In Oaxaca, Mexico colour, music and dance fill the air
OAXACA: Sometimes we travel with a sense of urgency because over time something inside us has gone dim, says Esmeralda Bermudez. Years ago, that’s what drew me to Oaxaca. I lived alone in Oregon, a misty place where it was so rare to find anyone who looked like me I once chased down a stranger in the grocery store produce section and asked him to lunch because I heard him pronounce “mango” with a Spanish accent.
Starved for colour, I booked a flight to this city in southwestern Mexico that I’d heard so much about. I had no way of knowing then just how much Oaxaca would wrap itself around my life for years to come, starting with the first phone call.
A friend suggested Las Bugambilias (lasbugambilias.com), a quaint bed-and-breakfast near the centre of town, so I called to make a reservation. The woman on the phone said she was booked solid.
“This time of year,” she told me, “you won’t find a place anywhere else.”
It was July, after all, a week before La Guelaguetza, Oaxaca’s biggest fiesta. Stumped, I was about to hang up, but then the woman on the other end of the line made me an offer unheard of in those pre-airbnb days:
“If you want, you can stay at my house,” she said. “My family will be in Texas. You’ll have the place to yourself.”
Weeks later, I met Aurora. She was gracious and easygoing. She handed me the keys to her two-storey house tucked behind a courtyard. For $20 a night, I spent the week sleeping on her son’s twin bed chaperoned by his small army of stuffed animals.
The first full day I awoke without plans — no map of the city, no travel guide, no list of top restaurants. I wanted to get to know Oaxaca bit by bit, to let Oaxacans show me their city.
When I found my way to Calle Macedonio Alcala, the main strip, I was mesmerised by the scene: Dozens of Oaxacans in their Sunday best filled the plaza outside Santo Domingo Church. Fathers held hands with their daughters. Boys gathered on the pavement for an intense game of marbles. Women dressed in traditional indigenous “huipiles” and colourful wraparound skirts sat in the shade selling “rebozos” (shawls) and sombreros.
Suddenly, there was a blast of fireworks. Then, booming live music. Trumpets, trombones, saxophones.
Everyone looked up as a 12-piece brass band marched down the cobblestone street. Behind the musicians came two dozen dancers in jewel-tone gowns, each balancing a basket of roses on their head. Behind them, two 10-foot-tall papier-mache puppets carefully maneuvered far above the heads of two ruddy-faced boys.
This must be a major holiday, I thought. Maybe a tribute to Oaxaca’s most revered saint. I ran up to a trombone player and asked what they were celebrating.
“A little boy’s birthday,” he said. His name was Carlitos, and he had just turned 3.
I soon learned these elaborate parades, known as “calendas,” date back centuries. They happen almost daily in Oaxaca. It’s how locals celebrate just about every milestone: baptisms, weddings, funerals, divorces, pregnancies, home purchases, store openings.
In Mexico, the state of Oaxaca is the king of fiestas. Year-round, its nearly 600 towns elect “mayordomos” (fiesta mayors) to host local parties for their patron saint. Many towns also compete annually in the state’s most exclusive event: La Guelaguetza. Thousands of people flood the capital those two weeks to see the region’s finest musicians and dancers.
I missed the big show by a couple of days, but there was so much to see that week that
I stuck close to the city centre. I floated from old churches to shops, museums, cafes and bookstores. I drank lots of fresh-squeezed “jugo verde” and got by on street food: $3 “enfrijoladas,” tortillas drenched in a creamy bean puree, and $4 “tlayudas,” pizza-sized tortillas topped with beans, “quesillo,” avocado and salsa.
Every day, I walked to Nieves Oaxaquenas Chaguita, an ice cream stall inside Mercado Benito Juarez, where I diligently tried to tackle the menu of nearly 40 homemade flavours: tequila, “cajeta,” “arroz con leche,” passion fruit, “leche quemada” (burnt milk) and “mamey” (a sweet, creamy tropical fruit).
Sundowns I spent in the “zocalo,” the bustling heart of the city, where every night magicians put on shows, comedians told jokes and kids ran around tossing giant balloons toward the sky. There were live orchestras, cumbia concerts and marimba shows. Some nights couples dressed in heels and suits to dance, cheek to cheek, in “danzones.”
That week more than a decade ago, dozens of protesters occupied the zocalo with tents and signs. Locals weren’t fazed. Many are used to teachers mounting demonstrations that last months.
Most of the protests are peaceful, but some have wreaked havoc on Oaxaca. In 2006, one labour dispute resulted in at least 17 deaths, including one American journalist.
By the time I reached the city, Oaxacans were just beginning to recover. My trip ended so soon that the next year I returned to celebrate my 30th birthday. My boyfriend, David, and I stayed at a charming bed-and-breakfast called Estancia de Valencia (oaxacabedandbreakfast.com.mx), where owner Lorena Santos became a fast friend.
We focused on exploring Oaxaca’s renowned food and ventured to nearby towns: Teotitlan del Valle, where weavers make masterful rugs, and San Bartolo Coyotepec, known for black pottery. We also went to Tlacolula, home to one of the oldest indigenous outdoor markets.
David fell in love with the city. As an artist, he was overwhelmed by the colours. He would sneak out before sunrise to photograph locals and chase calendas up the cobblestone paths. One night, we laughed so much after I lost him in the zocalo and he reappeared, moments later, his face painted like a clown.
To us, this trip was much more than a vacation. Oaxaca was warm and inspiring. It embraced us, let us in on precious traditions Oaxacans have nurtured for generations.
For my first few years at the Los Angeles Times, I kept the walls of my grey cubicle plastered with photos from Oaxaca: the brass bands, dancers, textiles and flowers from the market. Whenever I met Oaxacans, I’d tell them how lucky they were to call such a special place home.