#@*&! Gallo

Guess how I woke up this morning? That's right--pinche gallo. It is a true art form how he clucks and chortles, starting at 4:30 or 5. I tried to count in between cuckadoodles this morn to see if he was "singing" at regular intervals--thus, I could plan my sleep in the 45 seconds between clucks. Nope. He's brilliant. It's a totally random spread of clucks. I mean, it's statistically random. Therefore, I am woken up with surprise every time between the hours of 4 and 6, or 5 and 7--depending on when I decide to abandon the warm, little oven that is my bed, for the warm steamer that is the shower. Can I just say, thank god for the hot water at my new place in Tlaxiaco. My #2 favorite thing about America is her hot water. I take for granted our water situation in the States (bad, Megan!)--meaning, we have it in our homes mostly without fail, and generally it comes with heat. Some people argue that our next wars will be over water. Frankly, showers aside, it's something worth fighting for. Often times when I'm out in Tlaxiaco there's not a place to wash my hands. And that's just a silly, small thing. But imagine being without a consistent source of water all the time. Many, if not a majority, of the people in pueblos live without consistent water. It's not simply because they are poor. It is that the government does not care about them. Their towns and roads and schools are so far removed from the commercial centers of México that they are left to shout and demand from afar for things to which every human should be entitled. Or often, as a concession, the government will start to build a paved road that stretches out to several small towns. Halfway through they will stop and abandon the job for years, if not forever. It's the "halfway" means of governing people.

Okay, my diatribe is done, for now.

I rise early, of course (see "pinche gallo" above). I make my way to Rincon de Gon for a hearty breakfast of huevos con jamon, fruit with yogurt and a hot chocolate. I hungrily eat every morsel, pay up and make my way out to the station. It's a 20-minute walk that gives me just enough time to digest and listen to a podcast from the BBC (gotta keep up on my world news even when I'm out in the sticks, eh?)

I arrive just before 9 to await Maria Teresa, one of the teachers who runs bilingual programming from Monday to Friday as a part of the state's education plan. She has agreed to take me out to her Triqui pueblo, San Andres Chicahuaxtla. She shuttles in a bit after 9 with the motor still running in her taxi to take us to the van terminal that leaves towards Putla, southwest out of town. It's about an hour trip through winding green mountains. The temperature noticeably lowers as we climb ever higher. Fresh, crisp air enters through the driver's window. I take part of the ride to pick Tere's brain on a few quick Triqui phrases so I can greet people in the market.

Today is Monday, and Plaza Day in Chicahuaxtla. Families from neighboring pueblos will be in town to buy and sell all the necessaries (fruits, veggies, eggs, salt, milk) and some of the un-necessaries (pumps, soda, music). We hop out at the top of ridge. Women in traditional huilpiles (long red woven dresses) line the side of the small highway. They are waiting to perform a tequi for the community. [Many small pueblos still carry on the tradition of the tequi, which is mandatory community service. Let's say there is trash lining the road, or the school needs a new roof--a group will gather to carry out the task as a party of their mandatory community service. Those who have emigrated outside the small town, will send money, or someone in their stead to perform their part.] We scramble down the very rocky road towards town--me in my hiking shoes, Tere in white mule pumps.

The center of town is modest. The sun glares on white gravel, illuminating a square filled with dozens of women dressed in bright red huilpiles. Each woman weaves her own huilpil by hand, each row of the garment displaying hand sewn figures. One row is a series of birds, another baskets, another women. The huilpil is my entrée into the Triqui language. I stop and ask an artisan to tell me what each figure of her newly made huilpil is in Triqui: Flower=ee-a-ha, Star=ah-tee. Several women gather to gawk and giggle at the fumbling outsider. Many of the women in town today know Maria Teresa. But as they make excuses that they don't speak Spanish very well, I counter with "neither do I. Let's chat anyways." I make a few loose appointments with some of the women, a farmer, the municipal president, a teacher at the local bilingual elementary school. I will return another day alone, when the rush and bustle of Plaza Day won't distract from my interview, or my gathering sound. I want to capture each one in his or her home or job, with the sounds that accompany them. That will make for the best story, and perhaps for a more comfortable situation for him/her.

Tere and I climb to the top of a hill just past town center, weaving between two horses, saddled, and just sitting there all alone. Tere picks up a rock as we climb, warning that "some horses can be a little wild, so beware." We pass the cemetery, which has the best real estate in town, looking over onto the myriad rolling hills with their small ranchos and lagoons. I quickly record the sound of some turkeys making a stir. I think of my pinche gallo.

We hop a ride with Tere's cousin out of town. Tere pokes my pink cheeks and tells me the San Andres sun has touched me. I sit back in the shady back seat of the truck, staring out at the landscape, letting the tonal push and pull of the Triqui the carload is speaking to wash over me.