Town of dust and vapor

I arrive early to Tlaxiaco on the 6am suburban. There was a last-minute dash to the station when I had a friend drop me off at one locale, and found that they would not be departing for another hour. Luckily their competitor was only two blocks away. Once we pulled into town center, I marched my belongings to the house that supposedly has a room for rent. The Señora is, unfortunately, not at home this morning. Her assistant lets me know that the room will not be vacant for 15 days, but that I should return to chitty-chat it up with the Señora later in the afternoon. I back track to town center and walk into the hotel off the main plaza to inquire about rooms. This is the "fancy" hotel in town, and they're charging $25/night. A bit out of my range if I stay the whole 6 days here. Plus, check-in isn't for another few hours--so I need to figure something else out. I trek downhill to a place I saw as I was walking the reverse, Hotel Colón. A room for the night costs a mere $13. SOLD. Do I ask to see the place? to test that there's hot water? Nope. I'm taking this one on faith. It's a dirty little room with two twin beds and a bathroom of its own (I paid more for this). It smells a bit like toilet; and I have my fears that there may be bed bugs. But as the woman running the place hands me my towel, a chocolate-sized bar of soap and a roll of toilet paper, I feel happy to have a place to drop my things.

Today Mexico celebrates the Day of the Musician. I've arrived early so I can observe the presentation of a CD to one of the local bands from a pueblo called San Agustín Tlacotepec. The group, "Clave del Sol" (literally, "Key to the Sun") is keeping alive the music that accompanies the Danza de la Conquista de México. I'm a bit early for the dedication, so I sit in on the current show "Vuela Vuela, Palomita" where people's greetings and news are read amidst the musical program. For instance, many who live in pueblos farther afoot will take advantage of Saturday's market day to drop by the station with a note for their family. Others call in from outside the station's signal reach to send news to those that are listening. The station acts as telephone or telegraph office (for those of you who are still sending telegraphs!).

Clave del Sol doesn't make it in time for their hour interview on the show. The rest of us make a few jokes about the Day of the Musician being spent "crudo"(hungover) in bed, instead of at the station. When they do finally show up, there is a semi-formal presentation of the CD, off-the-air, to the fellas. I ask them to each sign my CD so that "years from now people will know I have the original cut."

Afterwards, I dash out to meet up with Eva Hernandez, one of the producers at XETLA, as we are heading to San Juan Mixtepec for the town's annual party to celebrate, well, the town. SJ Mixtepec is about an hour-and-a-half's drive north and west of Tlaxiaco. We stand on a corner just west of the Plaza de Constitución waiting for Rene, another radio colleague. After twenty minutes we abandon Rene to his own fate and pay the 30 pesos to squeeze five into a truck to head northwest.

Three blocks from town the road turns to gravel and dust and doesn't let up until we're hovering over SJ Mixtepec. The drive is unbelievably gorgeous. We climb a mountainside, winding around small, wooden cabins, pines and small, snaking rivers. The dust clears at a bend in the road and opens a window onto a small lagoon. Just off the edge of the pond stands a tree straight out of a fairytale. The long, dry roots reach and stretch to find water, spreading their tentacles to the pond's edge. The tree is growing a beard, of sorts; soft tufts of gray matter dangle from the ends of each branch and leaf. If I close my eyes and let my mind soften I can open them, and suddenly I am in Colorado, it seems.



I'm sandwiched between the shotgun-side door and Eva Hernandez, one of the producers from XETLA. SJ Mixtepec is her hometown. When the truck crests the mountain, I get my first peek at SJ Mixtepec, Ciudad de Independencia. It's no two-road town, as I had wagered; it's a veritable city nestled into the well left by a glacier thousands of years ago, I imagine. As we descend into town, and as gravel turns to pavement, we pass some immense houses with giant glass windows and turrets; one even has grass! It's proof in cement and paint of the migratory pattern of these Mixtecos. This is U.S. dollar-bought and built. Eva tells me over half of the town has migrated north--some to Mexico City, others to Sonora or Veracruz; but the majority head across the desserts to enter the United States. Validation appears of this again when Eva and I hop out of the truck at her street. As we walk down the dusty road, most of the houses we pass look abandoned. Eva confirms that family members who remain behind check on the houses for their departed paisanos, opening windows and doors to disperse "dust and vapor," as she puts it.

Eva shimmies a ladder up to the roof of her house so she can break into it from above and unlock the back door for me. We fuel up with H2O, use the bathroom and head into town. "Tah-coo-nee, Shee Shee" she teaches me. My first Mixtec phrase. It's a greeting. "Shee Shee" means aunt, which they use out of respect to elders.

The Plaza is set up with three stages for bands in honor of the celebration. The party is set to begin at 1. When we arrive at 2 nothing is happening, as Eva predicted. Instead, we take a walk. Back through a small alleyway that serves as a market, we wind and trip. Blue and green tarps top each stall. Shoes are sold next to fruit, which is found next to tamales. We bump into Eva's aunt. One never knows in Mexico if someone is actually related to said "aunt" or "cousin." "Primo" seems to be a catch-all for a good friend. But in this case this is actually Eva's aunt. We greet one another by me shaking her wrist (her hands are dirty with masa). She invites us to sit and asks in Mixteco if the "gavacha (forgeigner) wants to try a barbecue taco." Of course!

And so we sit and I eat my first goat meat taco (borego or trey-gah-chee, depending what language you speak). The head and body sit under a clothe to protect it from flies. She peals the meat from the bone with machete and hands and spreads it in a large, fresh corn tortilla, sprinkling it with a bit of salt. She rose yesterday morn to butcher the calf. She prepares the meat in a light sauce with spices and roasts it slowly over the course of the day and night to bring it to market today. The meat is tender and fresh.

Eva suggests I interview her aunt. Shee Shee seems reluctant, but I choose to proceed and conduct, hands down, the most awkward and confusing interview of my short radio career. (No kidding, this beats even the quasi homeless man in Maine who in answer to my vox pop question "what is a guilty pleasure of yours," said, "people who ask me questions I don't want to answer.") Interviewing Eva's aunt was like trying to get a butterfly to perform a choreographed dance. This is in no way a comment on her aunt's intelligence. It is more a judgement of my interviewing prowess. First, I should say she was uncomfortable speaking Spanish; older generations mostly speak Mixteco. Thus, it was a small hurdle that a) I don't understand Spanish 100%, and b) neither does she. We'd get halfway through her response to a question before I'd realize that SHE didn't understand ME. I'd ask her for her name and her profession, and she'd answer with "Well, when I have time, when I'm not working, I'll listen. But since my kids are..." And then I'd realize she is answering a question I didn't ask: when do you listen to the radio. It goes on like this in loopy circles; mix in that she flips in and out of Mixteco frequently--so I have to guess from context what she's saying, a context that I hardly understand to begin with because she's answering mystery questions. I finally ask her to switch to Mixteco and have Eva translate--hoping that will clear things up. We try for a bit, but Eva keeps tuning out and saying, "Sorry, I wasn't paying attention." We wrap it up. Eva's aunt hands me a chayote, a kind of vegetable/fruit (no one can agree which), that you boil and peel, or peel and fry. It's got dangerous little throns, but apparently it is rico. Once I've scrubbed and peeled it, I'll let you know what I think.

As we mill about he Plaza, Eva tells me I'll encounter a lot of people in the Mixtec Region of an older generation that won't speak Spanish very well. This will take some more thought. I'll need a translator in some circumstances, it seems. Eva warns me that people will be shy about speaking. But later when I venture off on my own I don't find that to be true. Certainly people can be wary of strangers, especially ones with giant microphones. However, I think the people in San Juan Mixtepec were just as curious about me as I was about them. Perhaps it adds a bit of special-ness that someone from outside their community takes interest in the pueblos of the Mixtec region. Who can say?

I exit out the north end of the Plaza, through the tiny market and cross the street to escape the reach of the loud boom boom boom of the music. I approach a few people to inquire if they listen to the XETLA station. My third try gets a hit. A taco maker says she listens from 6 to 6, the hours the station operates. She invites me behind her stove for the interview. We talk of her sons in Florida, her daughter in NY. There is no station in NY--so unlike with her kin in Florida, she doesn't have a means to know how her daughter is doing. She fears the son-in-law may be treating her daughter poorly. She explains, "It's a mother's job to worry. And think how hard it is without knowing." When I probe a bit, she guesses aloud that if everyone who has emigrated north were to return, the pueblo would no longer hold them all.


At the same stand I meet a Mixtec man, his wife and small daughter. They also listen to XETLA. In his blue jeans and black cowboy hat, he tells me his wish that XETLA could expand its signal reach further so when he is working off the beaten path he could still listen. His wife prompts him to make a greeting to XETLA in Mixteco, which he does. He invites me to a refresco. I accept water, snap a photo and head back to the Plaza.

I grab a quick interview with the Mayordomo (Head Honcho) of the celebration. I also interview the emcee of the event, who speaks with great pride about Mixtec culture.

As the sun descends, the party really gets under way. I can't find Rene, who also hopes to return to Tlaxiaco tonight. Eva has decided to stay. She warns that there's virtually no hope in finding a car back this hour. We flag down a bunch of trucks, but all come loaded with passengers, here to attend the festitivities. From my vantage point I can see all the way uphill to the "highway" that snakes back and fort to Tlaxiaco. It is speckled with the white lights of cars arriving in hordes. No red brake lights; nothing is moving in the opposite direction. Just as I am giving up and cursing myself for already putting money down on a room in Tlaxiaco, a car arives to carry people back to Tlaxiaco. A cheese seller, a nuts vendor, Rene and I pile in. I have to be careful not to yawn, or my tongue will be coated in dust entering through the driver's window. Fireworks glow way in the distance. The cheese vendor is convinced they're "relámpagos," lightening.

Tlaxiaco is still awake when we arrive just before 9, though I can barely stand. I've been going since 5 this morning when I packed my bag for the 6am suburban up. I return to my dark, little hotel room. It's dirty and spare, still. Circling round the room like a dog trying to find just the right spot, I eventually settle on the end of one of the two twin beds, my feet dangling to the floor. Do I venture out for a bite? Or do I just go to sleep now? I unlace my shoes and slough off my backpack. Ah yes, rest it is! I change to pajamas and a scarf--the night air here is cold cold. I strip the blanket off the spare bed and move it to mine. Popping in my iPod headphones, I listen to a bit of English before I drift off to sleep.

**more pictures to come