Mexico Journal: 14 Abril 06, cont.

Amy at Monte Alban, with Oaxaca in the background.

Amy at the Dominican monastery outside Oaxaca.

The monastery itself.

Mike's bag surveys the grand plaza at Monte Alban.

On top of the mountain.

Seth wrote:

The end of our stay in Oaxaca is drawing near and we'll be sad to leave this very special city. I'm already looking forward to returning someday (Dia de los Muertos '07?).

The people here are very different from those in the other cities we've visited. I think, perhaps, that's a reflection of the indigenous Zapotec influence. Maybe I'm all wrong, though. People are very kind and helpful, but much more reserved and introverted than the people in Veracruz, for sure, and even in Puebla, to some extent.

You see many more darker-skinned people here. A couple we met on today's tour (more on that later) talked about the class system that dominates Mexico. They said wealth trumps race, but wealth in many ways is predicated on race. From how they -- he was an Indiana transplant to Mexico City who married a woman from Monterrey -- described it, people are all but locked into the societal level in which they are born.

That's hard to think about when on opposite ends of one block you see the following: A very old indigenous woman sitting and begging for change all day on one corner. Then, on the other, an indigenous boy of no more than 5 playing an accordion with his little brother in tow, singing in the deepest voice he can possibly muster (think of a young Tom Waits) to make money. We saw that kid all over town. Next time we come back, will they still be there, eeking out an existence?

The poverty is everywhere and striking. But so seems to be a happiness, a certain take-life-as-it-comes spirit, that maybe manages to counterbalance things. Or maybe I just want to see it as such. I don't know.

The city sits in a sweeping valley and is surrounded by grand, towering mountains. There's none of the smog we saw in Mexico City. The vivid blue skies are ever-present. And with so many fewer lights than in U.S. cities, looking out or hotel window tonight in the middle of downtown just a block off the zocalo, I could see stars all across the sky.

Today's tour was the one tourist-esque thing we've really done all week. We saw: Monte Alban, massive Zapotec ruins; the remains of a grand, old Dominican monestary; the maker of alebrijes, intricate animal-shaped wood-carvings; and tons of Oaxaca black pottery.

Monte Alban was stunning. To think that the Zapotecs cleared and leveled the mountaintop by hand; hauled stones into place to build altars, palaces, ball courts, even a water filtration and delivery system is just shocking. And we can't seem to fix Baghdad, much less New Orleans?

We were on a schedule during this day-long tour. It was the first time all week that we'd had to pay any real attention to a clock, much less have our schedule influence anyone or vice versa. So when the tour guide at the ruins said to be back at the van at 1 p.m., we were there on the dot. An hour later a couple and their infant strolled up to the van, where about a dozen people had been waiting for them.

No "Lo siento." No "sorry" any language, in fact. So when the guy actually turned to me and asked, "What time is it?," I didn't want to say, "2 o'clock." I wanted to beat him with the kid's stroller while yelling, "It's an hour after you were supposed to be here and we've all been sitting in this hot van in a dusty parking lot waiting for you."

There's an hour of my life I'll never get back. So, of course, being the logical guy I am, I spent the next hour or so of the tour fuming.

The alebrijes were cool, but I was still pissed when we got there.

The monastery had a lot of Spanish influences, of course, and I think we'll see some of those more Moorish elements this fall when we visit Morocco.

The black pottery is one of those things that immediately says Oaxaca. We got some great pieces to go with one Amy brought back from her trip in 2000.

Lunch, when the tour finally stopped for it, came at 6 p.m. Perhaps that, and the hour wasted in the parking lot at Monte Alban, was part of living on what one fellow traveler called the Latin schedule. Even with that pain, it couldn't derail another great day.