Cooling Off in Latuvi, Oaxaca

Rustic Restaurant where we stopped for
breakfast

The Oaxacan Sierra Norte is considered to be one of the three best conserved areas in Mexico, and one of the seventeen most important areas of biodiversification in the world.  There are four hundred species of birds, three hundred and fifty different types of butterflies, and 6,000 different plants.

Primarily inhabited by the Zapotec people the forests extend from 200 meters to 3,000 meters above sea level.

Once more, our trusty driver Joan Harmon conquered the twists and turns of the roads, which truly are magnificent engineering feats.  We stopped for breakfast in a small restaurant nestled on the side of the road, and we weren't the only travelers venturing into the mountains, to get away from the heat of the city, only to find the mountains very cold. Hot chocolate and coffee were very much in order for all travelers.

Nieves and friends

Grateful passengers we pick up on the way

Once more, our trusty driver Joan Harmon conquered the twists and turns of the roads, which truly are magnificent engineering feats.  We stopped for breakfast in a small restaurant nestled on the side of the road, and we weren't the only travelers venturing into the mountains, to get away from the heat of the city, only to find the mountains very cold. Hot chocolate and coffee were very much in order for all travelers.

Who's more curious? The goat or Nieves

Our hike went up and down the mountains until we found our way to a trout farm, where Nieves, as usual took advantage of the water and took a swimOn our way back to the city, we sat on the terrace of a beautiful restaurant, and froze while eating our freshly cooked trout.

One of 6,000 fauna in the forest

Here in Oaxaca, as the days heat up, city dwellers will frequently go up into the mountains to cool off and dine on trout.  

A Typical Day in My Life

In Oaxaca, winter begins around the middle of November, and last until the end of March. But, it isn't the weather  that makes this time of year the winter months; it's the influx of Americans, Canadians and a few Europeans. They all gather at the Oaxaca Lending Library.  Events are scheduled, and fill to capacity.

One cup coffee maker

I'm not part of any of this.  Although I'm a member of the library, and when I'm asked, I'll fill in at the front desk, checking in and checking out books, I'm not a newcomer or snowbird. I'm not a vacationer; this is where I live and work.

For most of my life, I worked not because I enjoyed the work, although the work had its moments, I worked for money.

Now I work, but don't worry so much about how much money I make.  Mind you, I still use money as a gauge to my success, but work isn't something I have to do to earn a living.  Each month, on the first of the month, I have more than enough money to live on.  Thanks be to my pension plans.

I work as a freelance Internet Content Writer.  I like the work.  You can find a portfolio of my articles at Suite 101. I also write for The Content Authority.  You can't find anything I've written there. I'm paid for what I write, but as soon as the client accepts it, it is theirs, and I no longer have a claim to it.

My third writing gig is here on my blog.  It's a modest little blog, where I write whatever I like, no one edits my work, and I receive no remuneration.  However, I'm always delighted when the rare comment or email comes my way, or another person decides to become a follower.

I'm up at 5 am, or so, no need to set an alarm clock.  I get up when I feel like it. After weighing myself, I keep a healthy weight.  I find my way to the coffee maker.  As the coffee drips through the maker, I check my bank investments.  It's been a good year so far.  Then I check my email and visit the few writers’ forums I'm part of.

Usually, at some point during my second cup of coffee, I drink two cups, no more. I go to The Content Authority web site to see what work is available.  I begin to write.  After I've submitted an article or two I look at the news of the day while eating breakfast.

Generally, my field of interest on Suite 101 is health and personal finance.  I'll write an article for that site, gleaning information from the news items I've read.  Next, I write a blog entry, finishing off, around 2 p.m.

If I have time, I read, generally memoir, sometimes a classic novel, sometimes a non-fiction book on something that interests me.

2 p.m. marks the end of my writing, and it's time for lunch.  If I'm eating alone, I watch an episode of the Mary Tyler Moors Show.  I've seen each episode an uncountable number of times.  But, it is still my all time favorite, followed closed by Marlo Thomas in That Girl.  I think I'm addicted to the Mary Tyler Moore Show.

Most days I go to the super market in the afternoon. There are two close by, Soriana and Chedraui. 

Because so much of my life is solitary, I try to have lunch a few times a week with friends, then there is my weekly hike, which is always a pleasure.  Tonight I'm off to see The Artist with a couple of buddies.

Life is good here in Oaxaca.  Come visit some day soon.

From San Bartolome Tlapazola to San Marcos

My hiking buddy, Joan and her faithful companion Nieves, took a sabbatical this week.  And so, I boarded a bus with thirty-two non-Mexicans and one Mexican.  The Mexican, Jesus, had met us on a hike up Cerros Fortin, which overlooks the city of Oaxaca.  He asked if he could join us some time, Joan took his email address, and the rest is history.

Church in Tlacolula

We boarded the bus at the Oaxaca Lending Library and travelled to Tlacolula, where we made a twenty minute stop to look at the church.  I briefly looked at the church, took a few photos, and proceeded to scout out the public washrooms.  It cost a typical two pesos to use the facilities. The attendant handed me a large amount of toilet paper, and I used the facilities.  As is frequently the case, a toilet without a toilet seat.  But this bathroom was obviously a high class facility because I could flush.  There was hand soap to wash-up, which is not seldom the case.  Paper towels?  Forget about it.  Only in those places that cater to the tourists can you find towels to dry your hands.

After I had used the facilities, I thought perhaps other people might be wondering where the bathrooms were; I found the rest of the troop, announced I had found the washroom, and if anyone needed to use the facilities I'd show the way.  A parade of light skinned people followed me through the market to the public washroom.

On the way to San Marcos - goats, burros
and laundry

We found our way back to the bus, and our driver headed for San Bartolome Tlapazola.  He left us in San Bartolome.  We would hike to San Marcos, and he would meet us there. The hike was an easy one, almost boring, and far shorter than I generally like to hike, only two miles, or so.

Price 100 pesos (About $9.50)

Generally, I don't like to hike with the group because there are so many foreigners swooping down on these small villages.  Villagers, hoping to make a little money selling their wares, are frequently disappointed. 

Ruins, yet to be uncovered
Remembrance of another time

I did my best, walking amongst the hikers, showing my fine purchases.  I had spent only 100 pesos.  Some were annoyed at my efforts to promote local crafts.  Tough! We come to their village, we ought to help out a little bit.  Some of the other hikers gently teased me, and said  I was the local Chamber of Commerce.

Joan called today.  She's thinking that next Sunday we'll go south to a cave we've been hearing about.  Stay tuned.

Noisy Mexican Tardiness

On Saturday, my friends Joan, Cheryl and I were going to an organ recital in Yanhiutlan.  Joan came close to cancelling. 

The scene through
 the archway

She lives in Huayapam and there were festivities going on last week. The thing is, there's always festivities going on everywhere and somewhere in the state of Oaxaca.  Granted, most Mexican like to party, but I suspect it is particularly true here because this is "the face of the nation."

Anyway, a drunken Mariachi band held an impromptu concert at 3 a.m., and decided to hold the concert right outside the property where Joan and Doug live.

Around 6 a.m. the concert ended, but all was not quiet because fireworks began.

"I forgot to write about the fireworks," I said, referring to my recent blog on the sounds of Mexico.

"How could you forget the fireworks?" my companions asked in unison.

"I don't know."

the organ we came to hear,
and didn't

The organ recital was scheduled to begin at 1:30 p.m.  We arrived on time.  The church in Yanhiutlan is a grand beauty, and I was particularly impressed with the view displayed through the archway.  We waited an hour, eventually giving up on the organ concert. 

The people of Mexico enjoy their beer, mescal and tequila, and enjoy their music.  What they refuse to be, outside of work situations, are people who pay attention to time.

When my friend Gandhi was married we were to be where the wedding was taking place at 2:30 in the afternoon, the ceremony would be at 3:00 p.m.  Well, even the bride and groom showed up some time long after 3 p.m.

Friday night Joan and Doug suffered the sounds of Mexico.  Saturday night it was my turn.   About 7 p.m. the party next door began, and continued until 6 a.m. the next morning.  I'm not sure, but I think university students occupy the apartment.

When I lived in Winnipeg, Manitoba, across the street there lived some frat boys.  Now my old neighborhood wasn't the kind of place where frat boys would be tolerated, and when they had a drunken bash the police were called to break things up.

My Oaxacan neighborhood is as up scale in a Mexican way, as my Winnipeg neighborhood was, but here noise is accepted.  In many ways the people of Mexico are very easygoing, or at least not confrontational.  And so, if a person lives here, there's really no choice but to adapt. 

Sounds of Oaxaca

In Oaxaca the dogs bark.  They bark at all hours of the day and night.  A couple of years ago, my neighbor of the time asked me about the terriers; three live on the property:

"I like dogs, but they're barking for no reason," he said.

I laughed, "They think they have a reason, or they wouldn't be barking."

A rooster lives next door, if you think roosters crow at the crack of dawn you're correct, but they also crow in the middle of the night, and throughout the day.

Mother Ruth and her terriers

There's a man who gets up very early in the morning and pedals his specially built bike with a very large pot in the front, in which he has tamales to sell.  It sounds as if he's singing "Strum-bo-lee" as he pedals down the street every morning around 8 a.m. and back again about 9:15 p.m.

On any given day, a truck or two with a loud speaker rolls down the street.  One sells various seafood; over and over I hear a man shouting "Mariscos, langosta, camaron, pulpo" (translation:  seafood, lobster, shrimp, octopus) There’s the truck that, as it slowly inches its way,  broadcasts the business of  buying antiques, gold and silver.  Sometimes a new restaurant opens, and a truck drives around the neighborhood loudly letting us know its location, its offerings and its hours of operation.

Then there's the gas truck that makes a sound akin to a deformed, honking goose.  After the honk comes the announcement the ”Gas de Oaxaca," followed by a hokey tune familiar to everyone who lives here, and impossible for me to describe.

There's the guy with his jugs of water, "Aqua, aqua," he sings.

When I hear the sound of chains dragging under a vehicle, I know it's the garbage truck, and my neighbors, along with our housekeeper Ana, will be lining up to dump refuge.

I've been here long enough that a great deal of the time I no longer hear these sounds, but when I take the time to listen; they are familiar rather than strange sounds of my life.

Spring Comes to Oaxaca

Suddenly, the beautiful Jacaranda blossoms appeared. They are the color of lilacs.

In Manitoba, located in the central part of Canada, it's very cold in winter, and lilac blossoms welcome spring.  The awakening of the earth begins with the prairie crocus, which pop up through the ground as soon as the snow begins to melt away, the daffodils soon follow and finally the tulips.  As the tulips show their full splendor, the lilacs blossom.

Jacaranda: Tropical spring blossoms

Just as the winter solstice here in the tropics holds far less impact than a Canadian prairie winter solstice, the welcoming of spring holds only a minutia of change.  Although beautiful, the Jacaranda marks an insignificant change of seasons.  But the lilac has a clear duty to perform, welcoming the warmth of spring after an obvious winter of snow, ice and days of -25C.

Along with the blooming of the Jacaranda, came the street vendors selling tulips.  It was my friend Joan's birthday on Friday.  We partied Sunday.  I bought a pot with three tulips, thinking she could plant them, and they would come up again next year.  Perhaps if she keeps them in her freezer?

Speaking of Joan, she turned sixty-seven.  Nieves, Loretta, Joan and I hiked the hills then settled in for an hour of aerobics with Joan's aerobics instructor.  It was a wonderful way to celebrate the passing of another year, all of us, with of course the exception of Nieves, over sixty and able to hike mountainous terrain, lift our legs, jump up and down and cha-cha with the best of them.

Joan's husband Doug is an amateur chef, and the first time in my life that I can remember I over ate, and suffered the consequences.

El Carrizal, Oaxaca, Mexico

Nestled high up in the Sierra Norte is the village of El Carrizal, with a population of approximately 600.

In Canada, a paved road is in better condition than an unpaved road, this is not necessarily the case in Mexico.  We travelled to El Carrizal using the paved road, full of potholes that were sometimes impossible to avoid.  We also encounter rock slides cleared, but barely passable.  I'm glad Joan was the driver.  It took about two hours to reach our destination, a distance of forty-four miles, but well worth the journey. 

The people in El Corrizal are farmers with beautiful orchards full of pear, plum and peach trees.  The orchards and fields are irrigated by water from the Cienaga and Neveria Rivers.  The villagers also earn money by making a type of flat bread, baked in clay ovens heated with firewood.

There are new immaculately kept cabanas where people interested in ecotourism can stay overnight for $170 pesos per person.  (Less than $17 American dollars).  We plan to return in a couple of weeks and stay overnight.

Fearing we would be travelling home in the dark, after a brief hike, with our guide Francisco, to a cave and waterfall we ate lunch at La Granja (the farm), which is a trout farm restaurant, and left La Carrizal too soon.

Is Mexico Dangerous?

Photo of the outside where I live

 I've been asked if Mexico is a dangerous place to live. 

My answer is no, not really.

I live in the city of Oaxaca.  My feet are my favorite mode of transportation, and  I go wherever I want.   As I would anywhere in the world, if it's very late, I take a cab home.

I've read about the Oaxaca Drug Cartel, and if I was a member of a drug cartel, I know I'd be living a dangerous life, and it wouldn't matter in what country I was living.

I live at the back of a garden on the top
floor of a bungalow.

Politics here is volatile.  Unfortunately, Oaxacans sometimes settle their differences with guns.  But, it's a rare occurrence.  If I try to get to the root of what happened the answer given is usually, "It's political."  It's against the law for foreigners to get involved in Mexican politics.

Although my neighborhood is safe and quiet, the next neighborhood over was, until this last year, full of drunks.  I was getting a little worried because the drunks started recognizing me as a neighbor, and tried to engage in conversation.

 Their rowdiness, and especially the garbage they were leaving around, was making the people in that colonia angry.  I don't know what the people did, but there are no longer drunks lying on the side of the sidewalk.  What I do know is that the municipal police got involved.

The colonia is now a pleasant place to walk through with little shops selling snacks and groceries, children playing, mothers making tacos to sell, and people like me walking to one of Oaxaca's major shopping malls, Plaza de Valle.   The shopping center is like any other shopping center, modern, clean and offering a wide array of goods.  Of course, the goods offered are not exactly the same as is offered in Canada or the United States.

Some friends of mine have had their pockets picked.  I haven't.  I never carry more than I'm prepared to lose, with the exception of the first of the month, which is when I make a trip to the ATM, and I come straight home.  It's a short walk, in the middle of the day, through my safe neighborhood. 

During the two and a half years I've lived her, one or two foreigners have been murdered.  But, I think, they were involved in land or water disputes, which are also volatile issues.

I have both Mexican and foreign friends, but all my friends are very much like my friends back in Canada, law biding people who are not the type to get into trouble.

I saw a dead guy seconds after he was shot, but that was in the city of Chihuahua.  I'll tell the story soon.  Stay tuned.

Peace Treaty of Sorts Signed with Triqui

Mexico can be a racist society.  In the state of Oaxaca, with sixteen indigenous groupings, amongst the lowest are the Triqui.

I've never understood why, but it seems to me that human nature is such that those at the bottom all too frequently fight amongst themselves, instead of banning together and helping one another.  This is the case with the Triqui. In the municipios that they control, corrupt state governments have assisted the in fighting.

In July of 2010, Governor Gabino was elected, and the people of the state of Oaxaca had great hopes that things would change.  Still, the women and children of San Juan Copala, the main city in the self-declared autonomous Triqui region, fled their homes fearing for their lives and for seventeen months set-up camp in the center of the city of Oaxaca.

In December, they went home because they were given assurance things would change.

Last Wednesday, Triqui leaders got together with the governor, documents were signed and discussion began.  Peace and security is promised.  Only time will tell.

Yagul to Diaz Ordaz

The number of people hiking on Fridays has increased. On our first hike, there was Joan, Larry and I. On this hike, there were nineteen people.

I took a collectivo to monumento. Monumento is a sort of meeting place, I suppose, on the edge of town. Joan, who lives in Huayapam, met me there with her vehicle.

We met up with the rest of the hikers at Yagul.

Yagul was a Zapotec city-state, and its hey day had a population of 60,000. It's situated on a volcanic outcropping, surrounded by fertile land. Evidence of civilization in the area dates back to 3,000 BC.

When the Spanish conquered this part of Oaxaca state, they moved the Zapoteca out of Yagul, and into areas of Spanish settlement.

After exploring Yagul, including the ancient remnants of a bathtub, the group hiked to Diaz Ordaz, which is about a four-mile hike. We had packed lunches, brought from home, and ate in Diaz Ordaz. Then we took collectivos back to Yagul.

When the hike was over, Loretta, Joan and I went back to Joan's house. Loretta and I drank wine and ate crackers, cheese, olives and humus, while Joan prepared for two parties she'd attend that evening.

The photo of Loretta and Joan standing outside an old church was taken in Diaz Ordaz. The photo of the oxen shows how the land is farmed.

The Difference is Clear

The Oaxaca International Film Festival runs from November 12 until November 19. My friend Jane Robinson, who owns the lovely boutique hotel, Casa Colonial, is in heaven. Her hotel is full of film people discussing their films, going over scripts and generally exchanging ideas.

Yesterday, after comida at the not so inexpensive Biznaga Restaurant, Jane and I walked over to Teatro Juarez, where we watched a film from Argentina

Our moderator gave a brief introduction to the film and suggested we all stay after the film because the producer would be available to answer questions. “This is the sweetest part of the event,” she said.

I don’t speak Spanish well enough to understand every single word in a conversation. Nevertheless, I speak well enough to get the gist, and to appreciate the cultural differences between Latinos and those who are from north of the border. Latinos like to be very polite, and give elaborate explanations. Those of us from north of the border like to cut to the chase and get to the point.

When the director asked for questions, each Latino’s preamble went something like this:

“My name is Maria Mendez. I’m a student of cinema.”

“I enjoyed your film very much, thank-you for bringing it to us. Although it is a very dark and morbid film, it is also very beautiful. You combine darkness and beauty perfectly. The contrast was very emotional and moving. “

“My question is this. . .”

Another friend of mine, Marga Schubert, was in the audience. She is an English speaker with almost perfect Spanish fluency. She had a question. No introduction, no compliments simply the question, “Where is this place.” In other words, where was the film shot?

The producer understood her question, and I understood his answer. The film was produced in Northern Argentina, a distance from Buenos Aires, at a museum.

Marga’s question was efficient and to the point. It did its job. But, it lacked the charm, finesse and elegance of the questions asked by her fellow film watchers who were Latino.

I was amused. Estoy viviando la diferencia.

Israel - Chapter 3

On Sunday, March 27 at 3 a.m. it was time to leave the luxurious Notre Dame of Jerusalem House and make our way to the Ben Grunion Airport, which was an hour away.

When my turn came to get my boarding passes I was told I could get a boarding pass to the Madrid airport, but I couldn’t use my ticket from Madrid to Mexico City because the plane was full. I could wait in Tel Aviv or I could go on to Madrid, either way I’d have to wait twenty-four hours to travel from Madrid to Mexico City. I chose to wait in Madrid.

Off I went on my way to Madrid. I’d need to deal with my flight to Mexico City the next day. I proceeded to security. My checked luggage was to go through a scanner before baggage handlers would put it onto the plane. Before it went through the scanner a very polite Israeli security official asked me all kinds of probing questions. She must have been told she should smile because throughout my mild interrogation she smiled and smiled and smiled. Her face must be really sore at the end of a shift.

It was a long and interesting walk to my gate. To my left, as I sauntered along, I read the English written on the huge murals that hung on the wall. The murals gave those walking by a history of Israel’s troubles, what it has endured and what it does endure. The poster asked for financial help. Then came the display celebrating stupid.

Well, I’ll be darned, there are other people in the world who think like me. I’ve been shocking people for quite sometime by freely admitting I’m stupid. I’m committed to being a seeker of knowledge rather than a possessor of it. When partaking in social discourse I’m likely not to express an opinion because most of the time too many people are already pontificating, whether knowledgable on the subject or not.

I celebrate stupid.

I arrived in Madrid. The Madrid Airport is huge. After gathering up my luggage and making my way through the immigration area I found an information booth, strangely enough the people staffing the booth weren’t allowed to give any information, except for flights in and out of the airport.

I did manage to learn that Barajas was the pueblo that was close to the airport. Madrid city center was about an hour away by way of the metro.

I thought I’d find a hotel in Bajaras. Then I planned use the metro to get to the Madrid Zocalo. Although the information person strongly suggested I take the metro she was unable to tell me the name of a hotel, or how far it would be from the Bajaras metro station to a hotel.

I decided to find a cab. I went outside and found the front of a very long line of cabs. Few people were waiting because the taxis got a fare quickly and quickly drove off. My turn came fast. I explained to the taxi driver that I wanted to go to Bajaras and that I needed help finding a hotel.

“Muy mal. Muy mal,” he said. Then, “Arriba, arriba,” while pointing up. I looked up and was amazed. On the second story, high in the air was another street in front of the airport, and up there were more taxis.

Okay I said as he got my suitcase from the trunk of his taxi. I went back into the airport and rode a glass elevator to the second floor.

Outside on the second floor, I explained to a very young cab driver what I wanted. Apparently he couldn’t oblige because he walked over to the taxi behind his and I watched as he talked to the driver.

The third cab driver accepted my request and off we went. He’s an engineer from Cuba who has lived in Spain for twenty-four years. I ask how an engineer ended up driving cab. He tells me he worked in his profession for a long time. I assumed he’s retired and the cab is a way to make extra money.

“Where did you learn to speak Spanish?” he asks.

He was very accommodating, and turned off his meter when I went into the first hotel. It was too expensive. We went to another hotel. When I was in the hotel negotiating price he decided to come in. He checked, how close the hotel was to the nearest metro station, knowing of my plan to go into Madrid. He also asked if the rate I was quoted included all the taxes. When he’s convinced this hotel met my needs he and I went back to the taxi where he gave s me my suitcase. I thought I should give him a tip.

“What is the custom in Spain? I don’t know. Do people tip?”

He hesitates, then decides to honestly answer my question. “Not usually,” he says.

“Well, I’d like to give you a tip anyway because you’ve been so helpful.”

Everyone I met during my twenty-four hours in Spain were charming. I’d move to Spain if I could afford it.

Midmorning the next day a hotel shuttle took me to terminal four, which is totally devoted to Iberia flights. I was about to stand in a line to get my boarding pass when an Iberia employee told me it was the wrong line. I thought she was pointing in a certain direction and there. Then realized I needed a boarding pass to move through that line.

I returned to the Iberia staff person and asked, “Where is the line where I can get a boarding pass for the plane leaving at 12:55 for Mexico City.” I had no other information because I didn’t have a ticket. I had only the personal guarantee of an Iberian staff person working in Tel Aviv.

The Iberia staffer checking to see people didn’t stand in the wrong line said something I don’t understand and pointed in the direction of several lines. “Alli, alli, alli ,” I say. (There, there, there.) Not having a clue which there (line) I should be standing in.

I asked a cleaning person. Sometimes they’re the wisest people in an establishment. She told me that line with ticket booth numbers 21 through 40 will get me a boarding pass to Mexico City. As I moved toward the end of that line, I suppose she thinks she might be wrong and doesn’t want to steer me in the wrong direction, she tells me I should go to the information booth. “Alli,” she points. I look. “Oh, Alli,” I say.

Eventually I get my boarding pass, check my suitcase and board the plane.

I arrived in Mexico City. Took a cab to TAPO bus terminal and asked when the next bus left for Ciudad de Oaxaca. I’m told it leaves in five minutes. I’m rushed into buying a ticket and rushed onto the bus. The baggage handler puts my suitcase into the baggage area of the bus. This time I’m on a regular ADO bus, the movie screen is not on the seat in front of me and, I don’t get personal earphones. I don’t have a blanket or pillow. I don’t get a free bottle of water. The seats are smaller and cramped.

Not having water is a problem because the bus will not stop for six hours. I have maybe a few swallows in my water bottle. A fellow passenger offers to fill my bottle,

It’s a long ride. I arrive in the city of Oaxaca Tuesday, March 29 at 3 a.m. A cab ride home and my journey is complete.

I get my money from ATM machines, and much of what I get is in $500 peso denominations. Change in Mexico is always a problem. When purchasing anything, merchants and service providers usually ask for exact change. I think I have only a two hundred peso bill and the ride to my place only costs 40 pesos.

The cab driver doesn’t seem to understand. I don’t need change, I need a ride and only have a 200 peso bill. Does he have sufficient change? Can he except my fare? I’m tired. I’m stressed. I must been shouting because he covered his ears. Eventually he lets me and my suitcase into the cab because as it turns out he can give me $160 in change.

While driving to my apartment, I discovered I had a $50 peso bill. He doesn’t need to change my large bill.

Because I must have been shouting, although I didn’t mean to, I gave him the entire $50 peso bill and tell him to keep the change. I’ve given him a tip of less than $1 Canadian. The way he smiled and thanked me you/d have thought it was $20. He was delighted and I was home.

Rain, rain, gone away?

My routine each morning, for now anyway, is to rise around 6 am, make a cup of coffee and watch CBC's "The National." CBC is an acronym for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, Canada's equivalent to Great Britain's BBC.

At the end of "The National's" daily broadcast there is a report on Canada's weather for the next few days. It is at this point that I switch to the Environment Canada website and look at the seven day forecast for Nanaimo, BC, where my son and grandchildren live, and Winnipeg Manitoba, where I spent most of my adult life.

I have a MacBook Pro, which means I have a dashboard. After looking at the weather in Nanaimo and Winnipeg I open my dashboard and look at the forecast for Oaxaca. Oaxaca's weather, compared to Canada's weather, including the mild west coast of the country, could be described as . . .well, consistent. We are in the rainy season, so everyday the forecast was rain with noonday temperatures of 28 C. It was the amount of rain that was so extraordinary.

Rain is necessary to sustain life, I know this, I don't care, I pretty much hate rain. I love sun. Tuesday, September 28 I could no longer stand the frequent torrents of water pouring from the sky, the ceaseless dark unbroken clouds and the drizzle that existed when the torrents broke. I gave in and fell into a state of inertia. Then the rain stopped.

I watched the clouds in the sky during the first week of October, at first numerous and large, now virtually non existent. As for the forecast on my dashboard - sun, sun and more sun with temperatures from 24 C to 28 C. Perhaps the dry season has arrived an early this year, normally November marks the end of the rain. I can only hope.

It was a rocky ride

August 31, 2010

It was an interesting journey back to Oaxaca from Mexico City, where my plane from Houston landed.

So often, here in Latin America, as I sit in a bus, taxi or collectivo I think, "I'm glad I'm not driving.” That night, as I took that six and a half hour journey from Mexico City to Oaxaca, it was raining. . .still. . .again . . .almost continually since the wet season began at the beginning of July.

Being raised on the west coast of British Columbia, and having travelled many times through the interior mountain ranges, and the great Canadian Rockies, I’m accustomed to signs indicating the possibility of rockslides. But, until this recent trip from Mexico City to Oaxaca I’ve seen only one rockslide, the remnants of Alberta’s famous Franklin Slide of 1903.

I’m glad I’m a fatalist because the stones, rocks, and boulders that littered the highway as the bus slowly twisted its way around the mountain curves, only fascinated me. I felt no fear. Sometimes it was impossible to avoid the debris, and we drove through it. Sometimes there was only one lane and the bus had to stop and wait for oncoming traffic. On occasion work crews with flashlights guided us through.

I was oh so glad I wasn’t driving. And I knew only fate and good luck would bring us safely into the Oaxaca bus terminal

Hiatus Over

Here are some news tidbits since my last blog entry.

April, May, and into June, weather in Oaxaca was predictably sunny and hot. We could count on it. Now it's the rainy season, the vegetation that not so long ago was deadly brown is now lively green. Normally what we get in the rainy season are sunny skies in the morning, and late afternoon thunderstorms. This year is different. We're getting rain, rain, and more rain, and when it isn't raining it's heavily overcast. No sun for days now. I don't like it, not one little bit.

July 4 was an historic day for the state of Oaxaca. I don't know how many political parties there are, I think somewhere between ten and sixteen, in order to get rid of the hated PRI, the political party that has ruled the state eighty years, several of the smaller political parties formed a coalition, and won the election.

My time with the kindergarten children ended June 30, I will miss them.

I gave the girls dolls, and the boys hot wheels. I didn't know how cool hot wheels were until I watched the boys playing with them. I wish I would have purchased hot wheels for the girls, but this is a society where girls are girls and boys are boys. And, as much as I hate to admit it, I know the girls liked the dolls far more than they would have liked the hot wheels.

The dolls were manufactured in Mexico, which was why I chose them instead of Barbies. When I was waiting at the check-out line I noticed all the dolls had blue eyes and blonde hair. This was not a good thing, princesses and brides can just as easily have dark hair and eyes. But, I have so much trouble finding gifts for the children that I consider acceptable, I went ahead and purchased the blonde haired blue eyed dolls that didn't resemble the girls who were getting them.

In Oaxaca, baseball is a popular spectator sport, and Oaxaca's team, the Guerreros, is in the Southern Mexicao finals. Last Thursday my friends Tinka, Conrad and myself were planning to attend the final home game of the regular season. It was touch and go whether the game would be on because of the rain. Tinka and I sat in a little restaurant where we had just finished lunch. Because it was raining we had another glass of wine, then another. Eventually the rain settled into a sprinkle. The game began very late because of the rain. The Guerreros lost, but they are still going to the finals.

July 6 was Frida Kahlo's birthday. If she were still alive she'd be 104. My friend Jane organized a birthday party. I went. The last birthday party for a dead person I attended was for the Canadian novelist, Margaret Laurence.

On August 1 I'm off the Mexico City by bus, than boarding a plane headed for Houston. I'm staying overnight in Houston then flying to Vancouver August 2. The ferry trip across Georgia Strait to Nanaimo will be the most boring part of the trip.

March 5 - Agua Azul

I’ve been paying to go to the bathroom, sometimes 5 pesos, sometimes 3, and at other times 2. Never any soap to wash my hands and only rarely a toilet seats. Oh well. I wish I’d remember to carry a bottle of anti bacterial gel for hands.

Water, water and more water with beautiful pools to swim in. Paradise with extreme poverty. What if there weren’t tourists? Would life be better for the people who live here?

March 4 - Palenque

One of the reasons I booked into the Mayabelle is because it is within walking distances of Palenque. I walked to Palenque’s museum, which is 700 meters down the road, and arrived fifteen minutes before if opened for the day, so I decided to visit the ruins first and then return to the museum.

I asked a man sitting on a bench in front of the museum how to get to the ruins. “Take the collectivo,” he said. pointing at the shelter at the road.

“I prefer to walk,” I say.

“No, don’t walk, there are robbers, it’s dangerous.”

I’ve seen people jogging, others walking I’m wondering just how dangerous it can possibly be.

I walked up to the shelter where a man wearing a blue shirt, carrying a clip board and looking official was busy working at something. I asked him if it’s dangerous to walk to Palenque’s entrance. He tells me it is. I take a collectivo, and give the driver ten pesos.

At the entrance there were an uncountable number of guides, each with identification badges around their necks, all shouting, pushing, anxious to get their first tour of the day. I don’t like taking guided tours. At first I just kept saying, “No thank-you, I don’t want.” But, I return to the guides. Their obvious desperation is poignant. Randomly I hire a guide. It costs $300 pesos. He walks fast, a one person tour lacks the profitability of a larger group. Along the way I stop to read the plaques. He obliges because he has no choice. After he left me to my own devices, I walk back to the hotel for lunch.

I return to Palnenque after lunch, this time I walk, no collectivo because I don’t believe it is dangerous during the day when there are many tourists, guides and tourist police milling about.

Palenque is many ways is no different than the ruins of Monte Alban or Chaco Canyon All tell the story of lost cultures that were great in their time. The great and lost cultures of North and Central America have much in common with Egyptian culture, tombs, valuables buried with the leader, including sacrificed victims needed to ensure servants on the over side.

Jane's Garden

For those of you who faithfully read this blog you may remember my writing about my Oaxaca friend Jane Robson, her wonderful boutique hotel, Casa Colonial, it's gardens and the events she holds.

This past Monday she held a monthly reading, where local writers get together to read works.

This time I remember my camera. I took many photos, but uploading onto blog spot can be such a pain I've only uploaded this one to tantalize your sense of sight.

Saturday Morning Grocery Shopping

The mercado opens at 8 am. It takes less than an hour to walk to the mercado, buy my fruits and vegetable and walk home.

I don't buy the chickens or the bread or anything else that's sold at the mercado, but I buy all my fruits and vegetables from one stall.

I have a crush on the merchant who operates the stall, he's handsome, helps me pick out my fruits and vegetables and understands my Spanish. He's a fine fellow.

It's fun going to buy my fruits and vegetables because when I leave my apartment I never know what I'm going to buy, and sometimes I ask what something is, buy it, try it, and most of the time like it. The photo is this week's supply. It cost me 80 pesos ($6.52 Canadian)

You have probably never tried sapote - it's the brown awful looking fruits you see in the photo. I've had black sapote last week, but this week he has brown sapote. The brown is sweeter, but doesn't have the interesting texture of the black. The black sapote is like eating pudding that nature made. It's a tropical fruit that doesn't ship well, so I doubt it would be available in the north.

The cactus like fruit is called Chayote. It is classified as a fruit, but replaces potatoes at a meal. It's boiled, peeled, sliced and fried with onions and cheese.
In the north of Mexico I could shop at either Al Super or Soriana. Here in Oaxaca I can shop at either Soriana or Chedraui. There isn't a Walmart, but there is a Sam's Club. I don't shop there. Mostly I go to the Chedraui, it doesn't have as many North American products, but I don't care about that. It is cheaper.

I never shop at Chedraui in the evening, it's insane. It wouldn't be so bad if the people who run the store didn't fill the busy aisles with boxes of stuff making it impossible for two carts to pass each other.

There are none of the small baskets that other supermarkets have, so no matter how little I'm purchasing if I can't carry it in my arms I need to negotiate a big cart down aisles piled with boxes of stuff. And then, when I've made my purchases, I have difficulty placing them on the conveyor belt because the fools who manage the store put more stuff where my cart ought to be.

The plastic bags they put the groceries in fall apart and I need double bags. To save plastic trees or something, I use cloth bags. Most of the time I have no trouble taking my bag into the store. Today the security guy tried to tell me I couldn't take my bag into the store. I told him I could. All he needed to do was tag it.

My grocery bill, and as you can see from the photo, includes wine and chocolate bars, came to $178.91 ($14.58 Canadian) It's a good wine. I've blogged about it previously.

Next stop - a marvelous french bakery - but they wouldn't let me take a photo.

All my jeans are falling apart. I bought three pair from my friend Ruth, who operates the boutique in front of the property where I live. In total, all three cost $735 pesos ($60 Canadian dollars)

After shopping I went to the Zocalo for breakfast. I ate my favorite, Ranchero huevos, a large glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee. It's an expensive restaurant so breakfast cost around $5 Canadian. Then I went to the museum that was once the governor's palace. It's always free. Has many temporary exhibits and many permanent ones.