It starts with a sea of clouds, it ends with postre

Lunch in Tlaxiaco

I awake early, in darkness. The pinche gallo was eclipsed by some other ruckus in the house at 12:30a, and later at quarter to four. So it's with eyes heavy with sleep and creaky limbs that I drag myself to shower. It is a particularly chilly morning. I can se my breath inside the house. Even the young woman who makes juice in the street-side store is not up yet. I suppose she has stolen a few more minutes under the covers.

I head uphill and south to the indoor market to nab myself some fresh bread. Out the market door, I swing right to snag a hot cup of atole with milk and rice, the steam trailing the cup as I head further south where vans head out for Putla. For $2 I hop a transport for San Andrés Chichuaxtla. It's an hour's ride out of town. I recognize a few bends in the road, from my earlier trip a few weeks before, the tiny pueblo of Cuquila, Maria Teresa's sisters house. The van slows as it comes around the turn to Chicahuaxtla and I get out on the side of the road. I head down a steep hill into the center Plaza, about a 15 minute walk away. As I head downhill, the road opens up to the view of the valley below--which due to this early morning hour appears to be a large lake--but in fact, is a sea of clouds and mist.

I'm in town to interview several folks at met a few weeks ago at Plaza Day. Let's hope they remember me, and prove still eager, or at least willing, to be recorded. When I knock on the door of Don Ramón, I am told that he headed out of town this morning, but will be back in an hour. In order to fill the time I make my way up to the Municipal Building to see if I can snag an interview with the President. No luck, the office is all shut up. It looks like people have already begun their Christmas break. I walk over to the bilingual elementary school to see if I can visit a classroom, or speak with the director. Again, out of luck. The school is all shut up. However, I pull aside some kids milling about and interview them, as well as a college-aged woman who is teaching them a bit of English while they are on break.

Still unsure that Don Ramón has returned, I make a beeline for the Plaza to meet up with a chicken/fruit/veggie seller. We sit outside her simple storefront on plastic stools as her kids play around us. She's nervous at first about the large microphone I extract from its case. However, after 10 minutes she begins to tell me about her life, her 14-year job in Mexico City in the house of some wealthy Israelis, and her return to Chicahauxtla for a better life for her kids. When I depart she hands me two mandarinas from her stand. I ask her how much, but she refuses to take any money. This act is repeated over and over wherever I travel; people from extremely humble surroundings offer me their time, their stories, and then, the very little they have. It's incredible.

I head back to Don Ramón's house. Unfortunately, no one answers the door. A few small children are playing in the backyard. I ask the eldest boy if he knows if Don Ramón has returned. He leads me back into town, and then west, downhill, towards the family farm. Ramón is busy piscando (pulling the ears of corn from the dried stalks in his field). So there we stand, on the dipping slope of his hillside field, him tossing fresh ears of corn into a stack, me with headphones and a mic, the green hills rolling out into a valley of clouds.

It's been a full morning--so I pack up my equipment and head back uphill to the highway. Just as I crest the climb, a van is passing. I flag it down, hop in, and sit back for the easy return to Tlaxiaco.


Don Ramón's Field

Later I meet up with Rene at the station. He wants to introduce me to the theater troupe he's in; they are putting up a pastoral play for the 26th. We head in a taxi up a back road off the station. The taxi winds and turns and eventually stops in front of an old wooden cabin, with chiseled adornments, looking over misty green hills. This is the home of the director of the play, as well as the site of the production. Salvador, the director, is a retired UNAM professor of theater. He lived most of his life in Mexico City as the Chair of his department, later as the director of a private arts high school. Now, in his late 60s, I would guess, he has retired with his wife to his hometown of Tlaxiaco. He teaches classes at the Casa de Cultura. His family has owned this cabin for generations; they own the acres of land around it, as well. There are plans to build a university on its property eventually, too.

The young actors are up on their feet, scripts in hand, blocking the scenes today. It does not matter that opening night is 5 days away--they are determined to make something wonderful for those that will gather in folding chairs, or stand next to tall pines to watch them perform. They ask me to take on a roll--but I head out of town a two days, and have to decline.

When rehearsal ends, a taxi appears. Most squeeze into every available seat, even the back trunk. Rene and I decide we'll walk up to the main road and find another passing cab. We head into town, make our way to Rincón de Gon for a cup of hot chocolate and a postre.Later we wander over to the Casa de Cultura for a classical guitar concert. Rene and I say our goodbyes in front of the Cathedral. And just as I'm heading out of the square, one of the guitarists tugs on my sleeve and asks if I will come have a coffee with him and the other musicians. I suppose being the only foreigner in the small auditorium made me stand out. I'm exhausted, but feel I should say yes to most opportunities to meet people. So I follow them to a restaurant nearby, order a limonada, and chat with fellows. They are determined to stay up all night and enjoy Tlaxiaco's fine discotecas. I, however, am ready to sleep. So I bid them goodnight, and head back towards the Plaza to my little room in the big house where sleep finds me soon.