Oaxaca de Juarez

- a weekend spent in Oaxaca for Day of the Dead - 

We arrive in the madrugada, sleepy and hungry. A compañero who is a native of the city walks us to a local food stall where we breakfast on quesadillas de quesillo (cheese quesadillas - strangely enough you often have to ask for cheese in your quesadilla in Mexico) and atole (a prehispanic hot beverage made from maize and cacao). He then takes us to his grandparents house where we are generously gifted a second breakfast of pan de muerto (literal translation 'bread of death') and chocolate de agua. His grandfather, who has lived in Oaxaca for 50 years but originates from the neighbouring state of Morelos, educates us on the estado. It is primarily rural, and for this reason its indigenous culture is prevalent throughout the region. In the state's capital it is not uncommon to hear people speaking Zapotec on the streets, and there is a strong sense of identity in almost every corner of Oaxaca. The markets are lined with stalls selling locally-produced alebrijes (wooden sculptures of mythical and often hybrid creatures), handmade woolen items in a variety of colours and shapes, pots and mugs made from green and black clay, and not to mention the food which is by far the best I have tasted in Mexico. Crispy tlayudas filled with frijoles, quesillo, chorizo, and res, topped with salsa; warm tamales filled with salsa verde; enchiladas coloraditos (tortillas with a red mole which is sweet, spicy and delicious). Despite the enormity of tourists I see in Oaxaca it is evidently proud of its identity and culture.

My friend's parents generously take us on several day trips. The first being to San Bartolomeo Coyotepec, where the alebrijes are produced. I initially thought the alebrijes were a centuries-old tradition, but it turns out they were created by an artisan called Pedro Linares who had a weird dream about weird animals, and then decided to make them out of cardboard . They are now synonymous with Oaxaca, and San Bartolomeo where the majority are produced. One of the vendedores tells me that my alebrije is a coyote or dog, perhaps because of the dog tattoo on my upper arm. Nonetheless I am pleased with this news and buy a smiling canine friend.

The second day trip is longer and takes us on several stops of Oaxaca. First stop is Tule, where there is a giant tree and swarms of tourists. Apparently the tree has the biggest trunk in the world! I am unfortunately not aware of this fact when we visit - and think I would have been more impressed had I known. My attention is swayed by some nearby nieve (literally means snow - kind of like a sorbet except it comes in much more exciting flavours). I opt for a mix of mezcal and leche quemada (burnt milk - tastes like burnt milk).

Our next stop is the archeaological site Mitla, which derives from the Nahuatl for underworld/place of the dead/place of rest. Mitla is known for being the most important archeological site of Zapotec culture - a series of pyramids, constructions and mosaic-like walls. Interestingly we spot three tourists sitting on the stairs of the pyramid, apparently meditating? A mysterious staircase leads to a humid tunnel. It is in this tunnel that we encounter some annoying Spanish tourists who suggest that the third language the signs are written in may be Vietnamese (and not the indigenous language of the region??)

Our final stop of the day is Hierve el Agua, which literally translates as 'Boil the Water'. A series of petrified waterfalls, Hierve el Agua offers stunning views across the surrounding mountains, lukewarm pools which child tourists have probably urinated in, and a very bumpy car ride. It is worth the visit though, especially as the journey back takes us past a local mezcaleria (essentially a shed on a cliff) where we sample various mezcals before heading back to the city feeling slightly dazed.

The city at night becomes even more alive, if that is possible, the streets filling with tourists in skeleton make-up as the gran desfile passes through. People dance, incense burns, we sip fruity mezcal crema purchased at the mezcaleria shed, a drunk man keeps asking me for beer and cigarettes despite repeated nos. Amidst the chaos our amigo oaxaqueño takes us to a local taller where huge prints, calendars and stickers are produced by local artists. The eyes of Zapata look down from the walls, along with images of women and children amongst maize, and one of a luchador tackling Donald Trump. I am too scared to ask if I can take photos, so I don't, but the organizers explain that people come from rural pueblos and learn the trade, receiving free accomodation and food before returning to their pueblos equipped with art in their hands. Ironically the main source of income comes from foreigners purchasing the big pieces, and so the taller is able to sustain itself. Whilst tourism is essential to Oaxaca's local economy it is sad that these images, socialist and polemic in their message, end up on the walls of rich westerners rather than the walls of the community.

For many it is custom to visit cemeteries on Dia de los Muertos and so we go to the Panteon de San Miguel just before it closes. The graves are so tightly packed that you can barely walk inbetween them. The cemetery is filled with ofrendas, candles and cempasúchil flowers - THE flower of Dia de los Muertos (not to establish this as cultural reference but if you've watched Coco then it's the orange flowers that are literally everywhere*). The rest of the night is spent trying to finish a litre of michelada (beer + salsa + maggi + sweet salsa), dancing in the Zocalo, and stumbling between different bars. We make it home in the early hours, but we don't make it to Monte Alban the next morning (as had been the plan).  

Our last day takes us to the nearby pueblo of a friend, where I am once again the lucky recipient of Mexican hospitality (in the form of enchiladas and chocolate). The pueblo is suspiciously quiet, the aftermath of the previous night evident in the streets lined with freshly painted murals and scattered with cempasúchil petals. We catch a taxi back to the city centre, six of us crammed into the tiny car (including a mother and child who we don't know) before catching the night bus back to CDMX.  

* UPDATE - turns out that cempasuchil is the same as marigold