Buenos

"I can't go today"  groaned Adi from the bathroom.  After spending most of the night on the toilet seat, she was both in pain, and exhausted.  It was just an hour before the guided tour, and I timidly explained the situation to Gisela, the very attractive manager of our hostel in Juayua.
"Don't worry", said Gisela without a trace of frustration.
Within minutes, she called the guide, postponed the reservations in our next destination, and directed me to a good pharmacy.

Juliana, a New York girl who intended to go with us, could not hide her disappointment.  She stayed an extra night in order to join the (minimum-two) tour. After hearing her sad story on the phone, the blue-eyed, rasta-braided guide showed up.  He was cheerful and enthusiastic.  He conducted the tour even though Juliana was the only participant.

These are just two examples to the friendly, helpful behavior we have encountered in El Salvador.  So far, I have yet to meet a grumpy El Salvadoran.  Even the town drunks, and every small town has a staggering, bare chested derelict asking for handouts, are not too pushy.  During our trip to Lao, I was impressed with its friendly and gentle people.  In El Salvador, people are just as friendly and gentle, and here I can speak the language.  Lao just got pushed into second place.

It is puzzling that Guanacos (as El Salvadoran are called here) are so friendly.  It would be perfectly understandable if they were hostile towards foreigners.  Only twenty years ago, El Salvador concluded a long and violent civil war, which was prolonged and made more deadly through US funds.  In Cinquera, a village situated in what used to be guerrilla territory, we met a woman who, with all the other inhabitants, fled the village due to the Army's "Scorched earth" tactics.  After the war, she came back and  rebuilt  her flattened home.  Now she stands proudly in her pretty courtyard garden.  "We are happy people"  she says.

It would also be perfectly understandable if they were suspicious and cold.  The homicide rate in El Salvador is one of the highest in the world.  Yet despite the shotgun-wielding guards in every store, and the barbed-wire fortifications surrounding every house, Guanacos, even in the capital, make eye contact, smile, and greet you with Buenos, or Buenas (Good morning, or Good evening).

El Salvadorans defied their circumstances, and are the opposite of cold, suspicious, and hostile.  Furthermore, they are smart and efficient.  And if that's not enough of an endorsement, let me add that  the women are stunningly gorgeous.

P.S
For those concerned about Adi's health.
I do learn from my mistakes.  Trekking in Nepal, I talked Doron into ascending a 5500 meter mountain pass  while suffering from a raging diarrhea.  I thought he should let his body do the cleanup.  He almost died in the process, and got well a few hours after taking a pill, which he had in his backpack all along.  This time, a few pills of Loperamide, administered promptly, quickly improved Adi's condition.  The next morning, we took the coffee tour.

Yuca Latkes

A little late for Hanukkah, but just in time for Navidad.  Yuca latkes in Alegria, El Salvador.  Served with honey instead of sour cream.

Adrenaline, adios?

I let an opportunity to enjoy an adrenalin rush pass me by, and I didn't feel frustrated.

It happened in Tacuba, a tiny town in the heart of el Salvador's coffee-country.  The rustic living room of Mama y Papa hostel is lined with glass cases displaying gorgeous mounted butterflies and pre-colombian artifacts.  Sitting on the other crumbling sofa, Manolo, a famous guide, and the implicit subject of the hostel's name, explained that his most popular tour involves rambling down a river to a series of waterfalls, which, at my discretion, can be rappelled or jumped.  I nodded enthusiastically.  However, he continued, the other two clients signed up for the more sedate scenic hike.  Perhaps someone will show up later, and he could start the waterfall tour too.  After some thought, I decided, that regardless of potential arrivals, I would prefer the scenic tour.  The full impact of this groundbreaking decision hit me only later that night.  I chose views, wildlife, and Adi's company, over heart-pumping jumps.  I also realized how often in the past I did enjoy the thrill of adrenaline-producing adventure.  "I may be getting old"  I sighed into my pillow, "or maybe three reasons are better than one."

Next morning, all four timid travelers set out for the adjacent National "Parque El Impossible", which was so named for the many men that died hauling coffee across a rickety bridge that spans a deep canyon.  Our starting elevation was 1300 meters, the altitude that produces the best quality coffee.. As we descended through the plantations surrounding the park, I was surprised to find that the ripe coffee berries are edible and sweet.  (Kobi would have enjoyed the snack.)  The views from the peak were OK (just), but the trail ran continuously downhill, and after crossing the bridge, which is now solid concrete, we entered the park.  In the forest we lost the views.  First reason: Gone.  The dry forest itself is less than impressive, and our guide predicted that due to the strong wind, we will not see any wildlife.  He was right; except for one pair of mating butterflies.  Second reason:  Gone.  Adi and I did have fun rolling our eyes in mock frustration as we sweated our way back uphill.  One out of three?

Maybe next time, despite my newly discovered maturity, I will choose the adrenaline option.

Be VERY careful

"Tenga MUCHO cuidado",  is the horrified reaction of Oaxaquenos to my upcoming car trip to Central America.   I agree politely, and refrain from saying that in the US, I get a similar response in regards to my trips to Mexico.

Confident that I was dealing with an urban legend, I decided to bust it by searching the statistics.  I extricated the data below from a report  by the UN Office of Drugs and Crime.

The numbers represent the violent deaths (homicides) per year, for every 100,000 of population.

• Worldwide, the average rate for violent deaths is 7.
• Central America is the second most violent region in the world  (after Southern Africa) with a death rate of  29.
• Honduras it the most violent country, at 82.  That's pretty bad.  It means you have a one percent chance of being murdered every twelve years.
• In the other Central American countries, the rate ranges from El Salvador-66, to Costa Rica-10.
• In Mexico, the rate is 23.  (In Oaxaca it is 2.3).
• In other countries of interest, the violent death rates is as follows: US -5, South Korea-3, and Israel-2.
• Looking for a safe haven?  The rate in Polynesia is 0.1.  Australia and Western Europe tie for second place at 1

Even though the city of Tegucigalpa, the Honduran capital, offers free funerals, I will stay in Honduras less than 24 hours.  In other countries I will be careful.

Dancing zombies

Zombies dancing with skeletons to the rhythm of a native singer.
Day of the Dead in Oaxaca?
Lila Downs, one of my favorite local talents, staged this version at the Latin Grammys:
Lila Downs at the Grammys

She received the Grammy for her latest CD, Pecados y Milagros.  BTW, sometimes, she also does Jazz.

Pictures at an Exhibition

The lively beat of  Latin reggae enticed me into the colonial courtyard.  Free mezcal and a tub full of beer, ensured that I stay.  I joined a festive crowd attending the opening night of a photography exhibition.  In Oaxaca, you often stumble into gems like this, by just walking the streets.  I sipped the mezcal, chased it with some beer, and after sufficiently enjoying  the young band, walked into the exhibition.

The first room surprised me.  The walls were covered with portraits of women.  As I walked around the room, I was compelled to pause for long minutes in front of each one of them. Young, old, pretty, not so pretty, all displayed an intense personality that shone through the black-and-white photos.  Their piercing eyes engaged mine and reflected my own curiosity, 'Who are you?  What do you do?'  The labels provided only their names.  I spent extra time in front of the attractive woman whose name sounded Israeli.  The other rooms contained more portraits, of both genders.  All the photos were in black-and-white, and all exhibited an eye-catching quality, clarity and tone.  Each person, for I felt I was looking at a person not a photo, had something special that attracted attention.  A pensive look, a smile, a puff on a cigarette, even a playful up-yours gesture.  Crossing from one room to another, felt like abandoning old friends.  These photos were not snapshots, clearly they were the result of dedicated photo session, but it was also clear that the subjects felt relaxed and free to express themselves.  I was amazed at the magical ability of the artist to vividly project real personalities.
"I would love to have a conversation with each one of these people." I told Adi.

The last room I entered, was actually the first of the exhibition.  Here I found that the photographer's name is Alberto (El Negro) Ibanez.  A Oaxaqueno.  In the posted introduction, I found possible explanations for the high photographic quality and impressive personalities.  The photos were captured on film, then developed and printed in the lab (not digital), and the subjects (Including Rivka Galchen), are authors that, over the years, participated in the Oaxaca Book Fair. 

P.S.
The next day I returned to the exhibition and tried to discover El Negro's magic.  I found some technical elements that he favored, but none that he used exclusively.  I realized that wide aperture, close perspective, or side-lighting, will not transform me into a photographer.  Maybe a film camera?

Cinderella

As we talk with another person, we delude ourselves that we are interacting with a human, while in fact we are only communicating with shallow model.  A model of our own construction, convenient for every day use, but far from the truth.  I found, that taking the trouble to go past the model, leads me to fascinating discoveries.  Even if the model  reads "Boring", the human behind it always has unique and interesting aspects.  To perceive a 'real person' requires attentive listening.  Most people, including I, don't have the inclination or skill to do so.  Two of my friends,using two distinct methods, do it well.

Kobi goes about the task by posing to his interviewee a stream of short, well-constructed questions.  His questions are both interesting and challenging.  His subjects enjoy the process, and reward Kobi with generous detail.  Adi, on the other hand, displays her empathy through tone-of-voice and body language.  Her partners are captivated by her energy, and feel they are talking to a 'best-friend'.  Kobi can mine most of the facts regarding people's life.  Adi may miss some facts, but they often reveal to her their innermost secrets and painful emotions.  I benefit from both Kobi and Adi's skills, by sitting unobtrusively on the sidelines.

We met Nico and Irma in Wednesday's Danzon, and soon we became friends.  He is a tall, energetic, and  looks much younger than his eighty-eight years.  Irma is thirty-six years his junior.  She is short, plump, and her cute face is always smiling.  They look happy together.  Irma's model reads 'Peace and Love.'

This is the story of the 'real' Irma, as told to me by Adi.

Irma grew up in Oaxaca, not far from the city center, but a world away from the colonial mansions of the capital..  Their small house, situated in the previously indigenous neighborhood, lacked running water and electricity.   From early on, Irma's mother forced her to do the household chores while her siblings sat idle.   She remembers herself at the age of five, standing on a stool, over a wood-burning stove, stirring stew.
"I was lucky not to get burned"  she muses.
She served the table while the family ate dinner.  When they were done, she, ate alone in the kitchen.  That was the routine.  However, when her mother was angry, she would grab Irma by her braids, beat her over the head, and slam her body against the wall.  At times her mother would supplement the beating with insults.
"You are not my daughter!" she would yell,"Get out of my house!"
Irma noted that her complexion and stature were markedly different than her siblings, but she had no one with whom she could share her suspicions.

As Irma told Adi about her childhood, she began weeping uncontrollably   Eventually she calmed enough to continue.

Irma's only consolation was her father.  When the two of them were alone, he would hug her, bring her sweets, and tell her how he loved her the most.  However, the one time she complained to him about her mother's abuse, she heard her parents quarrel, and then her mother took revenge by beating her even more.  She did not try it again.

Marriage at the age of sixteen didn't help Irma escape her misery.  She avoided her husband's first assault through a determined demonstration of a heavy skillet, a demonstration which was sufficiently educational to discourage him from any future attempts, but not sufficient to prevent his verbal abuse, or flagrant womanizing.  Eventually she divorced him.

Her well-practiced sewing and cooking skills, allowed her to work and support herself.  However her childhood left her gloomy, withdrawn and socially inept.  One evening, she was captivated by music flowing from an adjacent room.  She timidly knocked, entered, and met her neighbor.  At the time, Nico was seventy, and she was thirty four.  He was warm, gentle and kind.  Slowly and patiently he coaxed her out of her shell, and they fell in love.  They have been together now for eighteen years.

On his death bed, Irma's father told her about a woman in his past, whom he loved very much.  He said that the woman's name was also Irma and that the two look very much alike.  At that point her mother interrupted the confession by entering the room.  Irma never learned more about her circumstances and the identity of her biological mother.

Irma's friends observe a 'happy-end' story, but sometimes, in her dreams, Irma visits her childhood, and wakes up crying.

Real Oaxaqueños

What's the difference between Oaxaqueños and other Mexicans?
Real Oaxaqueños eat chapulines!

During a visit to Oaxaca's central market, I led Adi to the Plaza de Chapulines where dozens of farmers sit behind sacks of freshly-roasted grasshoppers.  She was intrigued, approached one of the open sacks, and for the first time, tasted a pinch.
"Not that bad"  She exclaimed.
I could never understand why a Korean woman, whose favorite snack is boiled silkworms (bundaegi), abhors grasshoppers.  However, the situation was about to change.  Adi proceeded around the square, sampling and rating the merchandise.
"Best so far."  "Too salty"  "Too lemony" and so on, until we settled on one sack, and bought a small bag.  At home, we followed a friend's recommendation and sauteed the chapulines with garlic.

Chapulines are not cheap.  Oaxaqueños eat them as a garnish on a taco, or as a side dish to a mezcalito.  In the photo is a Mexican, American, Israeli fusion dish:  Home made whole-wheat bread topped with cream cheese, avocado, and chapulines.  We are now real Oaxaqueños.

Theater in Oaxaca

Readers of this blog know that Oaxaca is rich with music, dance, and art. However, theater in Oaxaca is not a strong point, and due to my rudimentary Spanish I did not attend any performance.  This week, a drama festival opened with El Ostrakón, a local production.  It would be presented in wonderful (and comfortable) Teatro Macedonio Alcala.  In addition, an English synopsis was available on the web (here), and the performance was free.  It was an offer I could not refuse.
"Worst case," I consoled Adi, "If we won't understand, we'll leave in the intermission."

The play is an allegory of modern society.  The leading character is the Narrator who assumes the roles of several authority-figures as they guide/misguide the hero Gabriel from birth to adulthood.  Portrayed in short, sketch -like scenes, The Doctor, Teacher, Priest, and Banker, cause Gabriel's life to go from bad to worse.  Finally, desperate Gabriel shoots the Narrator, who immediately bounces back to life.
"You can't kill the system," he says, "the house always wins."
In the next and final scene, the Narrator offers Gabriel a way out.  He hands him a potsherd (the Greek Ostrakon) and sentences him to exile.
"He is now free," claims the Narrator as Gabriel slowly crawls up the center aisle, "as fee as our dreams."


To add color and local flavor, the Crowd in the play is portrayed by three monos de calenda.  These are three-meter-tall costumes, which usually lead religious parades (here).  The monos never utter a word, but their blank paper-mache faces, mute-like sounds, and highly choreographed movements, make them the more emotive characters on stage.  For a change of pace, the play includes a risque scene between Gabriel and Sandra, his love interest.  They kiss, and Gabriel sheds everything but his jog-strap. As Sandra's shirt came off, you could feel the vacuum created by the gasping audience.  Luckily, the action froze (the bra stayed on), and pink smoke engulfed the couple's embrace.

I enjoyed the play despite the naive script.  The performance did not include intermission, yet I am sure we would have stayed even if we had the chance to leave.  On our walk home through the Zocalo, we caught a mini-Guelaguetza dance performance.  Never a dull moment in Oaxaca.

Voter's Dilemma

Recently, I realized that I am in a leveraged position to affect the coming presidential elections.  I am a resident of one of the "swing" states, and for the first time, I am in possession of an absentee ballot.  The ongoing clash between President Obama's brilliant oratory, and his dismal results, erased the natural instinct of voting for a sitting president.   Now,  I am faced with the grave responsibility of choosing.

I am not a one-party nor a one-issue voter.  I vote for a candidate following a gut-feel assessment of his personality, platform, and previous accomplishments.  I realize that none of these factors are an indication of future performance, but that's all we have.  I liked Barack Obama's personality in the previous elections, and I still think he is a nice guy.  Mitt Romney was an unknown, and therefore suspect.  His 47% comment didn't help.  However, in the presidential debate, the haze lifted, and he emerged as a clear-speaking clear-thinking politician.

The platforms of the two candidates are clearly different.  My economic views are in line with what Mitt Romney presented.  I am for small government, lower taxes. and I have reservations about Obama-care.  Mitt Romney's foreign policy is a bit more hawkish than I would like, but I hope that the lessons of Iraq and Afghanistan will prevent him from initiating an unnecessary war.  President Obama, the presumed dove, dismayed me with the surge in Afghanistan, and his subsequent actions around the globe indicate a naive and ineffective statesman.

The score so far:  Personality- Both are acceptable, with Obama leading; economic policy-Romney; foreign policy-Romney.  Yet I feel queasy with this outcome.  I am not sure that I can vote for a man that thinks abortion should be illegal, and belongs to a party that is dominated by radical christians.  I can't explain why this concern became so prominent now, and not with previous Republican candidates.

The dictionary defines Dilemma as "A situation requiring a choice between equally undesirable alternatives."  Any comments that would get my ass off the uncomfortable horns of this dilemma, would be greatly appreciated.

Buddhism in America

"From Buddhist Laughter to the Protestant Smile" is an interesting article by Peter Berger which discusses the increasing popularity of Buddhism in America.  I posted a response on his blog.  

He describes the current situation:

What is attractive in all this to contemporary Americans? ....  it seems to me that there is one Buddhist practice that is close to the heart of the attraction: the practice of “mindfulness”. ....It means concentrated, quiet attention to reality, beginning with one’s own physical processes (notably breathing)...

He wanders:

What does it have to do with the original message of the Buddha?

Then he describes the "original" message:

.... At the very core of this experience, ... is the notion of reincarnation..... often called the “wheel of life”..... Hinduism and Buddhism have sought for ways to escape the horrible wheel altogether. 

... [Buddhism worldview is] expressed by the so-called Three Universal Truths:  All reality is transitory.  All reality is non-self. All reality is suffering.  

He observes that: 

To the extent that American culture has been decisively shaped by notions derived from Christianity, the Buddhist worldview is not readily plausible.  (... the gist of an “Abrahamic” worldview may be formulated as a denial of each of the Three Universal Truths.) 

His conclusions:  Buddhism has evolved.

Americanized Buddhism has absorbed the cheerful [American] optimism 

Is this “enculturation” a bad thing? Not necessarily.

However, it has little do with the anguish that drove a young Indian prince to give up a life of privilege, to leave his family, and to go out as a begging pilgrim in search of a way to extinguish desire.

The article seemed a bit critical, and so did some of the comments that followed it.  Below, is my (slightly edited) response.

All popular philosophies (I am deliberately avoiding the term “religions”), became popular by utilizing sales tools that attracted a large audience.  I assume that the small minority of westerners that are drawn to the Buddhist philosophy were not convinced by the advertised benefits of the "Abrahamic" religions.  Neither the wrath of God (Judaism), nor the pleasures of Heaven (Christianity and Islam), were enough to induce us into the fold.  Similarly, we are not driven by fear of continuous re-incarnations(Buddhism).   Siddhartha Gautama taught that even in this life, following the Dharma will lead to reduced suffering, and to me, that is the attraction in Buddhism.  As I follow the path, I am gaining peace in small but significant steps.  

As an additional benefit, it is comforting to know that due to its emphasis on self-improvement rather than conversion, Buddhism philosophy generated few (if any) wars and atrocities.

Yes, laughing or smiling, Buddhism has adapted to its new environment 

The Burma Road

"STOP THE BLOCKADES".  The large banner hanging from a private balcony, complained about a popular form of protest in Oaxaca.  Often, a group frustrated by government inaction, will barricade a main road for hours.  After the debacle of the 2006 protests, the government refrains from any provocative action, leaving the unfortunate drivers stranded.

We were climbing the winding road to the mountaintop village of San Jose Del Pacifico, home of the Magic Mushrooms, when we reached the tail of a long line of stalled cars.  The cause of the stoppage was further up the mountain and not visible.
"A blockade"  was the resigned response of the truck drivers resting in the shade of small oak.
"By whom?"
"The Teachers".  (The teachers union instigated the 2006 rebellion, and is thus the usual suspect)
"Until when?"
"Who knows.  Maybe 5PM?"

I checked my map. Not far behind, a dirt road branched off the highway, and wound its way up to the next town.  It was still morning, no rain, I had a tankful of gas, and Adi was happy to embark on a cross-country adventure.  As I maneuvered the u-turn, I noticed four or five vehicles also leaving the blockade.  They were following a taxi-driver who knew the detour.  I decided to join the convoy.  We turned off the highway earlier than I would have, and followed a much rougher road than I anticipated.  After several steep, rutted inclines, we crossed a flowing creek, and somehow managed to loose sight of the guiding taxi.
The next Y intersection required a group discussion, "Right or Left?"
The road to the left struggled for a while, then brought us back to the highway.  Unfortunately, it was not high enough.   Protesting villagers (not teachers) ambling their way to the blockade below, prevented our access to the paved road.  As we tried to retrace our path, the villagers placed large rocks behind us.  The adventure was quickly turning into a nightmare.  We were trapped between two groups of men with stern faces and heavy sticks.  My companions tried to plea, reason, and bribe the villagers, but to no avail.  Eventually,  a village elder arrived, and agreed to let us return the way we came.  Soon we encountered the taxi driver, and after one more creek crossing, the road improved and we safely reached the highway.  Everybody was happy to pay the taxi driver for his effort ($2.50 per car).  I never learned the cause for the protest.

During the late lunch at San Jose Del Pacifico, I told Adi about the siege on Jerusalem, and the Burma road that broke it.

Cello and Chapulines

Tuesday is Chapulines day, at Oaxaca's central market.

Farmers descend from mountain villages to sell their freshly-roasted grasshopper catch.  Chapulines are Oaxaca's favorite snack, and the Plaza de Chapulines is bustling with customers seeking their favorite flavor.

This Tuesday,  Michal Shein, an Israeli-American cellist and her friend Sharon Cohen, arrived at the Plaza from their village (Boston), for a surprise performance.

Children sat between the vendors and enjoyed, maybe for the first time, classical music.

Tropic of Cancer

'Where is North?'
I have a need to know the answer to this question at all times.  Maybe it is also so with other Israeli men, who at an early age, acquire the art of cross-country navigation, then perfect it during their military service.  At  night I look for the North star, and during the day, finding North is almost an instinct.  The Sun comes up in the East, goes down in the West, and at noon, it is exactly to the South.  Simple, but WRONG.  Travelling to Oaxaca, which is below the Tropic of Cancer, the sun (in the Summer) is to the North, and instinct turns into a handicap.  Several times, while driving on unfamiliar roads, my gut sent me a clear message,
"You are heading in the wrong direction!"
I had to ignore the inner voice, look carefully at shadows on the ground, factor the time of day, and rationally deduce my direction.  For several days, I felt disoriented.  I knew where I was, yet it didn't feel right.

Eventually, the weird feeling dissipated, and left me wandering whether the urge to know my exact location is a common human trait.  Maslow's hierarchy helped me deduce that it may be a derivative of the need for shelter.  Lacking a developed sense of smell, how else would we find our way back home?  But then, why is it, that I often enjoy feeling lost?  Sometimes, I would purposefully put myself in that position so that I could experience the "Lost" sensation..  Given that in those occasions, I tried not to jeopardize my safety, nor the love and friendship of my travelling companions, it is possible that I was fulfilling a higher Maslow level.  Maybe, deriving self esteem by overcoming the challenge?  Or, as I believe, being lost opens the doors to learning.  It provides the exciting potential of new places and new environments which will require creative new behaviors.

Safely home in Oaxaca, I resumed my routine of going to the pool each morning.  Within a block or two, I realized that if I want to walk in the shade, which is the wise thing to do, I will have to switch to the opposite sidewalk.  Walking on the "other" side of a street which I walked hundreds of times before, everything I saw looked new.
'Did I take the wrong turn somewhere?' I wondered.
I looked for familiar landmarks, but from this different perspective, nothing seemed familiar .  I even discovered some shops which I never noticed before.   Being a stranger in a familiar place felt a bit hallucinogenic, and I was glad that the feeling dissipated in a couple of days.  This experience too opened a door for self exploration.
I was disappointed that even after six years of meditation, I am still not as aware and anchored in the moment as I would like to be.  I consoled myself by the realization that without those six years of meditation, I may not even have noticed the phenomenon.

Conclusion:  Beware of crossing the Tropic of Cancer!  It may lead to some strange thoughts.

Musing on Mozart and Mole

Adi finally relented and agreed to let me do it once a month.  Once a month, my frugal companion will dine with me in a fine restaurant.

Not to push my luck on the first try, I chose "Los Pacos", a notch or two above our usual fare, but designated (1) with just three peso-symbols (2).  The pumpkin-flower soup had the hearty rich flavor of home cooking, and generated a smile of surprise and satisfaction.  For the main dish we selected three of Oaxaca's seven moles (sauces).  The green mole (over meat), deep-red mole (over chicken), and Oaxaca's trademark black mole, were segregated by low mounds of rice.  We sampled the delicacies, rolling each in its own corn tortilla.  I am familiar with the various moles, yet here, the flavor seemed more complex and enjoyable.  I remarked that food tastes better in a quiet restaurant, with attentive staff, and colorful art on the walls.  Her mouth full, Adi nodded in agreement.

After dinner, we walked to Santo Domingo, one of Mexico's most beautiful churches.  Inside, in celebration of the Saint's Day, a chorus and orchestra performed pieces by Bach, Mozart, and others.  Sitting under the tall decorated vaults, surrounded by intricately carved, gold gilded altar pieces, I was moved by the echoing music.  The familiar "Ave Maria"s, and "Gloria"s sounded fresh and inspiring.

In the cool evening air, I reviewed the not-so-profound lesson the mole and Mozart taught me this evening,  "Environment makes a big difference."  Adi agreed, but quickly added that tonight's mole would have been superior even sitting on a stool in the market.   I was glad that July was a success, and I can look forward to August.

Notes
(1)  "Oaxaca Tips" by Carole Turkenik 
(2)  Dinner for one $23.

Guelaguetza

Oaxaca in July is a city full of energy.  Tourists (mostly Mexican) fill the sidewalks, women wear their traditional festive dresses, and everybody is having a good time navigating around clowns and balloons to the sound of giant aerial firecrackers.  The central event is the Guelaguetza ("Offering" in Zapotec), a pre-Colombian tradition, presented in a modern version.  On the day of the event, tourists ($60 per ticket), and locals (free in the upper sections) crowd into the specially built amphitheater to enjoy a spectacle of music and dance.  Dozens of delegations from the various regions of the state, go on the stage to demonstrate their traditions.  Their distinct multicolored dresses are wonderful, and some of the women are beautiful.  However, at the risk of being expelled from my city, I have to admit that last year, after the fifth-or-so delegation, the static dance steps made me drowsy, and all the groups blended into one.

This year, I found another way to enjoy the Guelaguetza.  I squeezed onto the sidewalk, and watched a parade.  Accompanied by their bands, the delegations pranced down the street, wearing the same vibrant costumes, and stopping every few meters to perform a short dance sequence.  That was a much better fit to my attention span.

Click on Casita Colibri, to watch a slide show of the parade

Customer Service

A branch of an international bank.  Oaxaca, 10:00AM

There was no one in line.  This was unusual.  I happily advanced to the the active window, only to realize that it was empty.  I waited a few minutes until the clerk stepped behind the glass, and wiped her mouth from the remains of  what must have been a delicious snack.  The transaction was concluded with only a few fumbles and mishaps.  My other issue was beyond the capability of this clerk, and required the attention of another.

I headed to the next area to find a long line of people sitting patiently, awaiting their turn.  The clerk moved in deliberate slow motion, unfazed by the stares of the clientele.  As my turn arrived, and I prepared to get up from the couch, she joined her thumb and index finger for the "Un momentito" gesture, and left.  For twenty minutes I was stranded between the couch and her desk.  When she returned she beckoned for me to approach, wiped her mouth, cleaned her teeth with her tongue, then politely offered to help me.  I resisted the urge to ask if she enjoyed the coffee break.  Our interaction was interrupted by two phone calls.  The first was from a restaurant, asking for the lunch order.  This required my clerk to solicit lunch preferences from all her fellow workers.  The second phone call was similar, but pertained to tomorrow's lunch.  When I left the bank it was almost noon.  I felt lucky to have achieved my goals without needing to return another day.


Mexico is rich in culture, but poor in customer service, and customer service is just the tip of a much bigger problem.  Most institutions in Mexico, both in the public and the private sectors, are highly inefficient.  They are bureaucratic, paper-driven, and overstaffed.  Mexico has yet to absorb the productivity lessons of the twentieth century, let alone enter the internet-driven twenty-first.  Until it does, and despite its natural resources, it will lag the more productive nations.  This may be good for retired gringos, looking for low cost of living, but not for it's citizens.   My fear is that if competition is not forcing improvement, who will?  Maybe the young new President has the answer.

Dancing In the Rain

Just dancing in the rain.  What a wonderful feeling, in Mexico again.


Light rain directed the evening strollers to the protection of the porticoes surrounding Tlaxcala's Zocalo. Sounds of live music drew us out of the congestion, towards the center of the plaza, where, a few brave souls, some holding umbrellas, were dancing to the rhythms of the state band.  Without hesitation, we joined in.  When the band paused between numbers, I shouted my suggestion, "Danzon".   We were delighted to hear the opening notes of a favorite Danzon melody.  Ignoring the damp T-shirts and slippery flip-plops, we immersed ourselves in the music and movement..

After three days of travel, and another three days of beach in Mazatlan, it was the sheer joy of the dance, that happily established that we are back in Mexico.

Leading Economic Indicator

Kenny is a diligent swimmer.  Every day, he is in the lane next to mine, swimming the butterfly.  He is a musician, and plays the keyboard at the Stratosphere Tower lounge. He is my age, tall, and athletic.  I like him.

Kenny and the band were playing mellow jazz.  I collected a gin-tonic, and strolled along the circular walkway.  Las Vegas glittered a thousand feet below.  A decade ago, a rising tide of speculation, expanded the city all the way to the surrounding mountains.  Then, the tide turned and left behind human debris and listless neighborhoods.  I know;  I could almost see my house, far in the North-East fringe.  Treasure, the pretty lead singer, opened with a Bob Marley song, and I sat down.  Her voice was like aged Mezcal, clear, yet smooth.  When the set ended, I heard Kenny's story.

Four years ago, lured by job opportunities in the thriving casinos, Kenny came to Vegas.  Before he landed his first job, the bubble burst, and the casinos were firing, not hiring.  For four years he could not find work.  He "even" looked for a day job, but without success.  Just a couple of months ago, he got this gig at the Stratosphere. He thinks business is beginning to pick up.  For Kenny's sake, and as a property owner, I hope his fortune turns out to be a leading economic indicator.  The popular Case-Shiller index is still pointing down, but it has a systemic delay of two months.

Treasure, returned to the stage and rendered a fresh version of Hotel California.  I sang along softly.  After a few more oldies, I waved goodbye.  Treasure blew me a kiss.  'She is cute.'

Connected

I was proud of myself.  On my first day in Vegas, I acquired an internet subscription and a local SIM card.  I was connected.

Within minutes of installing the phone, I heard the first beep.  A person who I didn't know, sent a text message which I didn't understand.  An hour or so later, another message.  I felt sorry for the sender, and replied
"U have the wrong #"
Yet the messages kept coming.  At first I was surprised.
'How can he (it felt like a 'he') not notice that the other side is not getting his messages?'
Then I became perversely curious.  He seemed like a high-school educated young man.  He recently experienced a divorce or a separation, and was eager to share his thoughts.  His mood alternated between happiness:
"I am so glad to be single"
and anger:
"I hate Gayle"
At times, the messages seemed part of a conversation:
"Let's watch the game tonight"
 At other times they were general words of wisdom:
"Some women are only interested in f###ing u, then they leave."

They were never sexually explicit, nor offensive.  However after several days of hourly beeps, I initiated a chat session with Dorothy, the phone-company support agent.
"Sorry to hear of your problem," she typed "Try to reply with the word STOP"
I was incredulous.  'I tried that twice before and it didn't work', but I followed her instructions and immediately heard the familiar beep.
"You are now unsubscribed from Twitter"
'Duh'.
My bubble burst.  I saw myself holding a fountain pen in the age of ballpoints. (Or was it a quilt?)

A Nomad's Seder

Without a pillar of fire to guide me through the Nevada desert, it took four (not forty) attempts to find a supermarket that carried matza.  Emboldened by the success, I decided to organize a Seder (Passover celebration).

With some flexibility, I assembled the traditional menu from items available on the store's shelves. Horseradish for Maror,  hummus for Haroset, eggs for Carpas, Gefilte fish, and matza balls (powdered mix).  For the four cups, I poured a Pinot Noir instead of Manichevitz.  The evening's order was slightly scrambled by eating before the readings, but no one complained.  Lacking the Haggada text, we watched Charleston Heston in the Ten Commandments.  The movie was long enough (three hours and fifty minutes), to last through both the first and the second holiday evenings.  I would consider this Seder a great success.

Chag Sameach

Warning:  Compared the traditional, mild mannered maror, raw horseradish gives a surprisingly strong kick.

Surfing a Tsunami

A little past noon, a strong earthquake reached Oaxaca.  I was swimming in the pool, when I heard an underwater rumble.  Waves were forming on the surface.  I tried to body-surf the mini-tsunami, but all I got was a simulation of swimming in a choppy sea.  An aftershock kept the waves rolling and extended my fun.
I am glad there were no injuries or damage.

The Samaritan Woman

Oaxaqueño with a free drink 

The third Friday of Lent celebrates the Samaritan woman, who offered Jesus water at the well.  Traditionally in Oaxaca, households leave a jar by the door, and pour water to the passers-by.  Nowadays, water does not seem to be enough.  Home owners, and especially food establishments, try to outdo each other with the quality of the beverage they offer.  People walk to their destination, plastic cup in hand, ready to sample the next delicacy.  The tradition came as a pleasant surprise as I walked home after completing one more time (Yeah!) a one kilometer swim.  I had an horchata a popular pre-hispanic beverage, chilacayota a sweet fruit-laden punch, and a slurpy (I had to stand in line for that one).  I could have had more, but lunch was waiting.


For real photos go to:
http://casitacolibri.wordpress.com/2012/03/17/water-water-everwhere/

Theater of the Oppressed

  "Woman" by Adi

International Women's Day was celebrated in Oaxaca without parades or fireworks.  In the Government Palace, several women were awarded medals, and the pedestrian street leading to Santo Domingo Church, was decorated with colorful cutouts of women (http://casitacolibri.wordpress.com/2012/03/09/women-on-the-alcala/).
What struck me, is that throughout the day, women were greeted, and greeted each other, with "Felicidades" (Congratulations).  A gesture of respect and solidarity.

A small and quaint neighborhood, not far from the city center, decided to amplify that note of solidarity.  They set up an outdoor stage in the middle of the street, and invited all to an event of music, poetry and Theater of the oppressed, a style developed by the Brazilian Agosto Boal in the 1960's.

Several women skilfully performed a skit in which a pregnant mother-of-three is seeking help to terminate her pregnancy.  Her drunk husband does not care; her aunt is a church goer, and thinks abortion is a sin; and at the government clinic, her scheduled appointment is so late, that it would make an abortion impossible.

This is where the skit ended, and the audience was asked for solutions to the problem.  One woman, raised her hand and offered a suggestion.  The moderator asked that she go on the stage and act out her suggestion.  It was surprising how a member of the audience, with very little hesitation, transformed herself into an actor.  She joined the other characters on the scene, and with an assertive behavior, and some physical force, shoved the derelict husband out the door, presumably to seek employment.  More women offered suggestions and all agreed to act them out.  One man in the audience asked to play the husband, and he quickly transformed the character to a caring, responsible person.  The moderator was quick to point out that this is unrealistic, and that we should not expect the oppressors to change their behavior.  It is the oppressed who must take matters into their own hands.

I was moved by the courage, skill, and emotion demonstrated by the audience.  Maybe, this kind of theater can play a part in improving the harsh conditions and low status of women in Mexico.

Blood Sports in Teposcolula

We came to Teposcolula for its famous church and arrived propitiously on its patron-saint Holiday. In Mexico, this is a town's biggest fiesta, when food, dance, prayer, and fireworks, are always present.  We heard that cock-fights are also on the agenda, and decided to stay.

A narrow cobbled street led away from the crowds in the Plaza towards the school, where the event was held.  A growing number of spectators waited on the bleachers surrounding the cockpit, eating, chatting, and watching the roosters being weighed.  Two men entered the ring, the birds nestled in their arms like babies.  Despite the affectionate gesture, they displayed no signs of the drama that I felt.  With the aid of an assistant, they concentrated on the complicated process of tying a shiny curved blade to their rooster's foot.  Meanwhile,  a well endowed woman circled the pit collecting bets.  A practice rooster was brought in to confront each of the contestants. When both were sufficiently agitated, the fighting began.

The two birds flung themselves at each other, claws aiming at the opponent's throat.  In less than a minute, one was seriously hurt.  The cocks, both bleeding profusely, were placed facing each other for another round.  After more frantic scrambles, the loser stopped moving, and the referee ended the fight.   The owners gingerly picked up the wounded birds, and carried them out.  The young owner was not distraught.  The rooster he nourished and trained for weeks, lay dead in a garbage bin, yet he had more cocks ready to fight tonight, and a win will net him several hundred dollars.  Feathers and blood were swept from the floor in preparation for the next fight.  We headed for the church.

When the Dominican monks, utilizing local slave labor, constructed this magnificent structure, they expected thousands of worshipers.  To accommodate the huge crowd, they added a large (Mexico's largest) open-air chapel.  Unfortunately, within a few years, the indigenous population was almost wiped out by European germs.  We joined several dozen solemn believers praying inside.  After mass, the Jesus image was lowered from the wall, and carried outside for a candle-lit procession.  As the procession was leaving, I noticed that a smaller group stayed behind and formed a queue.  Facing them, stood a middle aged woman, who, in turn, held the first in line, and swiped a red cloth over his entire body.
"She is a famous curadora (healer)."  explained one women in a reverent voice, "She is cleansing the people of their sickness and bad luck".
Even though my knees could use a small miracle, I did not join the line.

The only hotel in Teposcolula was fully booked by the curadora's followers, and I had to endure the dark winding road to its bigger neighbor.  After a good night's sleep and a luxurious breakfast, we watched another local sport.  In this ball game, the defeated team forfeits their hearts, as nourishment for the Gods.  I saw enough blood for one weekend, and was glad that this tradition disappeared with the arrival of the Spaniards.  What remained, is a game that resembles volleyball, without a net.  Nowadays, the losers of the Pelota Mixteca sacrifice only a few hundred pesos.

On the way home, a few vigorous laps in the clear water of a spring-fed pool, washed away my last thoughts of blood.

Carmen

La Nueva Babel was alive.  The young crowd sat around the smoke filled room, chatting loudly, Corona in hand.  Alfredo, who is also our upstairs neighbor, mounted the low platform, followed by a percussionist. He handed a pair of maracas to a third friend, tuned his guitar, and started singing.  A couple stepped onto the empty dance floor.  Black hair flowed over her shoulders and framed her pretty face.  A tight T-shirt advertised a slim waist and firm breasts.  Her feminine hips and shapely butt were accentuated by a flowing, ankle-length skirt.  The partner was medium height, but proportioned like a refrigerator.  Unkempt strands of hair obscured his scraggy beard.

And then she danced.
The Cuban melody seemed to flow through her body as she sensually swayed to its rhythm. All conversations ceased abruptly.  Men and women alike, gazed at the dance floor, captivated by her grace and sexuality.
Alfredo too was caught in the excitement, gradually increasing his volume and tempo.  Yet, it was not clear who was leading whom, the fast-beating conga drums, or her feet.
"I wish I could dance like her!"  Adi shouted into my ear.
"Me too."  I replied, well aware that both interpretations were true.

The song ended, and testosterone energy engulfed the room.  She was claimed by another young man, while the rest of the aroused males hurried to find a dance partner.  Men outnumbered women by at least four to one, and within seconds, all the women, including Adi, were on the dance floor.  I was content to stay alone, and observe.

If she came to the club with someone special, I could not tell.  She accepted all invitations with grace, giving the initial impression that her current partner is the 'One'.  She would start dancing softly.  Responsive, almost submissive, to her partner's lead.  As the music progressed, she would grow bolder.  Raising her eyes, she would add energy to her dance, and with a mischievous smile, challenge her partner to match her style.  The song would pick up tempo, and she would withdraw inwards, no longer aware of her partner.  Her body undulating furiously, she would raise her skirt to her knees and let her feet fly like sparks.  Many men tried to conquer her.  Most, were dull dancers and did not capture her interest.  One exception, a quiet gentleman in his sixties, surprised both her and the crowd by his agility and technique.  However, he was too timid to pursue his advantage.  Without sexual tension, they were two skillful dancers, dancing separately.

And then, he came in.
Despite the heat in the club, he was wearing a hooded jacket, his face a mystery under the hood's shadow.  He slowly drew close, and began the dance.  Almost without moving his feet, he raised her hand in his, signalling her to turn.  She complied.  He kept her hand up and with a flick of the wrist indicated 'another', then 'another', and 'another'... you could almost touch the tension in the air.  He stood there, silent and still, while she continued to twirl, but her energy was clearly ebbing.  Finally he relented, took her in his arms, and swayed to the music.  The battle was won.  For the rest of the piece, they communicated their love through movement.  I was enchanted by the beauty and emotion of their dance.    At the end of the song, he turned, and without a word, slowly walked out.

I never knew her name.  To me, she could have only one.

                                                                                                                       Illustration by Adi

An Evening at the Opera

Yesterday, I sat through six hours of a Wagner opera...
and I loved every minute.

Oaxaca's Teatro Macedonio Alcala is a lavish 19th century french-style edifice.  Every couple of weeks, it hosts a live broadcast from the NY Metropolitan Opera.  Attending a Met performance must be a great experience, and one day I will be there.  However, in the meantime, the High-Definition projections are exciting enough, and provide better visuals.  A giant screen filled with Brunhilde's tightly packaged chest, Vs. the view from the back of the fourth balcony?  These broadcasts are shown in many cities, including the Bay Area and Israel.  I highly recommend them.

Our initiation to "Live from the Met" was the third epic of Wagner's The Ring.  Yesterday, we completed the cycle.  In between, we filled the gap and saw several other operas, both at the theater, and on our ten-inch screen.  To me, the most striking was Philip Glass' Satyagraha, an opera about Gandhi.  As a kick, we watched La Bohème, followed by its modern derivative, Rent.  Rent was more fun, but I am already hooked on Opera.

I enjoyed the drama of The Ring Cycle, yet I am puzzled, and I need help.  Wagner, aside from being an anti-Semite, whose best friends were Jewish, was a prolific writer of philosophy and politics (none of which I read).  Therefore, these operas, other than being just a retelling of old Germanic myths, must have a philosophical or political message.  What is that message?  I cannot come up with an answer.  Dear readers, any answers, thoughts or speculations?

P.S.  The Met's Brunhilde looked much better.

Neat video

I like this video.  It captures one of the joys of travelling:  The actual travel.  Lovely music too.
Just when I was getting settled and comfortable in Oaxaca, this clip awakened the nomadic urge.  It's a good thing I will be going to California in a couple of months.


Life, In Between from J. William Young on Vimeo.

Eat, Dance, Swim, Acapulco

"Acapulco is very touristy.  You will not like it"
That was Kobi's verdict after his journey along the Pacific coast of Mexico.  I trust Kobi's judgement.  However, when our dance academy organized a trip to a Danzon convention there, Adi and I joined the group.

After spending most of the night  and some of the morning, in a small bus, we reached the congested streets of  Acapulco.  I crossed the busy avenue that separated our hotel from the beach, and stepped on the sand.  In front of me , the inviting blue bay was at the center of three concentric rings.  The white sands that curved around me, a tight semi-circle of high-rise hotels, and the steep green hills that accommodate the city's neighborhoods.  I immediately erased the hotels from my vision, and focused on the beach, which despite guide-book warnings, was less crowded than the one in Tel-Aviv.  A white-uniformed waiter approached with a menu in hand.  However, my mind was set on the water.  When I emerged, wet and grinning, the waiter was there.  He assured me that the red snapper was freshly caught.
"My name is Agustin." he said pointing to the badge on his chest,  "Ask for me."

1
In the late afternoon, Agustin arranged a table near the water, and served us a Coco Loco.  I went for a swim, then joined him in the kitchen to choose our fish.  The sun set as we leisurely sipped our cocktail, admired the beach, and discussed the advantages of low expectations.  Suddenly, I remembered the Mexican taste for over-cooked food.  I rushed to the kitchen and found the fish sizzling in the frying pan.  The cook, a skeptical expression on her face, consented to extract it from the hot oil.  I held my breath while cutting under the deeply tanned skin.  We were lucky.  A few more minutes, and the fish would have been on the other side of well-done.  After twenty-four hours without a meal, we devoured it down to the white bones.

The next evening, Agustin greeted us like old friends.  We ordered the red snapper again.
"Please explain to the cook," I told him, "that I like the meat wet, and ask her to fry it less than yesterday."
The result was deliciously crisp outside, and moist inside.  We were happy, full, and ready to shine in the Danzon Gala.

On the third and final day, we came for lunch.  We resisted the first impulse, and ordered shrimp.
"Remember yesterday's fish?" I asked Agustin, "It was good, but please, cook the shrimp even less."
The plump shrimp arrived soft, juicy, and sweet.  I am sure the cook thought she was serving cannibals.

2
The main event of the convention was held in a fancy hotel, on a balcony, perched on a cliff, overlooking the bay.  Warm air, stars above, and a twelve-piece orchestra, made this an elegant Cinderella ball.  I could have danced all night, and I did.  Never before did I feel so light and smooth.  I was relaxed, I was smiling, and not even once did I look at my feet.  Fireworks illuminated the sky as Adi and I celebrated our graduation from novice status.  We were the only foreigners in the ball, and we attracted much attention.  A handsome dance instructor, which we addressed as "Maestro", involved us in a little game.  He would glide next to us with one of the seven women he hosted at his table, and without a breaking his rhythm, he would swap his partner with mine.  I did not object, since this was a good opportunity to improve my skill in leading, but I think he got the better deal.

3
At the same time that I encountered Danzon, I began teaching myself to swim freestyle.  I was eager to swim in Acapulco Bay, and I was sure that whatever pollution it may contain, cannot be worse than our over-chlorinated pool.  The narrow entrance to the bay blocks the pacific waves that pound Mazunte, and keeps the sea shiny smooth, with only small ripples generated by the light breeze.  I plunged in, and to my delight, the temperature was perfect.  I knew then, that no matter what happens in the Danzon events, I will enjoy swimming here.  Each day, I increased the swim distance.  As my final objective, I chose an island which was far enough to be challenging.

On the morning after the ball, I woke up late and tired.  I forced myself to the beach, with freedom to abort.
'If I don't feel good,' I told myself 'I will just take a short dip.'
I started with a drill from my instruction CD.  I extended my hands, relaxed, and eased myself, face down, into the water.  It was a matter of physics, but it felt like a miracle.  Unlike the pool, I did not have to flutter my feet to stop my legs from sinking.  I took a breath, tried again, and achieved the same results.  I began swimming with the same sense of calm and relaxation, and within a few strokes I decided to swim to the island.  As I swam, a school of tiny fish surrounded me and nibbled on my calm legs.  I enjoyed the tickle massage and dismissed any thoughts of bigger fish that may be interested too.  I concentrated on my stroke  with a  a meditation-like focus, until a group of kayakers interrupted my meditation.  We exchanged a few pleasantries, and I continued on.  I arrived at the island feeling better than at the start, needing only a pause(at my age, it's hard to pee while swimming), before returning to shore.  Google maps confirmed the distance to the island as 1200 meters.

Kobi was right.  Acapulco is very touristy, but I liked it.
     

P.S.  Acapulco's trademark, the cliff divers, should not to be missed.

The Last Dance

It was a warm Wednesday night in the Zocalo.  An excellent Danzon orchestra was playing 'Nereidas', which is traditionally the last dance of the evening.    I was absorbed in leading Adi with as much grace as I could master, when a new sound slowly emerged into my awareness. It was the bright syncopated chirps of claves, weaving their happy tempo above the measured notes of the orchestra.  The sound emanated from somwhere on the dance floor, and the musician was obscured by the other dancers.

"Could it be Manolo?" I asked Adi.

The sound drew nearer, and Manolo, the two short Mahogany sticks in his hands was standing next to us.  We last saw him more than two years ago, yet here he was, just as I remembered him.  A bit wrinkled, a bit bent, and with the same childish joy in his eyes.  We would have hugged him right then, but interrupting a dance is a serious breach of etiquette.  We continued to dance while Manolo circled around us, smiling and  marking the 2-3 rhythm with his claves.

Manolo was a good friend of Gabriel Domingo, the founder of the "Danzon Wednesday" event.  They both loved this  traditional dance.  Gabriel was the businessman and organizer, while Manolo worked the crowds.  Manolo, striking his cuban-made claves, would circulate among the dancers, and with great enthusiasm encourage the spectators to join in.  Together, they made Oaxaca one of the top Danzon spots in Mexico.  When Gabriel Domingo died, Manolo assumed the role of organizer and  master of ceremonies.  He was in that role when we  first arrived in Oaxaca, fell in love with the dance style, and became Danzoneros.  We, or more accurately, Adi, stood out among the dancers, and Manolo used us to promote the event.

"Danzon is international!" he would exclaim during a break in the music, "Here in the corner", he would continue, pointing at us, "wearing black, is a couple of dancers from South Korea!"

Adi would join her palms, raise her hands to her chest in the traditional Asian gesture, and smilingly bow to the cheering spectators.  Next summer, while we were traveling, Gabriel Domingo's daughter returned to Oaxaca to claim her father's event and the significant government subsidy that came with it.  Manolo was not allowed near the microphone, nor did the daughter give him the small amount that he used to receive from her father.  He stayed for a while, but eventually his spirit was broken.  When we came back to Oaxaca, he was not there.  We were told that he is ill, and staying in his distant home town.

The music ended with a flourish.  As we turned to hug Manolo, he was gone.  We looked around, but he was nowhere in sight.  Strangely, none of the other dancers has seen him.  A few days later, friends told us the sad news.  Despite his deteriorating condition, Manolo left the hospital and disappeared.  He was last seen Wednesday afternoon, walking on the road to Oaxaca.

Fire-art in Oaxaca

My thanks to Yossi and Edna, a sparkling couple.

Music, fireworks, and art are embedded in the tapestry of life in Oaxaca.  Throughout the day, we are never far from a source of energetic music.  At night, the smallest celebration can generate loud booms and colorful flashes. Artists are attracted to this city, and their work is displayed in sidewalk stalls and fancy galleries.

So, what happens when three prominent Oaxacan artists collaborate to create a musical fireworks display?   Like Oaxaca itself, their creation was a mixture of tradition and creativity.  Colorful, loud, and so unashamedly naive that I could not help but love it.

The spectacle took place in the large Plaza de la Danza.  When we arrived, much of the audience was already seated on the stone bleachers built into the hillside.  Bright floodlights illuminated the carved facades of the colonial churches that flank the square, and the village lights in the valley below provided the backdrop.  At the designated start time, workers were still clambering up the scaffolding to hang the soon-to-be-lighted works, yet the audience which was busy buying dulces (sweets) from the circulating vendors, displayed no signs of impatience.

Eventually, the lights dimmed, and a wind ensemble began playing a fusion of atonal, modern-style music, and local traditional melodies.  After the prelude, the dramatic staccato sounds continued to accompany the light show.  A loud swoosh, and a long tunnel-like structure erupted into sparkling light.  Visible inside were models of a hare and a tortoise. Propelled by colorful rockets they rolled on to the floor.  Unfortunately, the story of the chase was not too clear since, despite the assistants frantic efforts, the hare turned to the right, while the tortoise insisted on going left.  As the flames of the first display wound down, the scaffolding evolved into fiery scenarios of sea and air. On the floor below, traditional fire dancers whirled with the music.  Fire dancers carry over their head large paper-mâché figures of animals, decorated with burning, swirling and exploding fireworks.  The scene concluded with a crowd-pleasing white fire-fall tumbling from the top of the church.  For the show's finale, we were treated to large airborne rockets.

A couple of summers ago, along the Vancouver shoreline, Adi and I watched an international fireworks competition.  Each night, a different country tried to increase the "Wow factor".  The amount of gunpowder ignited in the first salvo of each show, exceeded by far the whole of the Oaxaca event.  However, judging by the behavior of the Vancouver audience, the awesome display did not replace the stress generated in the overcrowded environment.  In Oaxaca, the happy faces of families, leisurely chatting their  way out of the plaza, were clear evidence that satisfaction is not a function of the money spent on state-of the-art rockets.  In Oaxaca, relaxed living and unsophisticated expectations result in people that are always ready to accept and experience pleasure.


Below is a clip of the event.
ttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rwl0BuPo3TA