Guelaguetza

Apart from its mole and artesania, Oaxaca is probably best known for its Guelaguetza, a festival of epic proportions extending the entire month of July. The Zapotec word for ‘offering,’ guelaguetza represents a sort of communalistic system of reciprocity through the everyday interaction of individuals. The best description I have found of the custom is the following from oaxacainfo.com:

“The mason may build a brick oven for the baker with the understanding that the baker will provide cakes for the weddings of the mason’s three daughters (though at the time of the building they may be ages 8, 10 and 14). The town upholsterer might re-do the undertaker's furniture, thereby guaranteeing that his funeral will be take care of. The community might also come together to see that people in unfortunate circumstances are looked after.”

The festival brings together the region’s best artisans to peddle their handmade wares to the thousands that pack into the town. Dawn ‘til dusk the streets surrounding the zocalo are awash in gold, silver and turquoise jewelry, brightly colored woven rugs and enormous, brilliant still lifes of mangoes and watermelon. Vendors set up shop in church plazas, offering the dangerously addictive Oaxaqueño fare: tamales filled with mole negro, chapulinas (for those of you into spiced, lime-y roasted grasshoppers) and the legendary chocolate drink of the Aztecs, meant to be consumed cold and unsweetened as the wealthiest of those ancients did centuries ago in their quest for vigor and wisdom. In fact, the Europeans have the Aztecs to thank for their introduction to chocolate. Once Cortez brought it back with him to the Spanish court, they just sweetened, added water and popped into the fire for a few minutes. Voila, the first Swiss Miss and the point of no return for every female in the eastern hemisphere.

On the last two Mondays of July, there are two enormous Guelaguetza performances held in the amphitheater atop Cerro del Fortín, providing unique entertainment and a breathtaking view of the city. These performances showcase the respective dances and customs of the sixteen different indigenous tribes from across the state. Tickets closest to the stage are a staggering $50, but those who have begun to figure out the Mexican way (and who are prematurely destitute), will find that tickets for the top rows are free . . . if you don’t mind a bit of queuing and occasionally having people no taller than your chest inadvertently gain intimate knowledge of your person. My favorite exhibition involved a live, apparently indifferent turkey being tossed about like a rugby ball in the midst of a lively dance that involved lots of foot-stamping, bowing and skirt-twirling. The highlight of the show is the presentation of Centeotl, the goddess of corn, depicted by the teenager who demonstrated the greatest knowledge of local customs in a Little Miss Oaxaca-esque pageant held earlier in the year. In keeping with the spirit of offering and sharing, representatives from each tribe threw food and gifts to the crowd after their performance. The turkey, I noted however, was kept a close eye on in the revelrous melee.

What wealth the region lacks monetarily seems to be somehow amply compensated for in the Oaxaqueño culture of artistry, gastronomic distinction, effusive generosity and over 400 years dedicated to the study of throwing one hell of a party.

Centro de Esperanza Infantil (Oaxaca Street Children Grassroots, Inc.)

For a girl who knows almost nothing about kids, working with street children in a foreign setting and communicating in a language that, only on a good day can I delude myself into believing I understand, ought to be double the shock . . . but for some reason, I feel oddly at ease in the Centro de Esperanza Infantil.

The first order of business was learning the subjunctive, the friendly command tense, to ensure that the most important of my requests (‘come with me,' ‘oh no, let’s not touch that,' and ‘please, please leave the feral cat alone and come down from there before you fall and they charge me with negligence, lock me up in some remote Mexican prison with Carlos-the-assassin as a cellmate and threaten to succumb to a laughter-induced demise at my desperate American pleas to ring the American consulate and talk to someone who speaks American’) might have a chance of being acknowledged. The next trick was coming to terms with having to say ‘no’ to kids who have never heard anything else.

Oaxaqueño street children are incredibly resourceful and tragically wise. They are ceaselessly buoyant and open, immune to self-pity and ready to be wrapped up in a moment of delight whenever one happens to find them. They laugh uproariously at my attempts at Spanish, then in the same moment turn around and with rapid, ferocious chatter, defend me against any potentially impertinent interlopers. I help them write letters to their “godparents” (sponsors from the world over), distribute school supplies as needed and stay close when they crave closeness. They have shown me how to play dominoes, how a four year-old boy can mange with ease his two younger brothers (a skill he learned from his four older brothers) and how much it matters to have something, anything, to call one's own.

Family is Mexico’s greatest boon and its greatest downfall. In Oaxaca, women have children. Lots and lots of children. This is the combined result of a Catholic-majority view towards birth control and simple lack of sex education. Condoms are virtually non-existent and to look at the teenagers making out ubiquitously in the parks and on the sidewalks, one gathers that abstinence might not be the most effective alternative modus operandi. So, places like el Centro exist to provide what they can in terms of food, respite, education and the supplies necessary to support growth from the grassroots level.

Over 75% of the kids supported by the Center are Triqui Indians, one
of the numerous indigenous tribes in Oaxaca. The mothers are often
illiterate and the cost of school versus the cost of living makes it difficult for them to be able to afford to send their children to school (not to mention the added complexities of a school-system that sees the teachers strike annually). In many cases, the children are major breadwinners in the family—selling candies, trinkets and cigarettes on the street of the zocalo (the town center) at night and coming to the Center in the mornings for breakfast and for some, kindergarten.

I am not sure I have ever appreciated quite so much how much education can affect someone’s life. Seventeen-year-old Brisa, positively brimming with potential, is one of those people that make you think things really are looking up, uh, socio-economically for the region. We struggle through our respective English and Spanish studies with each other’s help and I can see in her a quiet determination to be bigger than her circumstances would naturally dictate. What future is there for these kids? From my point of view, the road is long and almost entirely uphill, but there is without question, esperanza.


For more information: http://www.oaxacastreetchildrengrassroots.org/.