Warning: This post is about my intestinal tract

Make no mistake, this post will be gross. But let it never be said that I do not respond to my very kind, very beautiful and very gross readers.

This past Friday morning I departed for a pueblo north of Oaxaca City called Guelatao (Gay-luh-TOWAH). I'll post in more detail later about my journey there. However, since some of you seem more interested (:)) in the comings and goings of my food--I'll post on that first.

I will open by saying that there has thankfully been little abnormal action in my digestive realm since arriving. That all came to an explosive stop at the tail end of my journey north (pun intended). I trekked up to Guelatao to witness the 26th anniversary of their indigenous radio station there. People from pueblos all over the Sierra Juarez came for the three-day event. The local station, with the help of the municipal government, throws a large soiree. Included in the festivities is round-the-clock dining. No joke. They set up a food tent of sorts, placed next to a wooden shack that serves as a make-shift kitchen. About 30 women and teenagers are hired from different pueblos to work 17-hour shifts, serving breakfast, lunch and dinner to any and all who come into town for the festivities; that includes all the bands, performers, the municipal government, and tourists alike. It's pretty incredible.

I should start by saying the food was simple and good. It was totally free--and served with such generosity by the staff running the kitchen--it's hard to complain about any of it. And honestly, this isn't a complaint. My body just happened to not agree with something I ate on the final day. But prior to that moment, I happily and healthily ate beans, a kind of tomato soup, warm tortillas, atole, chicken, rice, beans, a very sweet agua de jamaica, locally made sesame sweet bread and more beans. I even drank my first true cup of coffee. It was served to me, and I found myself in a difficult situation in which to refuse the cup. So I drank. It was watery, and already sweetened with sugar; added ot that were ground almonds. It wasn't too bad. I'd earlier recorded some of the women in the kitchen talking about making the coffee. They stoke the fire all day long under the most enormous pot I have every witnessed--it's really more of a bathtub, than a pot. So it seemed appropriate now to try it.


Okay, let's get down to it then. On my final afternoon they served barbacoa--the big meal for the festival.
I'm almost positive this is what did it. I recorded the kitchen boss making the meal--flanks of meat saturated in spicy stew and then piled into a huge pot with avocado leaves layered throughout for flavor. Honestly, it was probably just too spicy for me. Plus, I haven't been eating a lot of meat down here. So perhaps it's the change that did it.

A few hours later I found myself nestled within a crowd of hundreds watching the 6 major bands that came into town play all together at once. It was a pretty incredible undertaking. Imagine 150 musicians, most of them under the age of 13, all playing the same, quick-tempo song without any rehearsal, or music. They played marches, waltzes--local music, really. But the songs are so beloved, and so traditional that they all know the tunes. So there I am, witnessing THE event of the festival, and a rumbling starts to brew down below. Uh oh. I breath deeply and tell my body to relax. "There will be time for that later," I say, "we're here to record this event now." Awards are given. Municipal leaders are presented. Rumble, rumble. It's not going away. I get a sharp pain in my lower abdomen. Uh oh, uh oh. This is when I know that it's more serious than I had thought. But you see, I'm sitting directly in the middle of the crowd. There is no clear path to escape. So I let it go another bit. Rumble, rumble, rumble--sharp pain--uh oh, yikes...That's when I start packing up my gear.

Have you ever had this happen to you--you have to pee, let's say. You know you do, but you've got a while before it's urgent. So you finish up your conversation, or finiag typing an email, whatever, and then you excuse yourself. But the minute that your body knows you're heading for the restroom the urgency triples in intensity. So now you're practically running. You see it in kids all the time. They tell you, "Hey, I've gotta go," and then the moment you take their hand to walk to the bathroom they start doing that pee-pee dance and their hands go instinctually to their crotches for added protection. You know what I mean?

Well, this is precisely what happened to me. As I trip, ungracefully through the crowd down to the plaza (which is the stage, incidentally), and veer quickly to the main road--my body tells me to start running. My pride tells me to just walk it. So I'm somwhere between a brisk walk and a jog at this point. The room I rented for the night in someone's home is just a half block down from the plaza. So it's not far to go. When I reach the front gate I'm happy to see there is no one in the courtyard with whom I will need to make polite chatter as I do my poo-poo dance, hand to bum for added protection. I practically sprint to my room, which of course is locked, and has a "tricky" lock, at that. But I HAVE to get in there to get some TP. I already know this is not gonna be the kind of visit to the bathroom that you can just jiggle off, pull up and go. Nope.

And this is precisely the moment that I attempt to find God.

No joke people, I was seconds away from Total Underpants Chernobyl. But something, and I'm gonna say it's God here, gave me the extra few seconds I needed to turn the lock, grab some kleenex from my bag, sprint it to the bathroom and squat. Whew. I'm sweating just in the retelling of this one.

I'm not going to describe what came next. I'm just not that kind of girl. Well, not today, at least (thank you, Matt Love). But I'm sure all of you can rally some kind of image for youselves. I WILL say this--you know what is my least favorite thing about Mexico...? The political corruption? no. The massive poverty? un uh. The fact that you can't flush your toilet paper here. I'll be honest, I flush it at my own house in Oaxaca--'cause the pipes are good, and I just wanna. But this was not that kind of bathroom. And I just hate that I can't wipe and drop, you know? So perhaps my number 1 reason at this point for loving America is the plumbing. It's awesome.

Well, there you have it! Please send your hearty thanks to 'Toria for the suggested topic.

Something a bit more "cerebral" about my trip to come...