Dreaming of Oaxaca - Oaxaca, Mexico
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Stumble It!Dreaming of Oaxaca
Oaxaca, Mexico
I decided to go to Oaxaca [pronounced wa-HAH-ka] because of a voice in a dream. Deep in sleep one night, I believed I heard the voice of an ancient Zapotec god beckoning: "Oaxaca, Oaxaca." I rose from my reverie only to find my cat hunched on all fours by my ear coughing up of fur-ball. Not dismayed, I took this as a divine sign and made arrangements for the next available flight to Mexico.
The state of Oaxaca borders the Pacific and extends north halfway into the Isthmus of Tehuantepec. Its capital (also named Oaxaca) sits on a plateau, a mile above sea level, surrounded by mountains. Human settlement of this fertile valley dates back to 8,000 BC. But it was the Zapotec Indians that first left their mark, mainly at Monte Albán. The Zapotecs dominated the area until the seventh century when the neighboring Mixtecs challenged their authority. Indeed, the Mixtecs took over the Zapotec site of Mitla and eventually took Monte Albán as well. The fighting between the Mixtecs and Zapotecs in the end did little good. Both were conquered by the Aztecs in the late fifteenth century, and the Aztecs fell to the Spanish the following century. Hernán Cortés founded the city of Oaxaca in 1529.
Oaxaca provided Mexico with two presidents - both Indians. Benito Juárez, a Zapotec with humble origins, served as governor of Oaxaca, chief justice of the Mexican Supreme Court and later, in 1858, as president. He brought in a new constitution and social reform. However, this change also brought turmoil, turmoil in a big way. His government faltered and collapsed, leaving the western powers to grow nervous. The French did the only thing they could think of; they invaded and set up Archduke Maximilian of Hapsburg (a relative of Napoleon III) and his wife Carlota (a Belgian princess), as Emperor and Empress of Mexico. Even the French could not pull this off for long. Short on monetary and moral support, Carlota went to Europe to raise money and troops, failed, and lost her mind. Maximilian and his government crumbled and he lost his life. Juárez reassumed the presidency until 1872 and is now known as the Abe Lincoln of Mexico.
A second Indian-turned-president from Oaxaca, Porfirio Díaz (a Mixtec), is not known as the Abe Lincoln of Mexico, but rather as the dictator of Mexico. From 1876 to 1910 he ruled Mexico and turned much of the country's resources over to foreigners. A revolution forced him out of office and out of Mexico. It just goes to show: if you're nice, you get an airport and university named after you; if not, you don't.
I arrived at Benito Juárez International Airport, in Mexico City, to change planes for Oaxaca. Inside the terminal I smelled a strong chemical odor. I thought perhaps they were painting somewhere or using solvents and stepped out nearby open doors for some fresh air. It turned out that that smell was the fresh air. It was my first introduction to Mexican air pollution. Luckily the layover wasn't that long, and I could leave the bouquet of Mexico City (and the machine gun-toting soldiers of the airport) behind. Oaxaca was, literally, a breath of fresh air.
I settled into my hotel just north and east of the main plaza or zócalo. The grounds were spacious and filled with flowering trees. I wanted to get a feel for the real Mexico, so I headed to the central plaza, the zócalo. There was a storm brewing and it hit halfway there. I, like many sensible Oaxacans, ducked into the nearest doorway. Fortunately, after ten minutes it let up and stopped completely.
I walked past a branch of Benito Juárez University to the pedestrian street Calle M. Alcalá. One could see students still hanging around the courtyard. Because it is a university town, you see a lot of young people. This fact, and Oaxaca being a heavily Indian city, makes for an interesting social and political mix. The Frente Zapatista de Liberación Nacional (FZLN) has sympathetic support here. The FZLN, or Zapatistas, formed in 1994 as a direct reaction to the North American Free Trade Agreement, also known as NAFTA. Its charismatic and mysterious (and likable, depending on whom you talk to) leader, called Subcommander Marcos, has a near cult-like following and a large number of supporters in both Oaxaca and the heavily indigenous neighboring state of Chiapas. Tasteful graffiti for the Zapatistas marks the outside of the buildings of the law school. Peaceful protests appear along the south side of the zócalo, in front of the Government Palace.
This was my first trip to Mexico and enough people had given me advice about not drinking the water (or eating fresh leafy vegetables or unpeeled fruit), that I was bordering on nutritional paranoia. What was the saying: if it's not cooked, baked or peeled, don't eat it? This, compiled with the fact that as I walked past two young American tourists, I heard one tell the other how sick he had been with intestinal parasites, I stuck to hot food; which made for a somewhat boring gastronomical trip. It was, oddly enough, when I returned to the States that I had any kind of stomach problem. I chalked it up to the ice served on one of the Mexican airlines leaving Oaxaca (or perhaps it was Philadelphia water).
I wanted to see more of the history so I set off for the village of Mitla, forty-two miles southeast of Oaxaca. This is a sleepy little village that during midday reminded me of a set from a Clint Eastwood western. Dried brush tumbled in the streets while locals took refuge under trees for shade. This is a Zapotec-Mixtec site and is still well preserved because it was never overtaken by jungle growth. Under the impressive structures are catacombs. I was warned that there would be people at Mitla trying to sell "authentic" artifacts from the site. But I didn't see any there, just several craft vendors and one very persistent woman trying to sell a shirt for $5. When the Spanish conquered Mitla, they used part of the Mixtec temple for the supporting wall of the church. This was typical of the Spanish - to use masonry from the pagan structures to build their churches - or they would build a church on top of a pagan structure.
On the way to Mitla I stopped at Santa María del Tule to view the Arbol del Tule, the Tule Tree. It is a Mexican cypress believed to be more than 2,000 years old. It is 150 feet, both high and around the base of the trunk. This is a small village where children peer silently at tourists peering silently at the big tree. Each party seemingly in awe of what they are seeing.
The next day I visited the other main pre-Columbian site of the area, Monte Albán. This site sits on a mountaintop six miles southwest of Oaxaca. The Zapotecs built Monte Albán in 600 B.C. By A.D. 300, it had 40,000 residents. The Mixtecs took over in the 10th century, using it as a burial site. The views from both the mountain and the pyramids are spectacular. The area has underground passageways where one could give the illusion of being in one place, vanishing, and reappearing in another. It is believed that this trick was used by priests. When I was there, there were men being in one place, vanishing, and then popping up in another, but they were not Amerindian holy men. Rather, they were hucksters who would appear out of nowhere trying to sell me "authentic" relics. There were fertility figures, animals, and gods. All of these men swore that theirs were authentic and found, surprise, right under the ground at Monte Albán. After saying "no, no thank you, thank you but no, really no, I mean it, no" far too many times, I left the site and headed back into the city.
I went to the Museo Regional de Oaxaca, housed in a former Dominican monastery. Off the cloister walk are rooms dedicated to pre-Columbian artifacts found in Monte Albán and elsewhere, as well as regional handicrafts and textiles. Yet it is the building itself that held meaning for me. While no longer a monastery (and indeed some of the artifacts in the now museum border on the grotesque), it is still sacred ground. I remember clearly walking the hallway on an upper floor, turning, and through an open window at the end of the long corridor, seeing the view of the mountain. The mountain, with its brilliant blue sky as a backdrop, seemed like a painting framed by the window. Suddenly I was no longer in a museum, but transplanted back to a time when this building was filled with prayers and hymns.
I left the museum and walked the adjoining Church of Santo Domingo. Founded in the sixteenth century, it is considered one of the most beautiful churches in Mexico. The interior walls and ceilings are covered with gold leaf; it is filled to the inch with ornate decoration. I attended Mass and observed the devotion of the parishioners. After Mass I left and walked to the zócalo for dinner. On the way back to my hotel, I decided to walk past Santo Domingo once more.
Usually, like many public places in Mexico, the corners and crevices of buildings are strewn with young lovers making out. At the front of Santo Domingo a group of young people had gathered. I at first thought this was a more brazen attempt at heavy petting. But then the music started.
What followed was indeed a type of courtship, but much more refined. It was classical colonial dancing. The men and women would barely touch, perhaps only with their hands. The men danced around the women like bees slowly circling flowers, their hands clasped behind their backs. The women swayed in time with the music, keeping an eye on the dancing men at all times. As the evening progressed the rays of sun on the tan walls of the church gave the scene an ethereal quality. This was the Mexico most tourists don't see. This wasn't a performance; I was the only foreigner in the small crowd watching. It was magic.
At that moment I thought back about the day I went to Mitla. On the way back I had stopped by a small wayside in the middle of the barren countryside for a rest. I sat down on the steps of the building and out of seemingly nowhere I head a faint meow. I looked up and saw a scrawny little kitty walking determinedly toward me. It's whiskers were only half their normal length - either rubbed off or somehow burned off. I had no food to give it and was actually afraid to reach out and touch it. It finally quit meowing at me and crawled under the shade of a nearby shed. It was time for me to leave. I looked over at the kitten, said a prayer for its well being, and left. There was nothing more I could do. That was all I could do for the many destitute Indians I saw on the streets of Oaxaca and in the zócalo. I gave what I could, but knew that that would eventually not suffice.
I wanted to see the Basilica de la Soledad (Basilica of Our Lady of Solitude), a 17th-century complex with a garden in the middle. The Virgen de la Soledad is Oaxaca's patron saint. A statue of her, draped in jeweled black velvet, stands above the altar. I remember going into an art shop and seeing a ceramic version of La Virgen. But instead of an exact replica of the one in the Basilica, this one was done in a Churrigueresque style. The face and features were that of an Indian, her eyes oversized and protruding - an indigenous motif to portray the divine. It was both disturbing and beckoning.
All these memories come rushing back to me now: the narrow cobblestone streets, the sunlight on the tan buildings as it sets, the gold leafing in Santo Domingo church; the cool breeze that engulfs you as you stand atop the pyramid at Monte Albán, the university students crossing themselves three times as they step over the threshold of the Cathedral. I can still hear the music of the colonial dancers and the faint, plaintive cry of that kitten in the dry flatland on the way from Mitla. Or perhaps it was all a dream.
