Day 2 in Tlaxiaco...er...Teposcolula

My plan this morning is to head out of town north, as if I'm treading back to Oaxaca in a van, but this time I'll hop out at Teposcolula, City of Historic Monuments. I met a couple at the Anniversary Celebration from Teposcolula, who timidly agreed to be interviewed. So, now I will follow the tiny address I scrawled in my notebook over a week ago and attempt to find them again.

When I jump out at the center of town, I ask the ticket guy at the bus station where Galeana street is located. He draws me a quick map on the back of a receipt (which he doesn't give me, but just uses to demonstrate the route). However, as I'm heading further and further from town center, and it appears the the edge of the city is approaching fast, I stop to ask a bread maker. He's unsure of Galeana and directs me to the Tortillera. She doesn't know either. I'm beginning to think that no one knows the street names around here. The same is true in Oaxaca City. The street names change every several blocks, thus, people find it easier to memorize sign posts, rather than street names. Often directions will sounds like this: Head up hill, there's a bank on the corner of the street, take a right, you'll come to this two-story house, there's a mangy dog out front, he doesn't bite, take a left...

So by the time I'm clearly out of town range, I stop over at a gas station and wander inside to the restaurant in back. A woman in the kitchen approaches, but she, too, is uncertain of Galeana's location. However, when I tell her the name of Felipe, the farmer,who I am looking for, she asks, "Oh! Does his wife make tortillas?" And bam! We're in business. She directs me back into town and describes my exact route, even the wooden fence the lines their front yard. Who would have guessed? The town has maybe 3600 people--but it seemed a stretch that a name would do it. Guess not!

Out front a man is sweeping up the street. I inquire about Felipe, the farmer, he says "Ah, yes, that's my boss, follow me." It turns out this is Felipe's son. The "my boss" throws me off for the first 20 minutes. Apparently, some people affectionately call their parents "boss" in some parts of Mexico. I'm thinking my dad would like if I did that, too!

Felipe remembers me, and my promise to visit. It's so late in the week, he was afraid I had forgotten. We head inside to the small stone kitchen where his wife is still busy making tortillas. She's more cautious about my presence than Felipe. Regardless, I get out my equipment and begin to record her tireless process of making tortillas. She grinds a corn masa until it's smooth and thin on the lava stone metate. She hunks off a small piece, rolls it between her palms, and then places it in a press to smoosh it flat. She peels it from the press and then places it delicately onto the floured comal, which sits over a small open fire. Flip flip flip, each tortillas takes a spin. One-by-one they puff up large and then deflate. Flip. They are done--so she places them into a palm basket to keep warm. I record, I ask questions. She places a fresh warm one in my hands, sprinkling fresh farmers' cheese in the middle. It is the best tortilla I have had to date.

Her son and husband file into the room eventually. They each take a turn at the microphone. They are avid listeners of the station, even though they do no speak a language other than Spanish. The music, the programs, they play on the small radio affixed to the stone wall almost all day long. Felipe takes me out to the fence that surrounds their house and shows me the long reaching view of the valley. He points off into the distance at a large yellow tree. "To the left, that is my farm."

When the interview is over, the son offers to take me into to town and show me some of the historic buildings the town is named after. When he is not teaching at an elementary school in town, or helping around the farm, he is a licensed tour guide. So we take a walk through the enormous town church, Templo Mayor, which has the largest outdoor Dominican chapel in all of Latin America. We then hike up hill to the Casa Cacica, which was the home of the leader of the indigenous tribe that peopled this valley. The missionaries built the church as close as possible to the Cacica hoping to draw the local crowd that would visit the Cacica to their Catholic stone steps.

Casa Cacica

The day is dripping away, and I'm expected back at the station. So I say goodbyes and hope right into a van that pulls up to the Plaza. It's a fast hour's ride back to Tlaxiaco. I jump out at XETLA. This week begins Christmas break for many. But the station doesn't stop broadcasting ever. Thus, three of the staff members must keep the place running while the others are on break. It's Cornelio's shift when I arrive. He lets me into one of the offices to use a computer. I've agreed to give a few quick English lessons to some of the staff. So with the help of a book a purchased in Oaxaca, I start to write out their first homework assignment. I leave several copies in a manila folder out front at Reception. We'll see how many accomplish their assignment on my return in January.

Before the sun dips down, I take advantage of the light to walk back into town to my little room. The family, my landlords, are all dressed up for the wedding they have been feverishly preparing for all week. When I arrive Mary, all decked out in finery, shoos me into my room and tells me to quickly come over to the reception site. Truthfully, I dawdle a bit, tired from the day, and also a bit shy about attending a wedding of I-don't-know-who. Eventually, I get dressed up and head a half-block away to the wedding site, which is a large tent erected over a vacant lot. The family has adorned it in flowers, bolts of fabric, clay pots traditional to Tlaxiaco. Two stages are set up in front--because one band is not enough for a party of this size. With a town so small, one would not think there would be so many guests. But people have come from all over to celebrate. Plus, it's Christmas, so many are home to pass the holiday with their families--and of course, they have to attend the wedding, as well. There are possibly 350-400 people. Some are sitting at long stretching tables. Others are in folding chairs circling the dance floor. When I walk in the bride and groom are being pushed into some kind of dance that is traditional for weddings. The groom is being sprayed by his family and friends with beer, poor guy, while the bride is held aloft by her bridesmaids. They then strip the groom of his shoes and socks, hoist him up like a coffin and march him around the tent, with the bride trailing behind. I hear something about how he is married now, which means he's basically dead, I guess. This is all kind of foggy because I didn't have anyone explaining to me the meaning behind the dance. So bear with my naked observation free of comprehension. They then sit the groom down, totally drenched in beer, and the bride has to put his socks on him. People then belt him into an apron and hand him a broom. The emcee is yelling something over the mic about how he's going to have to get used to helping with the housework now. So he begins to dance with the broom around the dance floor--he seems to be having a grand time. They shove a belt into the brides hands, and all taunt and encourage her to whip him with it. What is this?!

Eventually I find Agustin and Mary in the crowd. They sit me down at a table and a plate of mole and rice is placed in front of me. I eat. I have a drink. I chat with a few people. I watch the dance floor fill and empty in a flash. And after I take a spin on the dance floor myself, I decide I'm done. I know the party, which started at 3 in the afternoon, will stretch on until the morning. For a people that truly work all week long, and don't have a weekend from work like we do in the States, a wedding is a great excuse to finally relax and enjoy.

I'm anxious to return to Oaxaca, however. I've got house guests arriving in a few days--so things need to get done! So I set my alarm for 6, and drift off to sleep with the boom boom of the bass thumping in the background.