Mexico Journal: Good Friday, Part II

More pictures from the Procession of Silence in Oaxaca:

Mexico Journal: Good Friday, Part 1

We've already written a lot about Oaxaca and our journal entries from April 14. Those parts were special for sure, but what made it a day unlike any other was the fact that it was Good Friday.

Now, bear in mind we're not the most church-going of kids. Much less Catholic. Living in big-time blue state country, outside a city once known as Little Beirut because of the regular ruckus that unfolded with Republican administrations visited Portland.

So the fact that we happened to schedule our trip during La Semana Santa, or Holy Week, was a happy accident. This trip was supposed to be about getting off the typical gimme-gimme-gimme tourist path and instead seeing -- and, we hoped, experiencing -- real parts of Mexican culture.

On the day we got into Oaxaca, we met a very nice woman at our hotel who spoke English. We asked her if there would be any special religious events going on as part of La Semana Santa that it would be OK to check out while we were in town.

Immediately she said, Yes, Friday night. 6 o'clock. On Alcala Street. A big parade. Masks. Crowds. Perfectly fine for you all to go and observe.

Great, we thought. That'll be a perfect way to wrap up our last night in town.

Friday morning we get up and leave for the day-long tour to Monte Alban, the Dominican monastery, the wood carvers and the pottery. We were supposed to be back in town about 6 p.m. This is where Mr. What-Time-Is-It? wastes an hour of my life sitting on a mountaintop outside town. And this is why I was all the more irritated with the guy. The woman at the hotel had told us the night's festivities would start about 6.

So finally the van gets back to town close to 7. Drops us at our hotel about 7:15. We run upstairs, ditch our bags, grab some water and start walking toward Alcala, which is a few blocks north and east of the zocalo. It's a pedestrian street running north through town and in front of Santo Domingo Cathedral.

Santo Domingo, which Aldous Huxley called "one of the most extravagantly gorgeous churches in the world." For all its exterior beauty, it's even more striking inside.

As we start making our way up Alcala, the usual crowds are out milling around, but they're thicker than the previous nights and there's all these banner-like things either leaning against buildings or being held by people, mostly kids.

The scene as we head up Alcala Street.

We keep trucking it north until we get to the throng. We're close to Sangre de Cristo Church at the corner of Bravo and Alcala. There are thousands of people. It's so crowded that it is hard to move. We start looking around to see if it's OK to be here. But the local TV station is there filming from the middle of the street, lots of people have cameras and camcorders out, and we are far from the only white-looking faces in the crowd.

The waiting.

The event, which is called the Procession of Silence, is a re-enactment of the crucifixtion, complete with flags and icons from churches throughout town. The flags seem to be made from a thick velvet, often in deep reds and rich greens. The icons, on flower-covered bases like a parade float, are extremely graphic -- blood, hair, thorns, bruising, bones. And there are people all over the street dressed in white and purple. Some with pointed hoods.

Onlookers outside Sangre de Cristo wait for a float bearing two icons to be raised.

Boys taking part in the procession wait for proceedings to begin.

A man with a microphone at Sangre de Cristo Church is reading something, passionately, in Spanish. We understand only bits and pieces. All goes quiet again after he finishes. Then drumming starts, keeping a slow but steady beat. The participants hoist the icons onto their shoulders. The march begins. All as the sun slides away, shimmering across the entire scene.

Hoisted onto shoulders, flashed into memories.

More pictures from Oaxaca

The scene outside our hotel's front door, with the market across the street. Yep, it's really in Oaxaca, even though that awning says Veracruz.

Another meat vendor in the market. Chickens, fish, beef. Whatever you want, they've probably got it.

A cactus in bloom at Monte Alban.

Roadside shrines on the outskirts of Oaxaca.

Inside the monastery's courtyard.

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.

Mexico Journal: 14 Abril 06

Amy wrote:

The report after two full days in Oaxaca: The first we spent in markets and visiting El Arbol de Tule. Despite the laughter from our friends when we told them we were visiting a giant tree, it was great. They're jealous, we know.

The famed Tule. Called the oldest tree in North America. Like many Americans, it's wider than it is tall. This shot shows about one-quarter of its diameter.

Amy on the zocalo, annoyed that I'm taking her picture before the morning coffee has worked its magic.

Mike's bag visits Tule's offspring.

The meat aisle in one of Oaxaca's largest markets. In a row of roughly 30 such vendors, we saw one cold case. Americans are so pampered.

The best part of the trip to Tule (aside from photographing our friend Mike's bag at the site) was sitting at a roadside cafe afterward. We drank a couple of beers and watched as at least two generations of women cooked tlayudas and quesadillas. They worked over a hot bed of coals, making everything down to the tortillas as came in from a table two feet behind them. The oldest woman would throw a ball of masa onto a press and squash it two or three times. Then she cooked the tortilla on a flat pan (similar to a round pizza pan) over the coals. Once that was done, she added Oaxacan string cheese and squash flowers.

After watching all that, we had to order one. It was fabulous.

Tlayudas are one of the main dishes of Oaxaca. They are a large (12"-14" in diameter) crispy tortilla topped with smooth black beans, Oaxacan cheese, slices of tomato, avocado and a grilled flank steak.

The woman use a grill basket when they cook the steak. They place the basket directly on the coals so they can keep cooking atop the pan. After assembled, the tlayuda is placed on the top level of the grill to warm. The women have a bowl of water to rinse their hands, but seem to have no worries about bouncing from the raw meat to the finished dishes.

The old woman used no utensils. She flipped the tortillas and the quesadillas by hand. OUCH!

They keep towels over the ingredients to keep bees off them. And there is a knife they share to slice each tomato and avocado. They make the cuts while holding them in the palm of their hand; no cutting boards.

Back in the city, we had squash flower soup at dinner. Very good. And nice to get some greens.

Mexico Journal: 12 Abril 06

Amy wrote:

Oaxaca! We got to town tired, hungry and ready for a drink after an eight-hour bus ride from Veracruz. Oaxaca is just as I remembered: Lively with an inviting feel. We see more tourists from Europe and the United States than we have in other cities. The zocalo is alive with children, balloons, dancing and women selling flowers from baskets on their heads.

The main cathedral on the zocalo.

The moutains outside Oaxaca as seen from the bus.

Moments after I shot this the guy walking toward us told me in Spanish that this was going to be a beautiful picture.

Morning in Oaxaca's zocalo.

For the foodies:

We stopped at a cafe on the zocalo after dropping our bags. Had sangria, quesadillas (with Oaxacan string cheese, mushrooms and squash flower -- tasty, who knew?). Then we had a mixed plate with Oaxacan black beans, grilled flank steak with tortillas and chiles and more queso. Again, all great!

A nice Mexican couple next to us bought some of the fried grasshoppers that are so popular here from a street vendor. Of course, they offered us some. I tried one first. Seth, reluctantly, went second. The woman called them "rico." They did have a surprising amount of flavor -- only slightly crunchy and very nutty. Glad to say I tried them.

Chapulines, or the famed grasshopper sold all over Oaxaca. Seth now knows if he were a character on "Lost" he could survive on these. Must be a decent source of protein. Toothpicks, though, are handy afterward. You've never felt uncomfortable at the dinner table until you've had a grasshopper leg stuck between your teeth.

More pictures from Veracruz

Amy listens to a band practice in a courtyard at sunset.

After having finally found the beach, we're due for a drink.

A monument stands watch over the port.

Vendors across the street. Port cranes on the horizon.

A street leading away from the zocalo, near the entrance to our hotel.

Mexico Journal: 11 Abril 06

Sunday we took a four-hour bus trip from Puebla to Veracruz. Much of it was through a gorgeous mountain pass. We could see very little at the top because we were in the low-hanging clouds. The glimpses we did see, though, were stunning. Looked like the million shades of green you see in parts of Oregon.

Once we arrived in Veracruz we learned two quick lessons:

1. Always ask a price before getting into a cab.

We hopped a cab from the bus station to the zocalo. We hung on for dear life as the cabbie sped through the streets, honking almost endlessly, weaving in and out of traffic and actually reaching out to slap another car so he could pass it as three lanes merged to two. It worked.

When we got stuck in traffic and regained the ability to speak, we asked what the fare would be. He said, "$100 pesos." Amy answered, "$100 pesos!?!?" I, wanting to get out of the car in one piece, gave her a don't-mess-with-this-cabbie look. Even my dad, who drives like a cross between Richard Petty and Evil Knievel, would have been white-knuckling this ride.

We paid the $100 pesos (about 10 bucks) and staggered on our way. We later learned the ride should have cost about $30 pesos. Bastard.

A band practices in the courtyard of a building off the zocalo during the late afternoon.

Veracruz is very colorful -- the buildings, the people, the music. We got there about 9 p.m. on Palm Sunday and the zocalo was packed. Dancers were performing and vendors had carts set up. All the restaurants were packed. We soon learned this was normal. The zocalo was bustling with people and music every night until 4 a.m.

2. Ask to see a hotel room before booking it.

Tired and hungry, eager to drop our bags, we went to straight to the Hotel Imperial (now forever known to us as Hotel Inferior) on the zocalo. The lobby was beautiful. The rooms, however, were pitiful and gross. The second we opened the room's door the smell of mildew overwhelmed us. The bathroom ceiling tiles were all out of whack, offering nice views of the crawl space between floors and exposed wiring.

We had paid first, though, foolishly. After deciding we wouldn't stay there, we had to figure out how to explain that to the woman at the front desk and try to get our money back. The clerk called her "jefe" to tell him "dos Americanos" (clearly said with great disdain) wanted a refund. Eventually, after she seemed to be on the verge of tears, she gave us $500 pesos in cash.

We took city buses whenever possible. They're a far cry from Portland's beloved TriMet offerings, but there's no better way to see a city than from the interior of a former school bus that was probably totaled in Ohio, shipped out of the country and rebuilt in Mexico with sheet metal welded to the floor to cover rusted out holes. Airbags? Seatbelts? Padded chairbacks? Ha! Hang a crucifix on the mirror, cross yourself when you pass a church and hang on for the ride, baby. Look at the driver's headrest in this particular bus. It's one of the many customized touches you'd see. Often women's names (mothers, wives and daughters, I presume) adorned the display space over the drivers' heads. Pay about three pesos and, I swear, I think you could ride all day.

We got settled in a better hotel and headed to dinner about 10 p.m.

Veracruz is a tourist town where Mexicans vacation. We saw lots of tourists, but hardly any Americans. For the most part, the people were pleasant, but as in any tourist town, always looking to get just a little more out of you.

There is an interesting contrast in watching the wealthy Mexican families on vacation interact with the poorer people selling crafts table-to-table at the restaurants. One of the travel books called Veracruz "Mexico in miniature." This holds true -- people seemed mostly rich or poor, not much of a middle class.

Veracruz is a port town. The area near the port has lots of market vendors and hotels, however, the port itself is no tourist draw. The water around it is extremely polluted.

One day during our stay in Veracruz, we walked a few miles south of the port until we found the nice beaches overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. People lounged at tarp-covered tables and drank while children played in the surf. Pick-up games of soccer and volleyball played out up and down the sand. People just strolled everywhere.

Most nights we ate dinner on the zocalo, listening to music and people watching late into the evening.

Amy's foodie report:

Caldron de camarones: A large clay bowl filled with a spicy, red broth and about 10 of the largest shrimp imaginable. The entire shrimp -- head and all -- is in there. You pick apart the critters, put the meat back in the broth and dig in to all that delicious flavoring that's been released by cooking the whole shrimp in the juice. Messy, but well worth the trouble.

Cacahuates: Restaurants near the zocalo don't serve appetizers. Street vendors walk table-to-table, selling roasted and salted peanuts. Yum. Some pistacios and pumpkin seeds, too.

Queso: Other vendors come by selling balls of white cheese about the size of golf balls. They dice it up at your table and top it with onions and veggies.

Street vendors also sell lots of fruit. They have a beautiful way of slicing a mango so that it resembles a flower. Served on a stick.

A hard afternoon on the zocalo.

Other scenes from Veracruz:

Our city bus driver (like the earlier bus picture, but a different bus), hauling-ass down a main drag. Flashed past the police station in at least fourth, but maybe fifth, gear. And promptly got pulled over a few blocks later with us sitting in the back wondering what's going to happen. He hopped out and ran back to talk to the cop and quickly returned to drive us on our way. Do that in the States and you're likely to get shot by the police.

The shocker guy: On the zocalo, enterprising men and women will find amazing ways to make a buck. The most shocking was a guy who walked table-to-table with a small camping-style battery hanging from his neck and two cables with nice chrome handles extending from it. Pay him -- I'm sorry I didn't ask how much -- for the pleasure of being shocked. And, yes, people really did pay. Popular at the bars late at night. Even with families.

Blood-pressure lady: Woman in white nurse's smock offered to take your blood pressure during meals. Why she and shocker guy didn't get together, I don't know. Great marketing potential.

The view from the terazza at our hotel overlooking to zocalo.

Also for sale on the zocalo at your table as you eat:
- Balloons
- Watches -- "ROLEX!"
- Bootleg DVDs and CDs
- Shirts
- Belts
- Shoeshines
- Newspapers and magazines
- Cheese
- Baby dolls
- Jewelry
- Lottery tickets (not for gringos, best we could tell)
- Bread
- Dulces
- Gum
- Cigarettes and cigars
- Songs for your sweetheart, from the endless bands
- Caricatures
- Other knick-knacks

There's a clear protocol between waiters, vendors and musicians on the zocalo. Waiters always take precedence. Musicians get second dibs. Street vendors bring up the rear, always getting out of the way of the others.

The zocalo at night.

The guys in uniform managing traffic at an intersection near our morning coffee shop did -- or didn't do -- their job based on who needed to cross the street.

Blondes such as Amy: I'll step in front of a bus for you, ma'am.
Latinos: OK, OK. Hang on. I'm coming.
Indigenous: Hello? Cross on your own, pal. Implied through their being completely ignored.

There's also a weird shoe fetish going on in Veracruz. Tons of shoe stores. Many shoe shine places. And people kept checking out my $60 black-and-orange Nikes. Nice or crappy, shined or scuffed, the footwear seemed to say a lot about the people wearing them. And what people think of the people wearing them.

On the balcony of our hotel overlooking the zocalo in Veracruz.

A few more pictures from Puebla

Amy in front of Puebla's main cathedral.

A hand-woven piece on display in front of the cathedral doors the day before Palm Sunday.

The church as seen from the roof of our hotel.

The entrance of another church, this one just next to our hotel.

Amy gets a little sun from the window of our room.

Mexico Journal: 8 Abril 06

It's out of focus, I know. But I just love something about this picture. I'm looking up at one of the towers of the cathedral, which is surrounded by a massive stone-and-iron gate. Each stone pillar of the gate is capped with an angel. There are 30 on each side, for 120 ringing the grounds of Puebla's most prominent holy site.

Seth wrote:

Portland to Atlanta to Mexico City to Puebla. Makes for one long but extremely rewarding day.

Didn't really know what to expect, but I had faith in Amy taking us to special places she'd been before and in our finding all new ones together.

One day in and we're well on our way.

"Carts will be waiting on the roof of the plane for those who need them..." so the flight attendant mistakenly said as we rolled up to the gate at the airport in Atlanta after an overnight flight from Portland. Thus began my first visit of any sort in the Deep South. Made me wonder if our bags were strapped up there too rather than stowed in the luggage compartment beneath our seats.

Getting a good glass of sweet tea surely would have been easier than a good cup of coffee, even at 6 in the morning. I might as well have been speaking Spanish when I asked for a soy chai at the Starbucks counter. But I shouldn't complain. Whatever they made me, although it took about 10 minutes, tasted decent. Caffienated tar, though, would have done the job at that hour.

Soon enough we were back in the air, over the Gulf of Mexico and headed for Mexico City. The approach to that monstrous city was obscured by a thick brown haze. (I'm sure it was mostly smog, but on the bus ride to Puebla we passed several wildfires that were pouring smoke into the sky.)

The Mexico City airport is a zoo, as is the drive out of town. Some of the poverty-stricken neighborhoods, we later learned, are regularly the site of kidnappings. That said, no matter what Amy thinks, I'm confident I could have driven us out of the metropolis if necessary!

I fell asleep pretty quickly on the bus ride to Puebla. First decent sleep I'd gotten in 24 hours. Woke up to scenes of Mexico I'd never expected. Mountains. Sweeping, rolling hillsides. Steep cliffs. Towering trees, even. Cancun it ain't. And that's a good thing.

The approach to Puebla runs through some pretty grim urban areas. Kind of wondered what was to come, but Amy, as almost always, was dead-on right. We caught a taxi at the bus station and the driver took us into the old colonial part of downtown, and it's just magnificent. Must be like Spain. Can't wait for the rest of the trip -- after a good night's sleep.

The streets of Puebla, as seen looking west from around the corner from our hotel.

-------------------------------

Amy wrote:

That seemed to be the longest day ever. We went from Portland to Atlanta to Mexico City to Puebla.


What a relief to finally arrive in familiar Puebla.

We relaxed a bit. Showered and went out to the zocalo. Balloons and bustling people filled the square's sidewalks. We visited the cathedral, taking a few moments to stand before the building and marvel at its architecture. It seems amazing by today's standards. Hard to believe it's about 400 years old.

Seth caught his first glimpses of this beautiful colonial city. He seemed surprised and enchanted all at the same time.

For the foodies:

For dinner we had Victoria beer. i had a soup with chicken, cilantro and avocado floating in a delicious broth. A squeeze of lime on top. Heaven.

Seth had a tlayco -- yummy. Masa, beans, salsa verde, creme and lime.

For the main dishes we each had moles.

I had chicken enchiladas smothered in the traditional mole poblano -- thick, dark, rich, sweet and a spicy kick at the end.

Seth had a chicken breast covered in mole made from pumpkin seeds. The sage-colored sauce was the perfect balance of savory -- not over powering the chicken, but complimenting it nicely.

How this will work

Amy and I kept a somewhat regular journal to document the memories of our backpacking trip around Mexico. We'll soon start posting some excerpts from those entries, along with pictures.

Mexico: We're back

We're back after four planes, five buses, 10 days, more than 8,000 miles.

It was one great trip, taking us from Portland to Atlanta to Mexico City to Puebla to Veracruz to Oaxaca to Puebla to Mexico City to Atlanta and back to Portland again.

We'll post more words and pictures about it all in the days ahead, but for now here is a picture from each Mexican city that captures a beautiful moment from our vacation.

OAXACA
An icon of the Virgin Mary passes in front of Santo Domingo Cathedral during the Procession of Silence on the Friday before Easter.

PUEBLA
The main cathedral, on the zocalo, all dressed up on the Saturday night of Holy Week, or La Semana Santa, which also was the day before the city's 475th anniversary.

VERACRUZ
A midnight view from the terraza of our hotel overlooking the zocalo, which rippled with action and music every night until 4 a.m., or so we were told.

Mexico now. Morocco later?

We're less than a week from some well-deserved vacation time. The plan is to have no real plans, but we know we want to see Puebla, Oaxaca and Veracruz.

We'll post some stories and pictures from the trip upon returning.

Looks like we're a go in the fall for what should be an amazing two-week trip to Morocco. And I might even finally get to see Madrid on the way to Casablanca. More on this to come.

Orville Redenbacher, eat your heart out

Waiting for the last yellow line train, about 12:30 a.m. one night last week, after a long shift at work. The typical Portland winter scene. Drizzly. Cold. And I'm almost asleep on my feet.

The MAX rolls up to Pioneer Courthouse Square and I start to lumber out of my less-wet spot under the awning, through the nastiness, toward the car.

Now usually, on public transportation, particularly at the late hour I take it home, there's plenty to smell. Sometimes it's damp shoes. Once in a while it's wet dog. Pretty regularly, especially near the Old Town stops, it's rank homeless dudes. Near the club district and across the river, there's more beer, waves of cigarette smoke and the first hints of cologne -- some designer, some just bad aftershaves, and this being Portland, plenty of patchouli. And, all along the way, it's never a surprise to get a big whiff of pot.

None of that on this night, however. Immediately, as I step aboard, the smell of fresh hot-buttered popcorn overwhelms me. The smell is everywhere. And I'm the only passenger in sight.

No actual popcorn to be found, though. (Not that I would have broken my strict policy against eating things I find on public transportation.) But the smell alone went great with the movie-like drama that is Portland, unfolding block by block, stop by stop, before me on the midnight train home.

Wiley

Road trip

Back from a great weekend away with friends in Bend. We hadn't been to Central Oregon before, so it was nice to see the sunny side of the Cascades, though this still happens to be February. It's only three hours southeast of here, but it looks a lot like some of west Texas and eastern New Mexico minus the volcanic peaks in the distance.

Skied all day Saturday at Mount Bachelor. It'd been years since we were last on the slopes. I'd forgotten how much fun that is. It came right back to Amy, of course, and I eventually remembered how to make it down the mountain on my skis rather than my ass.

Heard a great song during the drive with Mike and Susan. It had us cracking up over all the funny -- and all-too-accurate -- references to Oklahoma. Particularly southeastern Oklahoma. Considering our "people," as the song says, are from those parts, it's OK for us to laugh about this.

"Choctaw Bingo" by James McMurtry
Check it out on iTunes -- all 8-plus minutes of it. Meanwhile, here are the lyrics:

Strap them kids in
Give 'em a little bit of vodka in a Cherry Coke
We're going to Oklahoma to the family reunion for the first time in years
It's up at Uncle Slayton's cause he's getting on in years

You know he no longer travels but he's still pretty spry
He's not much on talking and he's just too mean to die
And they'll be comin' down from Kansas and from West Arkansas
It'll be one great big old party like you never saw

Uncle Slayton's got his Texan pride
Back in the thickets with his Asian bride
He's got an Airstream trailer and a Holstein cow
He still makes whiskey 'cause he still knows how

He plays that Choctaw bingo every Friday night
You know he had to leave Texas but he won't say why
He owns a quarter section up by Lake Eufaula
Caught a great big ol' blue cat on a driftin' jug line

Sell his hardwood timber to the shipping mill
Cooks that crystal meth because the 'shine don't sell
He cooks that crystal meth because the 'shine don't sell
You know he likes his money, he don't mind the smell

My cousin Roscoe, Slayton's oldest boy
From his second marriage up in Illinois
He was raised in East St. Louis by his momma's people where they do things different
Thought he'd just come on down

He was going to Dallas, Texas, in a semi-truck
Called from that big McDonald's
You know the one they built up on that great big ol' bridge
Across the Will Rogers Turnpike

Took the Big Cabin exit, stopped and bought a couple of cartons of cigarettes
At that Indian smoke shop with the big neon smoke rings in the Cherokee Nation
Hit Muskogee late that night, somebody ran a stoplight at the Shawnee Bypass
Roscoe tried to miss 'em but he didn't quite

Bob and Mae come up from a little town
Way down by Lake Texoma where he coaches football
They were 2A champions now for two year running
But he says they won't be this year, no they won't be this year

And he stopped off in Tuska' at that "Pop's Knife and Gun" place
Bought a SKS rifle and a couple full cases of that steel-core ammo
With the Berdan primers from some East bloc nation that no longer needs 'em
And a Desert Eagle, that's one great big ol' pistol

I mean .50-caliber, made by badass Hebrews
And some surplus tracers for that old BAR of Slayton's
Soon as it gets dark, we're gonna have us a time
We're gonna have us a time

Ruth Ann and Lynn come down from Baxter Springs
That's one hell-raisin' town way up in southeastern Kansas
Got a biker bar next to the lingerie store
That's got them Rolling Stones lips up there where everyone can see 'em
And they burn all night
You know they burn all night
They burn all night

Ruth Ann and Lynn, they wear them cut-off britches and those skinny little halters
And they're second cousins to me, man, I don't care
I want to get between 'em with a great big ol' hard on
Like an old bois d' arc fence post you could hang a pipe-rail gate from
Do some twisted sisters 'til the cows come home
And we'd be havin' us a time

Uncle Slayton's got his Texan pride
Back in the thickets with his Asian bride
He's cut that corner pasture into acre lots
He sells 'em owner financed, strictly to them that's got no kind of credit

Cause he knows they're slackers
When they miss that payment, then he takes it back
He plays that Choctaw bingo every Friday night
Drinks that Johnny Walker at that Club 69

We're gonna strap them kids in
Give 'em a little bit o' Benadryl and a Cherry Coke
We're going to Oklahoma
Gonna have us a good time

Dressed down diplomacy

Evo Morales, the new indigenous president of Bolivia, is in the news again.

First, his campaign stance on coca farming riled the Bush administration and its war on drugs. Now, the populist fashionista has the knickers of the world's couture culture in one serious twist.

No matter your political stripes, you gotta love that sweater.