Viva Mexico!

Funky taxis with the Virgin Mary hanging down from the rearview mirror, or pastel "photos" of Jesus peering down from the visor...slow-moving burros alongside the roads...graffiti on run-down buildings...tiny cement dwellings off in the fields and mountains on the sides of the roads...short Mexican men, whistling, hissing...you´re not supposed to make eye contact...bright, rich colors and patterns...women with long, dark hair, braided...such were my first sensory experiences of Mexico on the bus en route to Karen and Drake´s house in Irapuato, four hours north of Mexico City.

On the 3rd, I got up early with Drake and he dropped me at the bus station in Silao, near the GM plant where he works. A few words on GM, NAFTA, and US companies in Mexico...

"As a kind of ´insider´on this, what do you see as the main pros and cons of NAFTA?" I ventured as Drake drove 75 mph on the pre-dawn Mexican highway, starting to bustle with men on bicycles and large, lumbering trucks.

His take: The American companies provide jobs for a lot of people, good wages (for Mexico), 9-hour work days, training, benefits, etc. NAFTA essentially works like this: for every item we import to Mexico, they import a like item to us (or something like that). In the case of cars, we´re "importing" our cars back to ourselves, and we import the same car, finished product, to Mexico. At present, and over the next few years, the high taxes and regulations will lessen and eventually be dropped, which means our cars´ll be imported (exported if you´re reading this from outside Mexico) to Mexico without all that cost, but the average Mexican still won´t be able to afford it.

"NAFTA basically helps us more than it helps them," Drake confide, "and they know, these guys on the assembly lines down here know how much these cars are sold for in the States, they see the price stickers as the car comes off the line, and compared to what they´re making..."

An auto worker in the States averages $20/hr. while a Mexican worker makes slightly less than that per day. But in this country, it allows for a little bit of upward mobility and improved standard of living. He adds, "But it´s only a matter of time before they start demanding some changes."

The UAW´s strike and the complaint of many of US workers is that Americans lose jobs to Mexico, and of course that´s true. But Drake points out that even if the MExican workers were paid as highly as the Americans, the quality of the work is greater down her. Factory operations are much more regulated. Workers aren´t allowed to bring food or drinks into the plant, everyone wears a standard uniform, no radios or TVs, and thus, no distractions.

Drake was surprised to find, in a recent visit to a US plant, large televisions placed above the lines. "How can you clñaim quality workmanship if you´re watching TV and supposedly concentrating on putting cars together?" And American workers can´t be forced into uniforms either. Shorts, sneakers, just about anything goes in the US-located operations.

One thing´s for sure, Americans working for US companies in Mexico, decidedly "have it made". Drake and Karen live in a beautiful red stucco house with high cement walls surrounding it. Terraced patios adorned with bright red geraniums, Mexican-style interior, including colorful painted tiles under each stair and in the bathroom and kitchen. A rear patio and garden overlooks a wide green valley framed by low mountains off in the distance. I´m in love with it, and not to mention too extremely eager chocolate Labrador "puppies", Kona and Chai (Chai being the cause of Karen´s broken foot, and I often fear will break one of mine before I leave).

My sprained ankle healed miraculously quickly. Don´t approach 30 and assume you can still jump over fences with the ease you used to. Anyway, I¨m limping, Karen´s hopping around on crutches--both of us disappointed we won´t be boogie-ing together as we did in our Kobe days.

The weather´s surprisingly mild--warm, sunny days and cool nights and early-a.m. My Japanese is still dominant so I often speak an odd jumble of "Japanish"--remembering how to say things 2-3 minutes after the conversation´s already over, but my comprehension´s been pretty good. It struck me that even after three years in Japan, listening to Spanish requires less mental effort...but reprogramming my mind, the foreign language section of my brain, to think in Spanish, is challenging. I conjugated a Japanese verb (which are essentially non-conjugatable, even in Japanese) into Spanish yesterday--weird.

I think my black hair (recent color disaster, thanks to TUEY) throws people off. I must look faintly chicana, and if I get the accent just right, they look kind of puzzled.

Signs of Mexican Independence Day...Red, green and white flags are everywhere. Restaurants/cafes have cut-out stencilled, multi-colored banners hanging in celebration...flags and festive items sold on street corners, even the Fujicolor photo shop, whose colors are already red, white and green--has taken it to the max with balloons and banners advertising both Fuji film and Mexican Independence Day. It´s coming up on September 15th, the day I´m supposed to leave. Good luck getting to the airport...

Karen and Drake have been extremely generous to me, and I joke that their place is the nicest one I´ll experience in Mexico, because once I leave here I´m back to being my low-budget self.

Guanajuato, San Miguel de Allende

My first adventure...Guanajuato, an old mining town, silver accidentally discovered by the Spaniards in the 16th century, who subsequently brought in slave labor from other parts of Mexico and the Americas.

The city is made up of three different levels, dwellings and mines and some churches forming a pastel mosaic of oranges, blues and yellows up in the hills, then the city´s center with Neoclassical and Spanish colonial styles, European plazas and thriving university community, and beneath it all, a maze of "calles subterraneos", or underground streets and tunnels formed by stone walls and archways. The calles subterraneos, in fact, used to be waterways but were turned into streets for auto and pedestrian traffic to alleviate the congestion above.

I arrived at 8:15 a.m., too early for anything but Corn Flakes and coffee. Everything pretty much opens up around 10 a.m., then closes again from 2 to 4, a kind of siesta. People eat their main meal of the day during those hours, eating again lightly around 8 p.m. In the mid-afternoon hours there is a kind of quiet which settles over the streets, when work is generally stopped except in a few establishment, and workers on farms and in fields can be seen napping in their trucks.

I boldly signed up for the 3-1/2 hour tour in Spanish, a mini-bus ride to many of Guanajuato´s points of interest and scenic areas. I boarded the bus with about 10 Mexican tourists, and we headed up to "El Museo de Las Momias", the Mummy Museum.

Apparently, there were all these people buried in some kind of cemetary that their families couldn´t afford to keep them in, so their bodies were exhumed (late-19th, early-20th century) and remarkably, due to some peculiar combination of the water and minerals in the local soil, their skin, hair, teeth, and in some cases, clothing, remained relatively intact.

So you pay 26 pesos (with camera) to go in and see this disturbing array of 119 dead people, including children (a sign boasts the smallest mummy in the world). But despite your shocked gasps, you have to take into consideration Mexican cultural influences--heavy on the Catholicism, but also heavily inspired by earlier religious and spiritual beliefs of the Indians--a kind of obsession with the dead. Note: El Dia de los Muertos, the Mexican "Day of the Dead", akin to our own pagan Halloween rituals.

So I checked out the mummies and felt awkward taking a few pictures, but thought it weirder when I saw a couple ahead of me having their photo taken together with the eyeless skull, and mummified remains of a short Mexican woman.

We then visited Boca Mina San Ramon, one of the oldest of the Guanajuato silver mines (there are 17, I think), where we all donned hard hats and descended 7 meters down treacherous stone steps to the first level of the mine. The guide assured us the feeling of suffocation and claustrophobia was normal, and he graciously helped me hobble down, aircast and all. (That "handicap", by the way, granted me clemency from would-be oglers and cat-callers, and as I pathetically limped around town later in the day, I got away with lots of photographs of the locals doing their thing. (Even if you ask first, they often say no. One great photo not taken: Mounds of red, roasted crickets--mmm, snacks!--being sold on a street corner. They wanted 10 pesos, about $1, for a photo...)

We came out to find our bus engine wouldn´t turn over, so we all disembarked and men tried to push it up the hill, trying to see if it would start up again while rolling back downhill. We, the other women and I, stood around laughing and I took pictures. All part of the adventure...

So while the bus driver toiled with the engine, our guide led us 10 minutes up the road to Valenciana, a church which was built to support the miners and slaves who had come to Guanajuato. The facade in the Baroque style of many of the city´s churches, while the interior altars--three massive perpendicular ones in Mexican Churriguerresque style, which I´m still trying to define, but I think it involves wood painted gold (major Christian "gilt"?!), and lots of garish figures and statues embedded in it. Nonetheless, peaceful and a visual smorgasbord.

Early this a.m., pre-tour, I wandered the cobblestone streets and narrow alleyways, stumbling upon churches and residences and the local market. I sat briefly in one church, taking in the intense altar (probably in the style of that "ch" word) so centered around the Virgin Mary: a nativity scene in the middle of the altar, a huge statue of an angel to the left and shepherds to the right, and rising gloriously up above it all, the Blessed Virgin.

Elderly Mexican women kneeling in the pews adjacent chanted softly in unison, "Santa Maria, madre del dios y señor..." Prayers to Mary, Mother of God and Jesus, then personal supplications followed by the rhythmic "Santa Maria...etc.etc..."

Found bottled water and everything under the sun at El Mercado. Healing herbs for all the ailments, including diabetes, poor circulation, and asthma. Fresh mangoes, papayas, bananas and watermelons...slabs of all kinds of meat, hand-woven baskets piled high towards the ceiling, and a bustling menagerie of vendors and early-morning shoppers.

Public toilets...put your 2 pesos in the box by the nice lady at the door, and she´ll hand you a couple of thin napkin things, then choose a stall and don´t be alarmed at your toilet which has no seat. Don´t bother looking in the next stall...or the next one...there are NO SEATS!

Oh yeah, back to the bus...we got a lift from the church back to the bus, still stalled out in front of the mine, until about 45 minutes later along comes a rickety white VW bus to continue us on our journey--a stop at the scenic overlook, and a wild ride through the underground labyrinth. "We don´t have much crime in Guanajuato, and no assassins," the driver explained, "so we lead pretty boring lives.

I spent the rest of the afternoon hobbling around, and by the time I met Karen and Drake for dinner, I was spent. But dinner was soon accompanied by a smiling mariachi band which strolled in and played for us, gentle, weathered Mexican men in their pressed Mariachi uniforms, two trumpeters, three violinists, a kind of bassist and guitarist, belting out classics such as "Besame Mucho" and "Cielito Lindo" (the "Ay, ay, ay, ay..." song) in utter earnestness. I felt my first real gush of "Aah, Mexico.." right there at the table.

The next day I got up at the crack of dawn again to catch a bus to San Miguel de Allende. Impatient with the three-hour bus ride, including a change in Celaya, I arrived in San Miguel just after ten. My guidebook reported that Neal Cassady, the maniac beat hero of Jack Kerouac´s "On the Road", had dropped dead walking along San Miguel´s railroad tracks. For that, if nothing else, I was intrigued.

But unfortunately, my ankle was in bad shape from the hours of hoofing around Guanajuato the day before, so I hobbled and wobbled on the cobbles of San Miguel, much more difficult walking than Guanajuato, and though the shopping was excellent (the food, too), I was less enchanted by San Miguel than by Guanajuato. Somehow that made me feel guilty as San Miguel is acclaimed as a mecca for ex-pats, a place people go to and never want to leave...

I did visit El Museo de Allende, the museum-house of Ignacio de Allende, one of the famous fathers of the Revolution, and the city´s partial namesake. I also had the feeling that I would soon be Spanish colonial towned to death, so I looked forward to my journey south and Zapotec ruins awaiting me.

That evening back in Irapuato I met Karen and Drake and a bunch of GM people at a local restaurant which featured good food (I ate cactus--prickly pear?--wrapped in a tortilla with guacamole and sauce), and a pretty groovy rock-n-roll band.

A word on food...Drake and Karen have taken me out almost every night for dinner, and I´ve tried all kinds of Mexican-style seafood dishes. The food here is excelent, and there are so many kinds of dishes and sauces we never come close to eating in our Mexican restaurants at home. And, Karen pointed out, hard-shell tacos are an American invention of Mr. "Taco" Bell--tacos in Mexico are all soft-baked.

I decided to spend one more day at their place in Irapuato, a lazy one in front of the satellite TV with my feet propped up. We got the news that en route to work that morning, a car had cut Drake off and when he got out to confront the driver, the guy pulled a gun and shot at his feet. So violence is alive and well in Mexico, and the issue is talked about in all the magazines at the newsstands. The gap between rich and poor is enormous, and corruption within the police and military systems is rampant.

We joined Mexican friends of theirs (GM people) for dinner that evening, a lively, very fun pair of middle-aged couples and the two teenage children of one. I finished packing up late and crawled into bed, trying to ignore the desperate flapping of a gargantuan purple and black spotted moth (about an 8-inch wing span) which landed confusedly abou my room when I turned out the light.

Oaxaca (pronounced "Wahaka")

A four hour bus back to Mexico City yesterday, then a four-hour wait in the North Terminal for my bus to Oaxaca. My numb butt cried out as I got on the bus for the 6-1/2 hour trip to Oaxaca. First class buses are comfy though, seats which recline way back, toilet and telephone, curtained windows. You have to go through a security check to enter bus platforms, and a body check before boarding the bus.

Hours south of Mexico City, winding through the mountaintops of Sierra Madre del Sur--rocky and harsh, but green with shrubbery and tall spiny cacti dotting the terrain like thousands of soldiers standing attention...

...and I keep thinking what I see, the terrain and the mountains must be something like the Southwestern US, but I´ve only seen pictures, and I guess these scenes are greener, not like the desert, but still rough, rocky, red earth beneath.

As dusk settled in tiny pueblos were visible far off in the distance. A few flickering lights and always an old church, looming in the coming darkness, standing proudly for even the tiniest of towns. I gazed at one town, the signs from the highway indicated Monte Verde, and I wondered how you got there, how the people got around, what access they had to anything...the woman next to me interrupted my thoughts by saying that town brought back memories for her.

She´d heard stories from her parents who had lived there, that it was a really hard life for them. Every 8 days they went to market, a neighboring pueblo where they´d stock up on food and necessities--eight days´ worth of bread and meat, preserved not with ice, but with salt. And to go anywhere, they travelled by burro. To this day, she explained, it was a really rough life for people in these tiny, remote villages.

If they don´t have cars (most don´t), they travel to the highway by donkey, or walk, and in cases of emergency, especially children who get sick, the mothers walk miles to get help, but their children often die from curable disease and illnesses.

Education is minimal, teachers making sporadic visits to the communities. But the air is pure and the sun climbing high over the mountains in the morning is beautiful, my companion smiled, "I never get tired of seeing this scene."

I arrived in Oaxaca City last night (September 6th) at 9 p.m. and checked into Casa Arnel, a tiny robin-egg-blue room with bed, chair and table, clothes hooks and nightstand. My room on the 2nd floor faces a jungle-like courtyard and downstairs they serve food and drinks. A posse of colorful parrots in the courtyard greets with amazingly weird squawks, and one hailed me today with "Hola!" and something else unintelligible in Spanish, but I could´ve sworn he was cussing me out.

It´s been raining here all week, and is supposed to do the same for the duration of my stay. I´m disappointed, especially since the last item I removed from my backpack before travelling was a raincoat (thanks MOM...), but I´m off to Mitla tomorrow to see pre-Hispanic Zapotec ruins. Until the next...

El Tule, Mitla, Teotitlan del Valle

By the way, if you´ve got a funky name like mine, you should change it in Mexico. I´ve been "Carolina" (Cadoleena) since Mexico City. September 8, 1998...An amaaaazing day today. At 10 a.m. went off in a minibus to El Tule, a gigantic cypress tree, the largest circumference in the worlds, 2000 years old. From there we journeyed on to Mitla, one of the most important archaeological sites in Oaxaca (which is the name of the state/region, as well as the city).

Mitla was built by the Zapotecs (and the Mixtecs), an Indian race which followed the Mayans. Built around 800 BC, the ruins of Mitla have remained remarkable well-preserved, a huge complex with a central cross-like structure. Each facade of the "cross" featrues 9 panels of mosaics, elaborate stone puzzle pieces perfectly fitted to one another.

When the Spaniards arrived in 1521, they assumed that because of the cross-shape of the structure, and the small cross-like designs in the mosaics, that earlier Europeans must´ve arrived before them and influenced the Zapotecs with Christianity. But of course there was no relation, as there had been no earlier arrivals, adn the four directions of the cross have been seen universally in many cultures to represent the four sacred elements--fire, air, water, and wind--as well as the four directions.

Within the site´s walls and tunnels, the same wondrous fet of geometric patterns grace the walls of a large, dark passageway (complete with a creepy little bat flying around), in which the symmetric patterns on one side directly correspond to the patterns opposite, as if you were holding up a mirror. An amazing feat of geometry and mathematics which took modern scientists and graphic designers 8 months to duplicate with the computer.

In the last 9 months, further excavations found some kind of cylindrical quartz bars, perfectly rounded and carved, and inside a combination of copper and sulfur (or is it phosphorous? Somebody help me with my chemistry, I failed it in 10th grade...) Do you know what that makes? (Neither did I.) LIGHT. Almost 3000 year old light bulbs, developed by ancient Mesoamericans.

Mitla is also unique because it´s one of the sites not overtaken and altered by the Aztecs, so it´s a unique monument to Zapotec, and their harmonious successors, the Mixtecs´, ingenuity. Mitla was never buried under earth or ash, which makes it even more fascinating that you can still see signs of the original colors painted on some of the walls, preserved for years because of some combination of calcium and lemon/lime juices.

I was muy impressed.

Met a German guy on his way down to Chiapas to go camp out in the rainforest. When I told him to be careful he gave me a kind of don´t-be-silly look and responded there was nothing to worry about. The lady on the bus from Mexico City said the same thing, that Chiapas was so beautiful, and the only danger was way up in the mountains. Still, I don´t have time or bravado to go searching for Zapatistas at this point.

On the way out of Mitla, I bought myself a jacket since I´ve been cold and wet for 2 days, and walking around, probably the only person in all of Oaxaca wearing shorts.

I had asked the driver to drop me off at the road for Teotitlan del Valle on the way back because I had read there would be a fiesta there, but he forgot, so when we got back to the city, I got back on another minibus bound for Mitla, and they dropped me off on the roadside, 4km from my destination. I´m sure all the other passengers were wondering where in the hell I was going, and I started to wonder myself as no sooner had I crossed the road than I was caught in a torrential downpour, typical of the rainy season afternoons here.

I ran for the nearest cover, a home situated just down the road, a family of weavers selling rugs and wares. They took me in, pulled me up a chair between large hanging rugs, and offered me a warm tortilla and tamales wrapped in big leaves (not sure what kind...)--tamales, a Oaxacan specialty, a collage of cheese, chicken and hot sauce you unwrap and plop on your tortilla. "Dinero?" I asked. "No," the mother smiled, "just because you´re here in my house."

I struggled through the tamale (I´m a non-chicken-eating vegetarian), pulling out large bones I had do idea how to discard. A little boy kept peeking in and out of the rugs at me, and the fther of the house walked by, greeted with "Buenas Tardes", sat down and began weaving at the loom.

When the rain let up a little I ran back to the main road I´d come from to get a taxi and found one waiting there, just as another woman was getting in. I asked her if I could share the ride and we both sat in the backseat, me waiting to take off while listening to a strange language spoken between she and the driver. When I asked later I learned it was Zapotec, the ancient Indian language spoken by many people in the small pueblos around Oaxaca City. Each pueblo had different dialects, but they mostly understood one another. "We speak Spanish, of course," she laughed. "but I like to speak Zapotec so I can tell secrets." A phenomenon spanning centuries in Latin America: the indigenous people speaking and preserving their own language from obliteration by the Europeans.

When I got to the center of town (Teotitlan del Valle), I first wandered up to the church where there wer some little boys playing, so I made friends and joked around with them, but turned them down when they asked for money. But I had stickers in my backpack for just such occasions, and they seemed content with that, except for the fact they wanted more and more.

Around 5, Constantino, one of the little boys, told me the fiesta dancing was about to begin, so I stepped out of the church and onto the square, where one of "Los Negritos", a kind of jester in a black mask with a kind of funky snout and mouth, a hat with little dangling bamboo bells, head covered completely with a scarf, sporting a yellow and white festival costume, came over and grabbed my arm and jabbered away about how excited they were to have me there, where was I from, welcome to Teotitlan del Valle, please sit here in this chair for special guests and enjoy the fiesta.

Behind me in the open corridor of the church, facing the square, an oompa band of trombones, trumpets, tubas and snare drums, young Mexican men watching my escort to the chairs with amusement. A large tent had been set up over the dance area and all the guest chairs, across and beside me were seated the parents and relatives of the performers, plus two little girls who befriended me in the church.

The fiesta itself was in celebration of the birth of the Virgin, September 8th being her birthday, but the dance was called the "Feather Dance" and it depicted the story of the Spanish Conquest. A guy taking a video explained to me that the central character is Moctezuma, seated in the middle of the tent on a wooden "throne", accompanied on either side by two little girls dressed up in gold brocade dresses and hats, "La Malinche", representing the Spaniards. (La Malinche was an Aztec princess, mistress to Hernan Cortes, and traitor to the Aztecs.) And all around these three characters Zapotec dancers, in elaborate plumed headdresses, beaded pants and waving scarves, jumped and hopped and squatted to the beat of the band. "Los negritos" kept to the fringes, laughing with high-pitched giggles and urging the dancers on with "castañuelos" (castinettes).

As the day wears on, the dancing stops temporarily while the local authorities and municipal representatives file over the square to greet the seated family members. The authorities line up ceremoniously, each member passing along and shaking hands, bowing heads to the relatives of the performers. "It´s a very special ceremony," the man videorecording explains. "They pay very serious respects, kind of like Japan."

Once they´ve filed through and formed a semi-cirecl opposite one another, one of the authorities, a Zapotec representative, makes a speech in the Indian language and proceeds to "toast" the family members by presenting bottles of Mezcal, a very strong alcohol made from the mague (or agaver) plant, the same one used to make tequila...to the group. Bottles are handed down the line one after another and the recipients kiss the bottles as they go by to show thanks and respect.

Piles of boxes of Mezcal are then blessed in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, and each authority in turn steps up and makes the sign of the cross over the boxes and recites the bless. The recipients again reciprocate individual thanks to the authorities. The temple members also file onto the square and exchange similar greetings and respects.

Before the square fills up, the energetic oompa of the band and its intermittent mariachi feel competes with the songs and chants of the churchgoing women kneeling in prayer on the floor before the altar. The church pews line the side walls while the people gather in a large cluster, row upon row kneeling on the cement floor.

By 6:30 p.m. the benches framing the dance area, and the entire square, are filled with local Indian people and visitors. "El poleo" (also called "hierba de el borracho", herb of the drunk), as well as fresh bananas, apples, and limes, are given out to the spectators and authorities. El poleo is a kind of minty herb, given for good luck and, the uncle of the little girl next to me explained, "it´s good for curing hangovers" if you mix it in with food or tea. (Probably useful as the spectators are offered shots of Mezcal and Corona beer.)

Promptly at 6:45 p.m. a group of altar boys followed by a handful of bandmembers proceed out from the church as fireworks boom and smoke, and los negritos collapse to the ground, clinging to one another in mock fear. A person up in each bell tower pushes the huge church bells around and around, over and over as the band strikes up another tune.

By 7 p.m. I had run out of film and went to buy some gummy bears from a small shop outside the church grounds. They laughed when I asked for film. "No vas?" the man behind the counter asked, referring to the bus that was rolling out. "El proximo," I answered. "No hay! No hay!" he laughed, so I dropped the gummy bears on the counter and ran for the last bus to Oaxaca, filled with smiling Indian people, and on the large rearview mirror, a giant decal with yellow lettering framed by two red hearts, "Amor eterno" (eternal love). Huge white decaled letters across the front of the bus read "El Señor ya vuelve" (Christ has come).

Monte Alban, Cuilapan de Guerrero, Zaachila

El 10 de Septiembre...yesterday I took a mini-bus tour out to Monte Alban, another remarkable archaelogical site with temple/pyramid-like structures, but I was disappointed to learn some 80% of it was reconstruction. Some of the original stones and paving were still visible, but the height of the structures had been recreated.

Still the stories behind the structures, especially one in particular which caught light from above and shot it out at a 90% angle--the beam supposedly lines up with the pentagonal point of another building which points directly at the sun at the spring equinox. The Zapotecs were off by 3 seconds or something, but as one member of the group pointed out, it was probably the modern archaeologists and scientists who did the reconstructions, who were off.

Photo of me at Monte Alban...

The surrounding green mountains and valleys were gorgeous. I learned there are 16 different Indian races in Mexico, all with different languages and cultural identities. They´re all "Mexican" of course, and the common language is Spanish, but it´s fascinating to observe how indigenous religions and customs have contributed to the culture which is Mexico.

Especially with regard to Christianity...Eloy, who´s happened to be my guide for three days in a row, said that when the Spaniards arrived and began the great conversion of the Indians, there was a huge misunderstanding on both sides. The Indians saw/heard the biblical myth of creation and saw similarities between that and their own story of creation, just that the names were different. So they let Christianity in, but they retained their own gods and divinities, and continued their traditional rituals.

To this day, Eloy explained, if you go up into the mountain villages, you´ll see images of Jesus, and of Indian spirit-gods as well. If the people pray for rain and don´t get it, they turn the little idol of Jesus around, and pray to their nature gods.

The reason Eloy came up with for why Indian names tend to always have masculine pronouns "los" combined with "mayas", "aztecas", "incas" (seemingly "feminine" nouns), is that Indian names were kind of filtered into the Spanish language when the Spaniards arrived, so the words were unsuited for the grammatical rules of Spanish. The reason I chose to ask him (well, Mom wanted to know too...) is because I heard him say "los Zapotecos", while you often hear "Zapotecas". "But you would never say los Aztecos would you?" He smiled, stumped, and told me no one had ever asked about it before, but he suggested that the Spaniards changed some things, and left others the same, for lack of any "official" way to deal with the incorporation of Indian language into Spanish.

Last night I joined Chris (a guy from Casa Arnel who had lent me a sweater) for dinner. He´s on a 9-month journey down to the tip of South America, and back up the East Coast. He took a BUS from New Jersey to Oaxaca! Can you imagine? He was one one from Atlanta to Laredo, TX for 28 hours--eek. We got talking about Japan and the JET Programme and I think I just about sold him. We´re gonna do a book swap before I take off, as I´m running out of reading material.

Today I took another trip out to Cuilapan de Guerrero. Cuilapan is home to a beautifully dilapidated 16th-century Dominican convent. It features an open-air chapel because when the Spaniards were trying to convert the Indians, they realized the Indians were used to praying outside and were fearful of the dark, enclosed Christian churches.

There were original 16th century frescoes on some parts of the walls and archways, amazing to imagine how grand and beautiful it must´ve been 400 years ago. But much of it was destroyed during the Revolution, and the soldiers scraped much of the original artwork from the walls. At present, because of so much corruption in the government, the restoration works projects suffer and money that´s supposed to go towards repairs gets pocketed. Eloy said the convent at Cuilapan was one of the worst examples of reconstruction he´d ever seen. He was embarrassed for us to the see the makeshift chapel it houses for the local community, which features a grotesque white plaster wall entryway and hideous window with metal criss-cross bars, totally out of sync with the Renaissance style of the original surrounding structure.

2,001 fascinating facts...did you know that the name Dominican came from Latin "god" and "dog"? Legend has it that Saint Dominic´s mother had a dream about two black and white dogs, protectors in heaven, and when she sought meaning she was told her child would be a loyal guardian of the church. Hence, the wearing of black and white, and the name "Dominican".

After Cuilapan we ventured to Zaachila, a tiny Indian pueblo that has a lively market on Thursdays, everything from live goats and turkeys, to dead ones, rows and rows of hanging carcasses, plus bright-colored fruits and vegetables, breads of all shapes and sizes stacked high, jewelry, clothes, toys for salve. Kernels of maize (corn) are sold by the kilo for grinding and making into tortillas. Hundreds of people shuffling in and out of the stalls, men carrying sacks on their shoulders, and tiny women with long braided hair interlaced with colorful ribbons and tied into one at the end.

On our way back to Oaxaca, we stopped at Arrazola to see local artisans creating "alebrijes", fantasy creatures carved out of wood and intricately painted with tiny dots and swirls of color, a Oaxacan specialty.

El 12 de Septiembre...it´s my last day in Oaxaca. I went out two nights in a row salsa dancing (like a two left-footed white girl) with Eloy and friends. Really interesting conversations with him about societal problems, esp. in Oaxaca, which happens to be the poorest state in Mexico. Because it´s primarily an agricultural region, it doesn´t benefit from industry (and therefore, jobs) as much as many of the states in the north do. Guys like himself, the guides, I´ve found, are university-educated, and extremely knowledgeable about Mexican history, that of the Americas, as well as Western/European...Every year they´re required to take courses to update their knowledge, be it in art history, or first aid, or whatever.

Unfortunately, many of them were educated to be doctors, architects, engineers, but there´s no such work available to them in Oaxaca. Education is essentially free and available, but enrollment/registration for each child is about $20/year, so the poor families, with six or eight kids, have other priorities than sending kids to school.

As I sit in El Zocalo, the large central plaza, drinking Oaxacan hot chocolate (rich, with a slight touch of cinnamon), barefooted kids try to sell me trinkets and gum, or beg for a piece of bread. I gave two of my three pieces of toast away.

Karen and Drake won´t be able to meet me in Mexico City as planned, so I´m off by bus at midnight tonight, to arrive there tomorrow morning. I´m aiming to see Teotihuacan, and hopefully Tenochtitlan, before I leave for Fiji. I´m ready for the change of scenery, as Oaxaca has been wonderful, but the rain is oppressive after awhile. This morning it´s cool and sunny, my last hopeful glimpse...

Mexico continued...