El Aniversario

Yesterday is a muddle of events. I missed the 6am suburban to Tlaxiaco to rob one more hour of sleep from the morning. Thus, I arrived in Tlaxiaco at 10, a bit groggy. I schlep my things to the house where I will rent a room and then head out to the station. Friday begins the festivities that mark the 25th Anniversary for XETLA, Voice of the Mixteca. The actual date of the inception of the station is in September. A large party was planned in a pueblo outside Tlaxiaco. However, due to some political strife there, the festivities had to be rescheduled.
This is a plus for me, since I wasn't in town in September. However, the new date has become an extreme disadvantage for the station, as a majority of the pueblos this weekend are celebrating religious festivals of their own, like the Virgen de Jucuila. That means most of the musicians slated to play have been contracted elsewhere. The small turnout in attendees, is another visible proof. When I roll up to the station, instead of a swarm of activity, there are just a few members of XETLA milling about, but nothing of the intense activity I expected.

I sit in with Virgen Carmen "Vicky" as she conducts her show "Vuela Vuela, Palomita" (Fly Fly, Little Dove). I stay on to sit in on Maria Teresa's "Avisos" program that is spoken half in the Triqui language, and half in Spanish. Really, sitting in is just a pretext to informally interview both women, one a producer, the other a teacher. Both have been with the station since it's inception. One has witnessed the comings and goings of directors and producers. The other has observed the public's influence on the programming of the station.

Part of throwing an anniversary party for the station means feeding every attendee who arrives for the entire weekend--from band members, to dancers, to visitors from pueblos farther afoot. With a small staff to run the whole operation, I roll up my sleeves to help sling hash, errr, sling tamales, as it were. The first meal of the day is a soup with green beans, potatoes, squash and carrots, soaked in a light consumé, adorned with a chunk of beef, sprinkled with cilantro and chile. After downing a mighty bowl, I waddle over to the main tent where festivities take place. Small, "cuerda" bands of two or three strum out regional Chilenas, while large brass bands strike up numbers that invite all to dance.

Strangely a clown shows up. He's little, comes up to my chest, even though he must be around 35 or so. He's not just any clown, he's an "ecological clown," as they tell me. He takes his clown act on the road to different pueblos and cities to teach the inhabitants how to properly recycle their plastics and tins, as well as create compost heaps for their produce.

The sun sets on the first night, bringing the cold of the Mixteca mountains. I don my hood and scarf as the tamales and coffee arrive in huge aluminum pots. We pass them around to those that remain. And while it's a small group that lingers into the night, they have all come prepared to party. Someone breaks open a bottle 12 year-old tequila. It is chesnut-colored and smooth. The clown pulls me up onto the "dance floor," really just a clearing of dusty, pebble-strewn ground in front of the stage. Now, everyone must get a dance with the Gringa. I'm passed from the accountant who runs a non-profit development organization for indigenous towns, to the sustainable tree farmer, to a municipal president, who incidentally dances the most closely, and back to clown. I don't rest for the space of 2 hours. The light shuffling and tequila keep me warm. The party stretches on into the night, as bands that linger, swap impromptu trips to the stage, some mixing violins with brass to keep the crowd on its feet.

This first night I escape out the back once my brain has decided it is ready for sleep. I return to my little room totally exhausted from the full day.

The next day finds me rising early to the interminable squawks of the rooster outside my window. I silently thank the gods that I don't own a gun, because I most assuredly would have used it at 4am when the little fellow began his song, and thus, found myself out on the street without a room.

Today is no different, people arrive, and they must be fed. So my backpack and recording equipment are set aside to set up for breakfast (lamb barbecue with consumé). That's right, they eat beef tacos for breakfast. Yesterday the couple arrived to prepare the meat. A small whole, about 3-feet in diameter, is laid with brick back behind the dining hall. It is layered with burning hot logs (a type of wood found in the hills around the city that has a longer burn time and amazing flavor), then stones, then avocado and (what look like) maguey leaves, followed by the shanks of meat and small cazuelas of corn masa in burnt tomato sauce. That is topped with more maguey leaves and dirt to clamp in the heat. It roasts all night long in its juices to be ready for the morning rush. Each table has a small platter of chopped cilantro, onions and chile. We pass out small cups of the consumé, large bowls of the corn masa soup and platters of succulent, pink lamp meat. People intermittently roll tacos of the meat and toppings, and dunk them in the consumé. It hits the spot on this chilly morning.

The music today is larger bands and orchestras. I get a chance to pull aside a Triqui duet for an interview. They are from San Andrea Chicahuaxtla. I will travel out to their pueblo later in the week for Plaza Day. A few dance groups show up to perform regional dances with local bands. The Danza de la Conquista lasts for almost an hour. My heart goes out to the young dancers who seem to never tire of the fast rhythm of the brass that keeps them hopping and spinning in formation. Later the Danza de los Diablitos takes the floor. Eights guys don elaborate devil masks, sheep-skin chaps and bandanas to dance to the lively music. Two carry whips that they crack into the air for emphasis. It is captivating as the sheep hair floats and bobs with the kicks and strides of their legs, their hands raised into the sky, inviting all to watch, or perhaps join. The final band of the night is "El Incontenible Banda de San Juan." Now, these guys are great. A huge brass band of young kids from the age of 8 up to 25. They play with gusto, their "manager" shouting taunts into the microphone, making sure the audience doesn't sit and rest for even one moment; all must dance. However, I can't help but chuckle at the band's name. "Incontenible" means uncontrollable. And the full name of the band is spoken every time they start or finish a song. It seems to me like announcing before I get up to dance "Ladies and Gentlemen, the Unbelievably Graceful Megan Martin!" And then as I sit down between songs, "Again, folks, the Unbelievably Graceful Megan Martin...let's give her a hand..."

The Incontenible plays their final encore, and people begin to disperse into communal taxis and vans for their eventual destinations. A small group of those of us from the station circle up chairs and open a bottle of 12 year-old scotch that the director unveils. He asks me if we should mix it with soda (???!!!). I strictly forbade it (Aubrey) and say we must have it "derecho," straight-up. Someone pulls up his pick up truck and turns on the stereo for added ambience. Later we stumble 70 meters over (look at me talking in metrics!) to an all-night taco stand. Daniel, the director, treats us all to a late night snack. And it is no surprise that I collapse in bed that night, awaiting the dulcet tones of my rooster friend at sunrise...