Oaxaca December 17-20, 1978

Mexico City was just a transit point - the first place I landed on my South American journey.  In a way, I wasn’t truly there, more caught up in the novelty, strangeness and scariness of what I had embarked upon.  And preoccupied with thoughts of ‘now where’ and ‘how to get there’.  I’d heard good things about a quiet, paradisical beach town called Puerto Escondido, southeast of Mexico City.  The road there went through Oaxaca, a not-to-be-missed traditional market town.  With the rudiments of a plan in mind I ventured out, found the huge central bus station, and bought a ticket to Oaxaca.  It was an all-day bus ride to get there, and I wouldn’t have a pre-booked hotel, as I did in Mexico City, when I got there.  So now I felt my trip had actually begun.  Now I was truly traveling. 

The bus ride to Oaxaca started out okay.  The bus itself was of course old and tired, and definitely on the crowded side, mostly families with many small children and astonishing amounts of ‘luggage’ – plastic bags and big colourful cloth bags, boxes, bundles tied up with twine, baskets overflowing with food (snacks for the road?).  Loading it all on – first in the cargo area and then inside the bus – pushing and stuffing it all under seats, in overhead racks, or just in the aisle – took a long time.  So we got a late start.  But I did have a seat by the window, and it was a sunny day, and the road was paved and straight.  So I was able to enjoy the ‘scenery’, which was mostly of a flat, arid landscape dotted with cacti, and enterprises of every sort, from farms to roadside craft and vegetable stands to service industries like car repair and tire shops.  

 

But everything changed when we hit the mountains.  The road narrowed and morphed into a hellishly curving, switch-backing snake.  And the driver, perhaps because we’d started late, seemed determined now to make up time, driving like a hot-dog skier, gunning it on the straight stretches and careening around the corners.  Packages started falling from the overhead racks; children started looking green, their mothers holding bags under their noses, waiting for the inevitable reappearance of the pop and cookies eaten with such delight just a short time ago. While I sympathized with the kids, having suffered with car-sickness myself, I hoped I wouldn’t have to watch, and hear, and smell that experience again... .

 

At one point, heading up-hill, our driver decided to pass an open-sided truck.  He miscalculated the width of the truck or the road, or was concerned about the possibility of oncoming traffic – who knows what exactly? – and managed to scrape the side of the truck.  So we stopped to sort that out, and I could see that the truck had lost a mirror and a fair bit of paint, and the bus had a cracked windshield.  Of course no police came, and I have no idea how the drivers settled things.  What I do know is that the driver, once we got going again, was even more on edge, and drove even faster and more dangerously for the rest of the trip.    

 

The mountain scape was brown and dry with some dead grass cover, scrub deciduous trees, and/or forests of cacti.  Subsistence farms lined the route – mostly growing corn.  There were people and burros everywhere – working in the fields, walking to market, doing washing, or just standing around – waiting for something...?  The women wore long colourful skirts, usually with a rebozo around their shoulders, holding a swaddled babe, a load of firewood, or goods going to or coming from the market.  Kids everywhere were dressed, scantily, in ragged clothing – a t-shirt with no pants, a skimpy skirt with no top.  Almost everyone was barefoot, or maybe wearing huaraches.   

 

We drove on and on – past dismal little towns – everywhere garbage and piles of rubble – plaster and adobe giving way to the forces of nature – and, more significantly, the carelessness of man.  It struck me how different this was – the lack of pride in house and home – from Greece, where even the poor were spotless in their clothing and would spend their mornings sweeping and white-washing the area infront of their homes.  Here things are left to disintegrate as they will – cracking crumbling plaster, peeling paint, piles of garbage and rubble, broken windows, scrapped cars, trucks… .  

 

Finally we got to Oaxaca, where I found a hotel without too much difficulty.  There were no end of young lads offering to take me to various establishments – for a tip, plus a cut from the hotel.  But I declined their offers and, despite my limited Spanish, managed to find just what I wanted – clean, quiet and cheap.) 

My first day in Oaxaca was an extravaganza of street and market life – I got my camera out and snapped away, trying to capture the liveliness, the character, the colour – the essence of this place.  Gorgeous looking fruits and veggies, beautiful woven hats and baskets, leather goods, colourful fabrics, and lots of plastic housewares from China, now ubiquitous throughout the world.  

The street scene was just as lively, with colourful goods on display on tables or just on the ground, street carts selling jugos and snacks, and guys offering services like knife sharpening.  

Warm countries have a definite advantage when it comes to street life.  It’s hard to imagine anything like this in an often cold and rainy place like Vancouver.  But what about in the summer?  Could our streets be more alive? 

 

The next day I thought I'd check out some of the churches that are so ubiquitous here in Mexico.  Catholicism is still very much alive in this part of the world.  From the outside they are certainly impressive – big, solid, and elegant – their symmetry of line, and their domes and spires all lift the eye – heavenwards.  The arched recesses with religious statuary, and the arched windows and doorways with massive wooden doors contribute to the feeling of power and glory.  They say: “this is God’s house”.  

 

But it’s in the inside that the real glory is manifest: it's in the goo-gaas and the gilt, the saints, with their halos and their staffs, looking down upon us, their flock, with tenderness and mercy.  What I like most, on the inside, is the soaring height, the wonderful light, and the peaceful silence.  While I no longer believe in the almighty, I can well understand, in this place, why so many do.  It is at once awe inspiring and very, very humbling.

 

 

On my last day in Oaxaca I met a couple of Americans, Jonathan and Ken, who were in Mexico on a winter break from work.  They were heading to the archaeological site of Monte Alban and invited me to come along.  Fortunately Ken had a Volkswagon bug, so getting there was easy – and fast.  We ambled around the sites, admired the geometric designs so beautifully carved in the rock walls, and considered the information in the printed pamphlet that explained that the sites were primarily used for human sacrifices, where the sacrificee’s heart was removed, still beating, and burned in a fire as an offering to the gods.  Ye gads!  The current serenity of the site belied its grizzly origins, and we sat in the sun talking about where we might go next....and decided on Puerto Angel, an undeveloped 'town' not far from Puerto Escondido, almost due south of Oaxaca.