Things I Will Miss:
A Farewell to Oaxaca

One of my New Year's resolutions for 2006 was to write more faithfully regarding my experiences here in Oaxaca.  In fact, in a very ambitious and slightly drugged moment (no, not from mezcal, the local favorite intoxicant, but perhaps an overdose of tamales verdes)  I had planned to do this as often as once a month.  But here it is, four and a half months later and only a few short days before I return home, and I have yet to send off one letter.  Now I could make excuses.  For instance, I could say that I suddenly got very busy presenting thousands of workshops and such or that I joined the Zapatista rebels in Chiapas.  Or I could say that I'm still reeling after my USC Trojans blew a 12 point lead in the Rose Bowl and slumped hang-dog into history.  But I will resort to none of that.  It was procrastination, pure and simple!  So with the clock ticking and time running in Oaxaca, I think my best strategy is to share my list of THINGS I WILL MISS and THINGS I WILL NOT MISS about Mexico.  I would call this my THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UGLY list, but quite frankly there would be very little on the BAD  and even less on the UGLY.  Mexico and its people have been extraordinarily good to me.

That said, I will toss sentimentality to the wind and begin with the THINGS I WILL NOT MISS, albeit with a caveat:  none of these things are excessively mind or heart-wrenching. For the most part, they are simply things that are different or are done differently in Oaxaca  than in the USA.  For instance, putting your used toilet paper in the wastepaper basket instead of flushing it down the toilet.  Different, a little strange at first, but after a week or so it becomes routine and all is right with the world, or at least the world as we know it South of the Border.  The same is true of tap water.  You don't drink it or use it to wash your face (Becky does) or brush your teeth.  Instead you pay a stripling young man (yes, with those devilishy handsome Latin eyes and enviably thick midnight hair) to lug a 20 liter bottle of purified water upstairs to your apartment once a week.  You pay him $14 pesos (about $1.40 USD) for the water, tip him another $6 pesos, and he seems very grateful, especially when you factor in that the average wage in Oaxaca is about $4 a day.  (Sorry, ladies, he makes house calls but only to deliver purified H20.  At least I think that's all he does.)   Will I miss not drinking water from the tap?  No.  Will I miss tossing the used toilet paper in the wastepaper basket instead of the bowl?  I certainly hope not.  So does my good wife.

Now there are three things I absolutely positively will not miss in any way whatsoever:  (1)  the air pollution, which isn't nearly as bad as in other Mexican cities but compared to Flagstaff. . .  Folks, we're breathing pure oxygen.  (2)  The mosquitoes (which go on mating rages every time it rains: fortunately, we missed most of the wet season); and (3)  the deafening roar of the buses which sounds something like that dinsoaur stampede in the new KING KONG movie, or maybe like Kong himself when he realizes he's been duped by a blonde. 

As for the THINGS I WILL MISS list. . .  Wait a minute,  That's it for the bad and ugly stuff?  What about Montezuma's Revenge?  Sorry, never got it.  What about the corrupt and hassling cops?  Never saw it.  The maniac bat-out-of-hell-bent-for-leather drivers?  I could count the total number of accidents I witnessed on one hand.  Just those three things?  Well, I suppose I could drum up a few more, but nothing truly major and irritating, and my editor tells me I have a page limit here.  But if you insist, here is a third list, THINGS I MISSED WHILE IN OAXACA.

*Interestingly, there were no foods or TV programs or any creature comforts that I craved while in Mexico.  The guilty pleasures of home were siimply replaced by things Oaxaquenan:  white chocolate mousse frozen yogurt (TCBY) gave way to choco-flan (a sumptuous blend of chocolate and flan) and ice cream made with this incredibly rich Oaxaquenan chocolate.  Grilled king salmon was replaced by a dozen varieties of tamales,  empanadas,  and mole negro, mole coloradito, mole amarillo. . .   I think you get the picture.

*I did miss college football, but not to worry:  my daughter Samantha faithfully taped all of the USC games so I can watch my Trojans march to glory and eventual defeat to the Texas-You're-Fired-Martha-Leviticus-Longhorns in a Rose Bowl classic.  But even here there was a distant delight as every Saturday night from September to December I would check the scores and game highlights on-line.

*It should go without saying that I missed family and friends, but  I will say it anyway, with this little rider:  From the get-go I left for Mexico with a mind-set that this experience would pass far too quickly and that there was no time for pining away for home.  I tried to keep a sense of purpose and urgency with very little time to accomplish what I had come here to do.   I tried not to think too much of home, and on those occasions when I felt those little strings in my heart tugging northward, I had an instant antidote:  I simply fired an e-mail to Shelley  asking for a brief update about things in the office.  Her subsequent response (budget cuts, hassles with the state, political woes, etc.) quickly cured any flirtations with homesickness.

Or so I had thought.  Then my two younger children Samantha and Benjamin came to visit us for ten days over the Christmas break.  We toured the ruins at Mitla and Monte Alban, walked the Zocalo daily, checked out the Santo Domingo temple and a dozen other churches, meandered through the mercado without losing our way or our wits, rode the second class bus anywhere and everywhere, and in short did all of the things that tourists visiting Oaxaca for the first time ought to do.  But the best part of their stay was the simple blessing of their company, to be able to sit with them in a café or in our apartment and talk and joke over hot chocolate long into the night, and then when it was too late to talk anymore we would kiss them both  goodnight, and that's how it was for ten marvelous days.  Then we took them to the airport, said our goodbyes, and watched them pass through security and into the private area where non-passengers cannot go.  We walked upstairs to the little cafeteria where we could see the tarmac, and although they couldn't see us we sat by the window for half an hour waiting until they had boarded the plane and it rolled down the runway and lifted off into the blue oaxaquenan sky.   We looked at each other across the little table ignoring the token order of juevos rancheros, knowing that it was just the two of us again.  Our hands met briefly, mid-way, and at that moment I realized that up until that moment I had been doing a very good job of staying very busy and keeping my mind in the game meaning in Mexico and my purpose here, etc., etc.  But I also realized something else, and if I allowed myself to talk or even think about it, my viking ice would crack once and for all, all hell would break loose inside, and I would end up in some Mexican psych ward making straw baskets till the end of forever.  So I said something about getting a taxi and Rebecca nodded.  We didn't say anything about the kids, but as we walked out into the January sunshine I think we both would have traded a thousand adventures in exotic lands for just five more minutes talking to our children over hot chocolate in the simplest of sidewalk cafes.

THINGS I WILL MISS

This list could run into a novela if I included everything.  For instance, the cultural calendas and processions and dances, the almost nightly fiestas and celebrations and the warmth of the people, their delighful way of greeting with a kiss,  the apparent contradiction between the laid back life-style of "ahorita" (in a bit), "en un rato" (in a little bit), and "en un ratito" (in a little little bit, which can mean anything from five minutes to a few hours). on the one hand and the frantic rush of traffic and impatience behind the horn and wheel on the other.  I could mention the many friends we have made in such a relatively short time,  and our weekend trips to the villages and the coast and the mountains or a spur of the moment dash to Tlaxcala or to the Yucatan.   There were so many experiences like that, but in the interest of space and time, I'm going to focus on a just a few.  For instance. . .

*How within two streets you can travel from a quant colonial town of sage-green stones and wrought iron rails to a third world barrio:  graffitti, cracked and broken sidewalks, faded paint, poor man's barbed wire (i.e., shards of broken glass cemented along the tops of the outer walls of brick or cinderblock), big medieval locks on colossally thick wooden doors, loud music blasting from open-air shops, a pit bull lashing out at you with intent to main or kill.   And then in the midst of this, a metal door will suddenly swing open with the unexpected strangeness of Ali Babba's cave and through the doorway you will see a a shiny new Altima or Sentra pull out, and inside a lush open-air courtyard with colonial lanterns, bright flowers spilling out of hanging pots, gurgling fountains.  These private homes are hidden everywhere like secret oases, the little world, or the piece of it, that someone can control:  no barking dogs, no trash, no brokenness beyond repair, no beggars holding out their styrofoam cups or tourists strolling along with their cameras and silly hats, no buses roaring by like angry beasts, no hieroglyphic nonsense spray-painted on the walls.  Here all is lush, green, quiet, clean, tranquil, serene, a little piece of paradise within the charming chaos of the streets.

*Late afternoon lunches at El Escapulario three doors down from our apartment where you get soup, tortillas, bread, rice, frijoles, agua fresca, dessert, and a main dish for $3.50 (I'm spoiled for life).. 

*The LESSONS OF RELATIVITY,  the spontanteous reaction of Rosa, the maid who cleans our apartment twice a week, when she saw the handful of token Christmas gifts we had purchased and wrapped and put under a tiny artificial tree;  “So many presents!” she gasped. Or when she noticed the very small wardrobe that Rebeccca had brought from the USA, gasping again:  “You have so many beautiful clothes.”

* Our morning walks up the Escaleras del Fortin, a straight staircase of stone that passes through a tree-shaded corridor and leads eventually to the top of a hill where you have a 360 degree bird´s eye view of the city, and on a clear day you can see to the ends of the valley and beyond.

*How you can take the bus twenty minutes out of town and escape 200 years in time to a village where men and women wear straw hats and carry machetes and everything is done by the repetitive but timeless labor of the human hand,  where the hopes and survival of a village is borne on the backs of four-legged beasts,  and the center of the universe is a  small plaza where men and women barter and trade in the shadow of a stone church that was built with blood, sweat, and tears five centuries ago.

*Presenting my workshops in Spanish even though I still understand only a small percentage of what peope are saying.  I suppose I will even miss that adrenal rush when someone asks me a question and I have absolutely no idea what they have said and fifty pair of eyes are staring at me waiting on edge of chair for my inspired response.  At such moments I usually end up looking like George W Bush at a press conference.

*The flowers in all seasons and so cheap and plentiful that even a skinflint can pose as a romantic (i.e.,  you can buy a dozen roses for $30 pesos  or $3 USD) .

*The abundance of birds singing and chirping all morning, and the parrot next door to my office whistling all day as if pretty girls were perpetually strolling by.

*Walking to church Sunday mornings when it is warm and sunny and the city is still asleep and worshipping entirely in Spanish.

*The exotic and oh so indigenous place names that flow hypnotically from the lips of native speakers like magic chants summoning up centuries of history, art, war, the daily business of being American a thousand years ago:  Tlacolula, Teotitlan, Tlacachuaya, Nochixtlan, Yanhuitlan, Teposcolula, Tehuantepec. . .  I'm convinced that these polysyllabic salutes to the past were intentionally designed by the ancient fathers to trip, mock, chide, taunt, and absolutely ridicule the English tongue and to put a dunce cap on the head of every tourist who tries to pronounce them.

*Add to the above the charm and forbearance of multi-names.  Here a name is not just a name, it is a history and genealogy, it is your  place in the world and among your people.  You are never simply “Bob” or “Jim” or “Sue” or even Robert Frost or James Joyce.  Here you are Roberto Eduardo Gomez Hernandez.  Or if you are a married woman you are Maria Juanita Villanueva de Corzo.  When they ask me my name and I say, “Michael Fillerup”   they first look puzzled, then sorely disappointed,  as if to say:  Is that all?  Poor guy.  I´m like Esau being shorted on my birthright.  Here your name is heritage.  Having a short or stumpy name is like having a short you know what.  And the elongated names are not restricted to people.  The name of the pueblo is not Teotitlan but "Teotitlan del Valle," not Oaxaca but "Oaxca de Juarez,"  "San Pablo de Teposcolula,"  "Huautla de Jimenez."

*Yes, but the elongation of names is tempered by the culture of -ITO and -ITA, an enchanting term of endearment that converts everything and everyone into a small treasure:  so to my friends I become Miguelito (little Michael) and I am offered a frutita (a little fruit) that will be delivered to my casita (litte house) in un ratito (four days?).

*Our weekly excursions to the movies Monday night, sometimes just the two of us all alone in a giant stadium-seat theater sharing palomitas (popcorn) and a coke (yes, more guilty pleasures that we seldom indulge in at home), and the walk to the second class bus stop after, always a little windier in the Plaza del Valle section of town, with armed security guards gazing imperiously down from their little towers in the parking lot, pennants flapping in the breeze,  the giant sign spelling out time and temperature in blinking intervals, and the idols and icons of Big Brother Up North hogging the airspace:  SAM´S CLUB, MCDONALDS, OFFICE MAX. . .   And of course the rocking and rolling stop-and-go ride home, pounding over the topes (speed bumps) , snaking through the center of town, the rapid yet unfrantic rush of people and traffic as tired but contented workers, families, and students crowd onto the bus:  a young girl in school uniform, pleated plum skirt, plum sweater vest over a white blouse, clutching her mother´s hand; an old indígena woman in a checkered apron staring silently ahead, a big, bloated plastic bag between her feet.; a young couple boarding the bus, the t-shirted  father with a shadow of a mustache holding a baby in one arm and clutching the overhead rail with the other while the young mother squeezes across a middleaged woman and settles into a seat.  The husband then passes her the swaddled child.  Outside the flow of humans remains steady with loiterers at the bus stops and outside the open air shops:  FARMACIAS SIMILARES, MAYORDOMO CHOCOLATE, ESTELISTA LUPITA. . .  Students with books and bare mid-riffs.  A young man with a white cane and a guitar taps and feels his way onto the bus, the standing crowd parting as he eases by.  Somehow balancing himself without hands as the bus rocks and stops and jerks and lurches, he strums and sings, his defunct eyes—the whites only, rolling up and down as if searching in vain for the truant irises, as his voice releases a plaintive call for his beloved:  “Sorpresas en las calles. . . amor en las calles. . . se fue el amor. .."

Returning home to our apartment, passing through the café Rugantino where Raul the owner is mixing coffee in the blender, greeting us robustly:  “Hola, Michael!  Rebecca!”  Buen descanso!"   The apartments are empty again, except for ours, and the narrow passageway is dark, the silhouettes of the vines and hanging plants shrouding the walls.  It is a short climb up the stairs towards the sound of the fan blowing loudly in the window as it tries to suck in the cool night air.  There is a full moon, and we pause for just a moment on the balcony to admire it before passing through the door and into the little one bedroom place that for eight months we have called home.

*I will miss many many things about Oaxaca, but mostly I will miss the sound of Spanish everpresent in the streets,  and the way that a simple "Buenos dias" can instantly light up even the most seamed and disenfranchised face.  I will miss the abundance and outrageousness of colors and the church bells waking us each morning at 6:30 sharp calling the faithful to mass, and the humility of young and old and in-betweens crossing themselves as they pass by the open door of Carmen Alto, and the daily promise of pure blue skies and shameless sun, the flowers blossoming all year long in color-coded succession, taking turns center stage but always some big bright variation blooming:  golds, reds, purples, magenta.  How you can walk down the street in the morning and buy a pastry from the crew cut fellow in the pastleria and fresh muffins from the young ladies in the panaderia and then drop off your laundry to the young husband and wife in the lavanderia, and then pass through the magical, mystical  world of the Mercado, a bizarre blend of the Arabian Nights meets Wal-Mart, where you can buy just about anything:  fresh fruits, vegetables, and fruit drinks (fresh squeezed), blouses, shirts, coats, backpacks, paper and office supplies, flowers,  fast food, sit down food, stand-up food, you name it.   But you have a routine here, you are a regular now, so you buy lettuce and avocados from the young lady on the one corner, papaya and tangerines from another, bananas from a third,  and they all know you if not by name by sight.  “Que te gusta?"  they ask.  "Muy bueno.  Maduro, eh?"  And later you go to the peluqueria for a haircut and it's only $40 pesos, $4 American, and you have so little hair he could finish the job in a few quick snips but he takes his time, a good hour or more,  chatting away sports, politics, the weather, and you learn that he is 70 years old but still riding his bike in competition, in fact he´ll be competing this weekend, and when he asks how much time you have left and you tell him two weeks, he winces and tells you you'll have to return soon, and he seems to really really mean it, especially when he reminds you of an old Oaxaquenan saying that if you want to return to Oaxaca, eat lots of chapulines (grasshoppers, on sale in bulk in the mercado).  So you  tell him you'll do that, you will absolutely 100% do that, you'll double the order if you have to, triple it even, and when you say this he smiles and the bits of gold in his badly chipped teeth sparkle.

But you're not through yet.  A little bit later you run into old Franco Martin lugging two huge bags, his "trabajito," one in each arm.  He is 90 years old, half your size but twice your heart.  He greets you with a big, gummy smile and calls you "joven," young man, and for this you will love him forever.  He is still wearing the two mismatched high-top sneakers he was wearing when you met him eight months ago and gave him $100 pesos to buy a new pair.  The new jacket you bought him to replace the tattered sweater he wore all winter remains in some unknown place.  He has just returned from morning mass wearing his daily uniform:  an old buckskin colored shirt and brown dungarees, the ragged cuffs tucked into his floppy sneakers.  You talk for a bit, and then he tells you he has to deliver his pollitos--the little chickens he totes around to the local restaurants every morning.  "Gracias a Dios,"  he says at least a dozen times during your conversation, "thanks to God," and as he limps away lugging the two bags that weigh almost as much as he does, he appears to be incredibly and amazingly happy.   He stops, looks back once more, and lifts a hand toward the sky.  “Gracias a Dios, eh joven!  Gracias a Dios!”  You nod, smile, and mouth the words back to him:  “Por supuesto, gracias a Dios.”