I was never supposed to live in China because Oaxaca was on the docket and a signed & sealed agreement (but not yet delivered) back in 2007. The study abroad program I was to attend was ultimately canceled due to protest (ahem, military police) violence against striking teachers that had occupied the Zocalo in the city center and a few government buildings over the course of several months. The military fired on the crowd killing an independent American journalist Bradley Will, along with 16 other protestors to which the deaths were reported as “shootings by armed gangs” inside the protest movement. Forensics point to the opposite but good luck getting local officials or even the national president Vicente Fox to admit fault on behalf of the killings of protestors. The situation was not safe for a bunch of crunchy anthropology students interested in permaculture and indigenous environmentalism.
Nonetheless, I was not going to take a vacation in Mexico and not seize the opportunity to visit Oaxaca, a city I felt tied to through a strange twist of fate. My China saga would never have happened had it not been for those striking teachers, and as an advocate of (direct action) social justice, not this nuevo keyboard activism, I had felt a strong urge to get a feeling of this city’s revolutionary artistic vibe.
One would be hard-pressed to take a bad photo in Oaxaca with its downtown district of pastel-painted cement houses, tall spires of Spanish-built churches, and Bansky-esque street art decorating street corners where true revolutionary blood has been spilled. The reason the city remains pristine and not dotted with shop signs or chain stores is a result of a consortium of wealthy artists taking matters into their own hands to buy up property and commit to preserving the traditional culture and aesthetics of the region. In a sense, Oaxacan streets look very much like the Disney animated “Coco,” a collision of bright colors and at times elbow to elbow crowds passing hawkers of spiced hot chocolate, fresh fruits, helados, and piles of dried chilis and chapulines (grasshoppers) which are a local delicacy.
While grasshoppers didn’t top the list of my culinary quests– I’d been down that road of crunchy carapaces in food stalls in China- I had heard so much of the famed Oaxacan cuisine especially the world-famous mole and tlayudas (Mexican pizzas) and banana leaf wrapped tamales. Through the course of 5 days, I’d tried both the upscale delights at Los Danzantes to the point- and-pay menus of the bustling Mercado 20 de Noviembre which had all the excitement, chaos, and smoke of South East Asian food alleys. One could simply not have a bad meal in Oaxaca.
Spending Christmas Eve there was an unforgettable experience of festivities with us landing on the 23rd of December just in time to see the famed Noche De Rabanos, a time-honored tradition where local artists and kids take to carving long pink radishes in ornate holiday sculptures. I joined a bustling parade of tall puppets, horn bands, and sparkler-waving children, and felt the energy of a culture that truly valued the essence of the holiday celebration rather than what we see all too often in the West as a tradition rooted in credit card purchases and plastic decorations.
The tour operators were still working on Christmas day where we joined a smattering of Mexican tourists to visit the local sites speeding around in a van through stark brown mountains and fields of spiky agave plants. Oaxaca is home to the world’s widest tree, it was a super chonk of magnificent proportions that looked like if you waved a wand the right way would come to life like a creature in Tolkien’s fantasies. Highlights of the day were to visit a site of petrified waterfalls, Hierva al Agua, a tourist trap in its own right but a cool dip in the pools couldn’t be missed. Equally impressive were stops in Zapotec villages where we watched natives explain the organic origins of their natural dyes in a truly remarkable feat of alchemy and herbalism to represent such vibrant colors. One such pigment was cultivated by squishing a beetle that fed on a certain cactus during the right time of the year.
My sister and I left with lighter billfolds after dropping probably far too much on hand-spun rugs, but it’s hard to negotiate at something that takes a whole day only to weave a few centimeters- being the sole gringos on the tour didn’t help my efforts to get a steeper discount on buying two rather than one. We explored an archaeological site in the hot midday Mexican sun with little refuge in Mitla’s “place of the dead.” The tour shenanigans wouldn’t have been complete without stopping for a Mezcal tasting when we were all famished and probably buzzed even from the small pours. Unsurprisingly, the aged Mezcal took the cake as the most smooth and palatable and it was a shame that I’d only had carry-on bags or I would have opted to bring a few bottles home with me to keep me warm during the cold New England winter.
Sure my sunburned soul struck out, but I did my best to explore the local ways of the city and have a more emic perspective on culture. I ordered foot-long tortas on dusty roads, opted for a haircut at an open-front ladies salon, carried around a pint of local brandy, and made an effort to chat with locals about more than directions. Souvenirs were acquired in the many art markets and artisan alleys and among the loot were two screen-printed shirts of rebellious slogans that remained true to my roots and the reason I wanted to study in Oaxaca in the first place.
On a night out solo from the fam, I found the local rock & roll bar where I knocked back beer and Mezcal neat while engaged in barstool conversation with an “elder punk” who told me of living next to and partying with GG Allin in the 80s in southern New Hampshire. He’s since been working in the wine business and was enjoying a few weeks working remotely from a hotel downtown. That conversation and this whole trip ignited a wanderlust that’s been dormant for some years as I’ve dragged my feet and seemingly conformed to the working world of Western ways as someone who gave a finger to it all to explore the Orient. Oaxaca is calling me back and perhaps it’s the allure of an anarquista Mexican maiden or a call to the wild mountains that beg to be climbed. Oaxaca is a gorgeous gem that outshone my much-delayed expectations and showcases what a simpler life can look like in this post-pandemic wreck of the 2020s.
Take that ticket to ride…