher, who was listed only on LP.
Maps – RG (By a big margin)
RG maps of all scales (Regional, Local, and City) are drawn with more contrast and are easier to read. RG has more local maps, making navigation easier. On city maps, points of interest are labeled (not numbered), and to me, their method of indicating accommodations and restaurants seems more logical.
Organization – RG for drivers, LP for backpackers
RG arranges towns and villages in sequence of travelling along highways. LP clusters them around public transportation hubs. In LP the listing order seems to reflect their level of interest, rather than travel logistics.
Reading Pleasure – RG
The Rough guide style is more subjective and more fun to read.
Overall Winner - Lonely Planet
If I had to choose only one guide, I am a bit disappointed to say that it will continue to be the Bible.
Atlantic Rain
At the Isthmus of Tehuantepec someone pinched the North American Continent until a mere 200km of land separate between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. The isthmus is infamous for its strong winds. The wind blew dust in our eyes when we walked the streets of Tehuantepec in the evening, and it was still blowing when we left in the morning on our way to the Guatemala border.
As we drove east across the isthmus, the height of the mountains separating the two oceans gradually diminished, while the north wind gradually increased. At first the wind was only an annoyance. Its howl hit the side of the pickup and made listening to music impossible. Adi switched the ipod off. Then Nemo started swaying. I reduced our speed, yet despite my concentration and effort, the strong gusts often pushed the car across the lane. Luckily, there were almost no other cars on the road. I saw that trucks were stopping under the overpasses, but I was too focused on driving to register the significance of what I saw. I finally 'got it' when I had to stop on the road behind three other cars. An overturned trailer-truck lay across the road like a dead cockroach. The tow-truck crews have clearly done this before. Within minutes they hoisted the big-rig back on its wheels and moved it to the shoulder. I continued on the deserted road, much slower, and much more afraid. We passed one more overturned truck before we reached a long line of trucks heading west, that stopped by the side of the road waiting for the wind to subside. From that point onward, the mountain range grew, and the wind slowly diminished.
During the drive through this wind tunnel, a light drizzle spread across the windshield. The knowledge that these raindrops rose out of the Atlantic Ocean to come down here, on the Pacific Coast, evoked in me a strong exotic emotion. For the rest of the drive to the border, I could not forget that emotion, nor did I understand its source. Did I envision myself to be Hernan Cortez, who after landing on the Atlantic Coast saw the Pacific Ocean for the first time here? Or was it the sensual excitement of embracing a continent by its slim waist? I hoped it was the second. Cortez is not too popular in this region.
P.S. Just prior to publishing this blog, Jim C. informed me that the winds in the isthmus can reach 50 knots.
As we drove east across the isthmus, the height of the mountains separating the two oceans gradually diminished, while the north wind gradually increased. At first the wind was only an annoyance. Its howl hit the side of the pickup and made listening to music impossible. Adi switched the ipod off. Then Nemo started swaying. I reduced our speed, yet despite my concentration and effort, the strong gusts often pushed the car across the lane. Luckily, there were almost no other cars on the road. I saw that trucks were stopping under the overpasses, but I was too focused on driving to register the significance of what I saw. I finally 'got it' when I had to stop on the road behind three other cars. An overturned trailer-truck lay across the road like a dead cockroach. The tow-truck crews have clearly done this before. Within minutes they hoisted the big-rig back on its wheels and moved it to the shoulder. I continued on the deserted road, much slower, and much more afraid. We passed one more overturned truck before we reached a long line of trucks heading west, that stopped by the side of the road waiting for the wind to subside. From that point onward, the mountain range grew, and the wind slowly diminished.
During the drive through this wind tunnel, a light drizzle spread across the windshield. The knowledge that these raindrops rose out of the Atlantic Ocean to come down here, on the Pacific Coast, evoked in me a strong exotic emotion. For the rest of the drive to the border, I could not forget that emotion, nor did I understand its source. Did I envision myself to be Hernan Cortez, who after landing on the Atlantic Coast saw the Pacific Ocean for the first time here? Or was it the sensual excitement of embracing a continent by its slim waist? I hoped it was the second. Cortez is not too popular in this region.
P.S. Just prior to publishing this blog, Jim C. informed me that the winds in the isthmus can reach 50 knots.
Decisions
Will dinner be Fish a la Diabla (for the second night in a row), or a Pizza? The spicy red snapper, grilled on a wood fire and served right on the sand, won. Life in Mazunte, on the Pacific coast of Mexico, is full of hard decisions. I fell asleep lulled by the sound of waves reaching shore only a few steps from our balcony, and woke up to a hearty breakfast in Dona Lupita's beach-front restaurant. However, after breakfast, I had another choice to make. Should I head for the South beach or the North beach? Both beaches have white warm sand, comfortable easy-chairs, and attentive restaurant service. The difference is in the waves. On the South beach, tall steep waves break on shore with the thunder of canons. They attract the expert surfers, whose graceful athletics I could enviously watch while sipping a cold beer. To the North the waves are slightly smaller, providing a playground for local kids on boogie boards. That day, the North beach was exceptionally calm. None of the local kids bothered to enter. Yet these friendly waves let Adi, who never tried this before, struggle chest-deep into the warm water, jump on her boogie board, and ride them all the way to shore. I ventured a little deeper, and was also rewarded with some wonderful rides.
After three days of enjoying the sand, waves, and the company of good friends, I faced a harder decision. Could I extricate myself from this relaxed Pacific paradise, and begin the journey to Guatemala? Adi, still glowing from the boogie board adventure, suggested that we could tell everyone that Guatemala is really beautiful, while we stay on the beach.
The next day, we loaded Nemo (my pickup) and got on the road. By evening we entered the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, the narrow waist of the North American Continent. Here, five hundred years ago, King Cosijoesa the Zapotec king, repulsed the Aztecs from this strategic region, thus stopping the Southward expansion of their empire. However, few years later, he too was faced with a dilemma. He chose to ally himself with Hernan Cortez, the Spanish Conquistador in his fight against the Aztecs. To this day, the colorfully dressed Zapotecs who populate the city of Tehuantepec, remember and celebrate his victory. Somehow, they manage to ignore his unfortunate decision.
After three days of enjoying the sand, waves, and the company of good friends, I faced a harder decision. Could I extricate myself from this relaxed Pacific paradise, and begin the journey to Guatemala? Adi, still glowing from the boogie board adventure, suggested that we could tell everyone that Guatemala is really beautiful, while we stay on the beach.
The next day, we loaded Nemo (my pickup) and got on the road. By evening we entered the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, the narrow waist of the North American Continent. Here, five hundred years ago, King Cosijoesa the Zapotec king, repulsed the Aztecs from this strategic region, thus stopping the Southward expansion of their empire. However, few years later, he too was faced with a dilemma. He chose to ally himself with Hernan Cortez, the Spanish Conquistador in his fight against the Aztecs. To this day, the colorfully dressed Zapotecs who populate the city of Tehuantepec, remember and celebrate his victory. Somehow, they manage to ignore his unfortunate decision.
Noche de Rabanos
Hector dreaded the inevitable confrontation with his father. He did not say it in the morning, when they drove to the outskirts of Oaxaca to collect the radishes. Neither could he bring himself to say it when, back at the village, his mother joined them on the patio. A sharp radish smell filled the courtyard as the three of them carved the large red vegetables into the traditional figures. Just like previous years, Hector carved the musicians. He completed the trumpet player and glanced at his parents. Julian was carving buttons on the tall puppet, while Teresa, using a sharpened stick, peeled the skin off a long radish to form the skirt for the female puppet. The "Calenda", a depiction of the popular religious procession, will soon be ready for the "Night of Radishes" competition tomorrow. He could not delay any longer.
He put down his knife, "Father, there is something I would like to tell you. I decided to have my own booth in the competition."
Julian stopped carving without saying a word. He looked at his son; his weathered Indian face remained passive. Hector could sense the flood of disappointment and betrayal sweeping over his father's heart. He felt guilty for causing his father such pain.
"For several years, I have asked you to change the theme of our display." He continued, "You didn't want to do it. I had no choice."
"You had no choice," Julian repeated slowly in a calm voice, "then leave! I don't need your help." He turned away from his son and resumed carving.
Hector, felt the sharp pain of misunderstanding, but he too had his dignity. He stood and walked away. His mother tried to hold him back.
"Stop this foolishness" she implored her husband and son, but Julian kept carving without a response.
On his way out, Hector looked at the faded photograph on the wall. He saw his grandfather, proudly accepting the first prize in the Night of Radishes. That year, his grandfather chose the Calenda as his theme. Every year since then, the Mendez family presented the same scene in the Christmas event. When Hector became old enough to hold a knife, he joined his father to create their entry. He enjoyed the family time together; he also enjoyed the thousands of tourists and locals that flock to Oaxaca's Zocalo to enjoy the lavish radish sculptures.
In a friend's house, Hector set to work, his knife transforming the pile of radishes into the vision he nurtured for so many years. Before him was the figure that will be lying on the altar. With small, careful incisions, a round radish became an anguished face. Using a cactus spine, he connected it to the larger radish forming the body. He was ready to start on the work's centerpiece, the Zapotec Priest. He could clearly imagine the robes, the plumed hat, and the upraised arm holding the dagger.
The next morning, when he arrived at the Zocalo, the display tables were already placed along the edges of the town square. To the outside of the tables stretched an elevated walkway that enclosed the perimeter of the exhibition area. He knew his father was on the other side of the square, and he was glad he could not see him. He assembled the display on the table, his excitement and anticipation growing while the scene was taking form. At four, the show opened and the first visitors appeared on the walkway. He scrutinized their reactions with apprehension. Soon, the delight on their faces made it clear that they liked his display. Some even called out and congratulated him on his work. Satisfied, he relaxed, and sat behind the display, almost invisible. From his vantage point he could quietly enjoy the flashing cameras and admiring exclamations. The official results will come late at night.
After dark, when the stream of viewers became a thick, slow river, Julian could no longer contain his curiosity. He climbed the walkway and, with the rest of the visitors, made his way around the square. As he approached his son's booth, he moved to the back, and peered into the display. He was stunned. He knew Hector was a talented sculptor, but he has never seen figures formed with such an amazing detail. Their faces were full of emotion, and the ceremonial robes were cut with elaborate decorations. He absorbed the dramatic effect of the scene, and he sensed the others around him responding in the same way. A warm feeling welled up inside him. He was amazed that his own son produced this wonderful work of art. He was so proud of his son, and he knew that his own father was now here too, looking from above and smiling. Overcome with emotion, he did not notice that he wound up in the front line, staring at his son's work with wet, blurry eyes.
An inner instinct made Hector look up. He saw his father on the walkway; he read the emotions on his face. He crawled under the display table, emerged in front of his father, and helped him climb down. Without words, Julian put his hands on his son's shoulders, and they stood there, oblivious to the crowd, peering into each other's eyes. It was Hector's turn to shed tears of relief and happiness. His father embraced him tightly.
"It is wonderful, my son."
The clock on the Cathedral tower showed nine. It was time. Together, they entered the old colonial palace, and waited for the prizes to be announced. Teresa sat between husband and son, holding both their hands. The Oaxaca secretary of culture announced the third, then the second prize.
"The first prize," he continued, "a sum of 10,000 pesos, has been awarded to a scene from our pre-Columbian heritage…" his mother's grip tightened around Hector's hand, "…'The Sacrifice,' created by Family Mendez!"
In the roar of applause that followed, Hector observed his father's surprise turn into understanding. Rather than use his own name, he registered the booth to the whole family. Both Hector and Julian pushed Teresa forward to accept the prize.
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