Our guide from the other day had called to our attention the walled atria in front of the churches in Mexico. He said that the missionaries built their churches centrally in Indigenous communities because the Indians lived in small dispersed groups of half a dozen families or so. They did not live centrally. Anyway, the Indians refused to worship inside the churches having their own traditions of gathering around their sacred, stone platforms with naturally constructed temples atop. Also, they mistrusted the concept of a stone ceiling which was foreign in their own edifices. So, the missionaries accommodated the indigenous preferences by constructing these open gathering spaces.
After a little rest, we winded, strayed, and spun around in this labyrinth of a market. I wish I could take enough photos to capture the experience, but I fear being rude, and it's a challenge to stay together keeping belongings and children from getting lost. A favorite image of mine came from a busy intersection with a line of short women grasping two or three chickens or turkeys by there legs. At their feet were a dozen more alive, but disconcertingly immobile. We did purchase a market bag. I have always said that I am part mule--carrying a purse stuffed with sketchbooks, sunscreen, snacks, kleenx, toilet paper, hats, and sunglasses. Around my other shoulder, is slung my camera and case. In everyday life, I'm always carrying too much--most often transporting art materials to classes that I'm teaching or current projects to a family party. Being a tote bag addict, I quickly detected the bosilla of choice of all market goers who are looking for sturdy ways to carry their purchases. I was happy to buy one today and put it into practice immediately.
Getting hungry from the flood assaulting our senses, we wandered into the prepared food corridor and sat down immediately. Moments later we were served memelitas, huaraches with chorizo, and aguas de tuna and horchata. Tuna is prickly pear cactus. This was the first time we tasted it, and it was very refreshing. The four of us ate a filling lunch for under $8.00. A cup of fresh fruit with chili pepper and we were set for dessert as we waited for a taxi to return us to Oaxaca.
Waiting for the taxi gave us time to sit and watch life go by in Tlacolula. We noticed that the people were much shorter and more likely to be dressed in traditional clothes. Sitting there long enough we were able to pick up on differences indicating a variety of cultural groups within the Zapotec. Also, it was the first time I heard Zapotec being spoken conversationally.
We waited quite a while for a taxi to find its way to Tlacolula and after we piled in the backseat, two women who were ahead of us shared the front seat. We put our purchases in the trunk, but the driver continued on to another part of Tlacolula to pick up some other goods and chat with a friend before reaching the way to the highway. The women in front shifted in their seats opening the door for leg stretching and air. We began chatting about where we are from and why we are in Oaxaca etc. All the while, we are waiting on our driver. The one woman, a teacher, shrugged and told us this is pretty common. The older woman received a phone call explaining with mild disgust that no, she wasn't in Oaxaca yet and that she hadn't even left Tlacolula. He was a safe driver, though, which I appreciate more than anything, but on our way back to a "sitio" in the Abastos market, he stopped for a drive by torta sandwich ultimately picking the chile relleno. He's efficient, I guess.
Back at our apartments as raindrops occasionally fall and then tire out quickly, we have been relaxing. The adults are with books, and kids have been playing in the courtyard. They met a friend who lives below us, and the three kids played with their bows and arrows until the soccer ball came out. Then the older brother played soccer, and Penelope retreated to the balcony in position of cheerleader.
It's been a relaxing and thoughtful Sunday.
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