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
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Oaxaqueño with a free drink
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For real photos go to:
http://casitacolibri.wordpress.com/2012/03/17/water-water-everwhere/
Theater of the Oppressed
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| "Woman" by Adi |
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.
On the way home, a few vigorous laps in the clear water of a spring-fed pool, washed away my last thoughts of blood.
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