One Day of Total Cooperation

My morning was spent in two ways: 1) taking a trip out for the bi-monthly maintenance of the station's antenna with Abraham, and 2) helping to get everything at the station back in order since the anniversary party. So while I could regale each of you with my Adventures in Moving Chairs, or How to Bargain With a Caterer After You Have Lost Her Napkins--I will not. Instead, I will just skip ahead to the afternoon.

Araceli invited me earlier to accompany her out to her hometown, Magdalena Peñasco, for her community's annual party. Thus, once we dispensed with all of the day's business we headed out of town, southeast, in her little, beat-up car. We intended to leave earlier, around 3. But the day unwound itself rapidly, so we found ourselves racing out of town at 5. Magdalena Peñasco is about an hour from Tlaxiaco. As Araceli puts it, "all year-round the neighbors squabble and fight. But these two days, everyone comes together to 'cooperate.'" One family pays for church mass, another for the decorations. Every tortilla maker in town contributes a giant basket of tortillas. Someone slaughters a bull; someone prepares it. All must contribute, by law. If you've emigrated north, then you must send money. The only exemption is given to students. If you are over the age of 12, and studying somewhere, you can forego a contribution. I gather they recognize the student's plight, and value his/her education. However, once studies are complete, you must continue with your yearly contribution to the festivities.

Araceli points the car off the main highway and up into rocky back roads once we are 30 minutes out of town. We wind around pine trees and small, trickling rivers. Each bend offers a new vista of the surrounding area, which is, to be generically descriptive, beautiful. As we crest the final hill, 100 meters from Araceli's house, a group of women flag us down. They have just visited the party and need a ride home. No communal taxis have come or gone for a spell, so we pop the trunk, rearrange our load and pile them all in. It takes about 40 minutes to snake our way back down the mountain, hop over the highway, wind up the next mountain and leave them off for our return. Araceli chats in Mixteco with the older women. They giggle at my efforts to say "hello" and "how are you?" I'm hoping it's at least recognizable in Mixteco. Who can say?

When we make it back to "town" center (I put quotes because this community is so small it's not really a town. There is definitely a church, basketball court and 3-room school. But there is nothing more to denote that this is more than a collection of small, aluminum-roofed houses). We make our way to the main food tent. We are helped to heaping bowls of yellow mole with a piece of res (beef). Crisp, large tortillas are served, accompanied by peach soda. I ask how many people they have served already today--250, the women answer. Incredible! This little network of homes can't be more than 20 families. And yet, they will feed any and all arriving from nearby villages. I ask Araceli "Why? Why do this? What for?" She laughs and says she can't answer...isn't it obvious why?

Araceli's mom parts from washing pots and pans to come over and say hello. They chat in Mixteco about Araceli's day. I can pick up bits and pieces--it's funny how small gestures can demonstrate a lot. We exit the food tent to make our way to Araceli's house so she can change into something warmer. Now that the sun has departed, a chill sets in. A basketball tournament has just broken up. The hordes of players make their way down the road for an unlimited dinner (basketball is extremely popular in the Mixtecan pueblos. I always thought soccer was the sport of choice in Mexico. Perhaps a basketball court is more compact, and thus easier to place, than a soccer field). Now with coat and long pants, Araceli is ready. It is a quick visit--but nice to get a look at where she lives. Doubly nice to have had the opportunity to get to know her along the ride.

We head back into town. She knows the path so well that the car drives itself around dark corners and bends. I see the small clusters of lights where houses group together in mountain ridges. As we roll into town, traffic picks up. I'm hoping to catch the last suburban out of town to Oaxaca tonight; I've got plans the following day in Oaxaca. But as we pull up to the first light, we notice a calenda coming down the road. It's the Virgen of Guadalupe's day. I bumped into another calenda earlier that morning with Abraham. We had to pull over to let the parade pass by as we made our way up to the antenna. But now, on this night, Araceli sees that we cannot wait and get stuck behind the calenda, or I will miss my suburban. So she swerves through the light and up the hill, taking back streets. I get disoriented from all her turning and accelerating. Without fail, we land at my big house with the little room. I race inside and throw a few things in my bag, zip 'er up and head out with excuses to my landlords who are in the living room. We race back up hill--we've got to get across the main highway before the calenda arrives, or our route to the station will be cut off. It's like the final scene in an action film, except there's less blood, and less make-up, oh and Araceli and I aren't statuesque beauties playing pretend for millions of dollars. Araceli storms across a few lights, and we pull up to double park next to the station. She accompanies me inside, authoritatively taps her keys against the ticket booth window and demands "one ticket to Oaxaca, quick."

Fifteen minutes later I am on a suburban riding north out of town. A small farmer has decided to switch the seat he was originally in to sit next to me. We make a bit of small talk and then fall into silence. I put my iPod in and try to close my eyes and get some rest. But with every tope (speed bump) my eyes flutter open to find the farmer staring at me. I guess I should just say "Please look away. I know I look different, but you are making me uncomfortable." Instead, when someone hops out at Nochixtlan, I ask the driver if I can move up front, where now a seat is vacant. He explains that we're still moving and he can't pull over. I wave his excuse away and say I can hop over the seat, which I do, without permission. It's a bit awkward, me climbing over a giant van seat to get up front. I mumble something about being dizzy in back. The little farmer helps push my backpack over the seat to me. I'm happy for the help, and even happier to get away from his constant gaze; he can stare at the back of my head now in peace.

We roll into Oaxaca at 11:00 PM. I call a friend quickly to see if he can pick me up from the station. He obliges. Again, I fall into bed, exhausted. However, this time I drift off to sleep with a smile on my face; tomorrow I will awake to silence. Buenas noches, pinche gallo, wherever you are.