Oaxaca Journal
Cafe patrons usually find me sitting in the corner of Los Cuiles, sipping a cafe and pounding away on my Mac. I try to convince the staff that I am doing important work so they don't ask me (too often!) to get up and help out. Below are thoughts and views of Oaxaca from the perspective of a corner of our little cafe.
August 31, 2008, Olympia WA
Missing Oaxaca
It seems like months since I have been in Oaxaca. OK, it has been months since I have been in Oaxaca. I have been home in Olympia, working (if you can believe it), and hiking. I have this notion that I am going to try to climb Pico de Orizaba when I return to Mexico in the fall. Never heard of it? Well, it dwarfs Mt. Rainier or any other of our 14,000+ mountains in the lower 48. At over 18,000 feet, it is the third highest mountain in North America.
I talked to Desiderio and Toña (the evening cook) and all seems to be going well in the cafe. We have some new staff who I haven't met yet...guess I will be updating the staff photos when I get back.
And for the second time, I will be in Oaxaca during a Presidential election. Last time I promised free beer in the cafe on election day if Gore won. Unfortunately for Oaxaca's beer drinkers (and the world at large) Bush won. Go Obama! I want to see beer gushing out of Los Cuiles and onto the streets this November 4!
April 29, 2008, Oaxaca Mexico
The Rain in Oaxaca Falls Mainly in the Afternoon
The afternoon rains have descended onto Oaxaca. With the summer heat comes the rainy season. The hotter it is in the early afternoon, the more likely thunderstorms will develop late in the late afternoon and send people scurrying for cover. Like, into the cafe, for instance.
In Olympia, we are inured to the rain. It's going to rain, it is probably going to rain all day long, and we know it and accept it and that's that. Most people I see in Olympia don't even bother to use an umbrella. They just put on a parka and get wet.
Here, where rain is much more of an unusual event, you would think getting wet was a death sentence. You see people standing under doorways peering into the inscrutable sky waiting for the last drops to fall before cautiously venturing back into the street.
It's not hydrochloric acid, it is water!
Well, I guess here they would laugh at how, in Olympia, it is considered a heat wave whenever the temperature bursts through the 80 degree mark.
I guess one reason I like Oaxaca is that the temperature spends a lot of time hovering in my happy zone, which is between 70 and 85. Tomorrow I return to Olympia, where the nights are still in the 30's. That is NOT in my happy zone!
Fortunately, in just over a week I am headed to southern Uganda, and checking ahead, I see the weather looks about perfect there: 65 at night and around 80 during the day.
Uganda? Yes, I thought I would scout out rural Uganda for cafe locations before Starbucks gets there! I am going with long time friend Sebowa Kiboigo, who is from the village of Budondo in the Busoga region north of Lake Victoria. There is No Way we are going to let Starbucks beat us there!
March 19, 2008, Oaxaca Mexico
A day in the Life
So what, exactly, do I do all day in Oaxaca? Inquiring minds want to know. And even if they don't, I'm going to tell you anyway!
I will take you through the day of a gringo cafe owner in Oaxaca.
I woke up this morning around 9 am, sun streaming through the bedroom window. Another sunny day, probably the 181st in a row. Last night after closing Los Cuiles, Toña, Myra, Veronica and I went to go eat tlyudas on Libres, so I didn't get home until 12:30 and I read until 2. Usually I wake up much earlier, like around 8:45.
A quick shower, and I'm out the door. El señor Onti greets me at the door of his shop as I start down the street. "Buenos días meester (he likes to say "meester" for fun), a trabajar ya?" he chides me. He has been up since 5:00.
Onti was once one of Mexico's best baseball players, and probably would have made it to the major leagues if back then (in the era of Mays and Mantle) scouts came to Mexico. He nevertheless graced the front pages of Sports Illustrated some years back. Now he sells baseball equipment out of his small shop, and greets sleepy gringos on their way to work.
I trot on down the street, hugging the thin strip of shade alongside the buildings. It is only March and only 9:15 am, but already the sun is intense. The strip of shadow, a little wider than it usually is, tells me I am a little later than I usually am.
This is historical Oaxaca, the buildings are two hundred years old, two to three stories high, painted mostly warm earthy tones. The stone church on the corner, that is around 400 years old. I am passing a lot of history on my way to the cafe.
The cafe is completely full as I walk in, and I can tell things are hopping. Diminutive Bianca goes sailing by me with a tray full of food quickly chirping "buenos dias Pol" (as my name is pronounced here), Rosario is pulling a coffee drink at the espresso machine, and Doña Hilda is brooding over the kitchen stove, eggs splattering in a frying pan and a tlyuda heating on the grill.
You can tell how busy the cafe is by how fast Bianca runs (or walks, when it is slower). Right now, she is running full speed.
"Doña Hilda, otra Tlyuda con tasajo" she pitches to the cook as she grabs a couple of cafe Americanos for table 3.
Some mornings when I get to the cafe I can casually pull myself a strong double real short americano with a little leche, and sit in my favorite open window seat and sip my coffee and think about how nice it is to be in Oaxaca.
Today is not one of those days. When the cafe is busy, I wash dishes. That is my job. And today there is already a pile of them.
By the time I get through the dishes, we are out of orange juice, and I start squeezing more. We go through between 50 and 100 pounds a day.
By the time I have a few quarts of orange juice squeezed, there is a new pile of dishes.
And so the morning goes. When I get caught up on dishes, I may foray out into the dining area to bus some tables to help Bianca.
By about 11:30, things have slowed down and I can finally, mercifully, get my morning coffee. In the cafe, the mostly tourist breakfast crowd is moving out and the more local (some gringo, some Oaxaqueño) lap top wielding crowd is moving in. Bianca has slowed to a fast walk.
Now I can pull my Mac down from on top of the kitchen refrigerator, grab my corner table in the dining room, and start the more lazy part of my day. Read the news, check the market, check my email.
Now freed up, the cook, Doña Hilda, sends some echilades verdes to my table for breakfast. Obama is confronting race issues. Bush is saying the war, now going on five years, has been a success. It is rainy and cold in Olympia.
These enchiladas verdes taste great, . . .what a beautiful day outside, . . .hey it's Marc.
Marc, who has just walked into the cafe, left Wallstreet and moved to Oaxaca soon after we opened the cafe. I hadn't seen him for almost a year, and we have some catching up to do.
So that is how the afternoon goes. Work on my computer (trying to put together a website for Compass Rose). Talk to people who come into the cafe. Marc. Don. Jessica. Hector. The Japanese girl who's name I forget. People stream in and out all day long, and I - -not exactly the loquacious type - - end up getting diverted all day long from my computer. Which is just fine. That is what a cafe is all about.
Then there are the errands. We are a small cafe without much storage space, so it is a constant struggle to keep things in stock.
In the early afternoon, Toña takes over as chef. "Pol...no seas malo....run and get me some garbanzo beans would you?" The hummus salad is a hit in the cafe.
Later in the afternoon, "Hey Pol. . .I am almost running out of sliced ham. . . can you go get me some?"
Last Sunday we ran out of oranges - - an essential - - and guess who ran to the market and lugged back a 70 pound sack?
Late afternoon, as the sun begins to fall towards the mountains of Monte Alban to the west and the day's heat wears off, it is time for me to take my run.
It is one of the things I like most about being here.
A stadium called the Guelaguetza sits overlooking the town of Oaxaca. Leading to it is a very long, shady, tree lined road of steps, made just for me, but also used by thousands to climb up to the Guelaguetza stadium during events. I counted all the stairs once, starting at El Crespo, and leading up to and around the stadium. Three or four hundred, I forget. Plus a few sleeping dogs to negotiate.
These stairs I run up, and that is just the beginning. From there I follow a paved road higher that later turns into a dirt road that takes off and winds around the hills overlooking Oaxaca, eventually winding up at the top of a hill at a large white cross.
To get to the top it takes me twenty minutes when I first get to Oaxaca, and maybe 19:00 when I leave a few weeks later. A good runner would probably do it in 18, and a very good runner in less. I am just happy to be alive and running the hills above the city of Oaxaca.
I head back to the cafe after my run and a shower. It is now almost dark, a warm, beautiful evening, and the streets are vibrant and full of people. The Alcalá, the main pedestrian avenue that runs from the zocolo (central plaza) to Los Cuiles (some would say it runs to the famous Santo Domingo church) is now streaming with people out for a walk. Tourists, kids, locals, vendors, students, everyone is out. It looks like a parade in both directions as I cross the street, skirt the hamburger cart, and jump to the safety of the sidewalk on Abasolo street. Here in Mexico, pedestrians don't get any respect.
The cafe now has the evening crowd. Some gringos, but more locals. Drinking coffee with friends in the evening is a Mexican custom. The gringos, worried about their sleep, tend to shun coffee in the evening. (Me, I drink coffee all day and night, and sleep like a baby.)
Hugo, an artist here in Oaxaca, is being interviewed by a reporter. At another table, a group of locals are playing cards. Santiago, another artist, is chatting with the young Mexican dentist whose name I forget in a window seat. The Japanese girl is back and esconced in a sofa seat as she writes in her journal. A table of people who are probably tourists from Mexico City are ordering tlyudas and beer. Some ambulant musico in the inside plaza behind us is singing old Mexican ballads, and the music competes with the cafe's stereo and the buzz from the busy plaza outside, creating almost a carnival like atmosphere.
Let's see, where was I with this website I am supposed to be making? So many distractions, it is no wonder I don't get anything done here.
A bit later I run out to get some tamales down the street from the lady who sits on a little wood stool in a doorway every night with her large pot of fresh steaming tamales. Toña has ordered one verde and one shredded beef, Myra wants the same, and I pick a mole and a verde. Six tamales, about two dollars. I sneak them into the kitchen: we wouldn't want the customers to see that the cooks are ordering out, that could look bad!
Toña teases me about taking so long. Did I get lost? It is only a block away, how could I get lost? Silly gringos. Used to going everywhere in a car, can't find anything on foot.
I get back to my computer. Let's see, where was I with the website?
Another musico comes into the cafe with his guitar, and I turn down the music for him. His name is Antonio. I know, because he had me set up a hotmail account for him the other night. He is missing a tooth and sports a rather ragged cap, his guitar looks cheap, and I have only heard him sing four or five different songs over the last few years. Cielito Lindo is a favorite. After he passes his hat around the room, he has me check his email. Nope, no mail. He looks astonished. What kind of mail service is this?
"Antonio, have you given your email address to anyone?"
"Nope."
"Well, someone has to have your email address before they can write to you," I explain again.
He nods his head as if to agree, but I can still he is still not happy about this email thing.
Before I know it, it is 10:00 and I am closing the doors in the cafe as customers linger and the staff starts cleaning up. Another day is coming to a close in Oaxaca.
So OK, you tell me. . . what did I do today? After all is said and done, I am not really sure.
I lived, I guess that is what I did. I lived another day. Another day in Oaxaca. Another day in the life of a gringo cafe owner in Oaxaca. Y esto no estuvo nada nada mál.
March 14, 2008
Who is happy now?
I was interested in an article on Yahoo the other day ranking countries around the world in terms of how happy their populations (via polling) stated that they felt.
During my travels over the years to a lot of countries, I have taken a particular interest in observing how happy the population basically appears to be. Peru in the late 80’s had the most miserable and disconsolate population I have ever seen. Bali Indonesia in the 12 times I have been there (can you believe it?) has definitely garnered first place in the happiness department. Judging by smiles and laughter, the Balinese are much much happier than the wealthy vacationing guests they graciously host.
So it was interesting to see on this particular Yahoo list that Mexico ranked #2 in the world for happiest population (again, according to polls of the population, and not based on objective statistics. But happiness is subjective anyway, isn’t it?).
When I commented this to a Mexican friend here, he laughed and laughed and laughed, and was still laughing as he walked away.
Which I guess reconfirms the article’s findings.
I think I would have to agree, with Brazil a close contender.
Mexicans work hard, but they are less inclined than people in the richer countries to sacrifice their free time and their ties with family and friends for a relentless pursuit of wealth. And they know how to laugh. Laughter is the only recourse many Mexicans have in an economy and society where they are quite powerless to effect change.
And we Americans thought we had it all. No, we don’t have it all, we just want it all. Mexicans know they can’t get it all, and they laugh about it.
I’m feeling pretty happy here in Oaxaca (especially with my man Obama winning up north). In part, I think, because I have learned from my Mexican friends. . .
Any y'know, I kinda like being happy!
January 10, 2008, Oaxaca Mexico
And then the tourists returned to Oaxaca . . .
I had never been in Oaxaca around the Christmas holidays. I’m always too busy back home at my retail store business happily accommodating the voracious Christmas purchasing power of the American consumer.
But my Cuiles partner and long time friend Emiliana gave me an excuse to skip out of town early: on December 28th she was getting married in Cieneguilla, the remote indigenous community she grew up in.
She had a lot of friends and University associates flying down from the states to attend. For many, like myself, it was the first time to Cieneguilla.
Those who have taken the road from Oaxaca city towards the coast do not soon forget it. The narrow (by American standards) paved road twists and curves and carves its way through the mountains (“like a tedious argument of insidious intent,” as TS Eliot would put it), reaching as high as 9000 ft. before diving back down into yet another valley.
Don’t look back now, but did you see those wrecks at the bottom of the gully at that last hair pin turn?
Do you know what those white crosses along the road mean? Them ain't for dogs.
Travelers with a light stomach have more pressing concerns. Things tend to come up. Mole . . . orange juice . . . that breakfast you didn't really want to see again . . .
Cieneguilla is another hour on a dirt road from the nearest town (Juquila). This dirt road jaunt into the mountains was not a lot unlike logging roads I used to travel in the Pacific Northwest, and equally as beautiful. The town itself is hardly what we think of as a town: just houses scattered here and there amongst trees, green grass, and sloping hills. The center of town consists basically on a town hall, a plaza that doubles as a basketball and soccer court, and a church that is under construction. And a tiny store dispensing cokes, tortas, and dulces.
The people of Cieneguilla must have felt like they were being invaded as two white vans pulled up near the town center and gringos stiff from a seven hour ride began piling out to stretch their legs and look around with that “Where the hell am I?” look.
But soon enough Emiliana had everyone sitting down for a welcoming cup of coffee and a bowl of chicken feet soup.
I have been served a lot of chicken feet soup over the years from Peru to Indonesia, but I still won’t eat it. The soup maybe, but not the feet. I used to raise chickens, and all I can think of is where those feet have been walking (in this case, just a few hours ago!)
Knowing Emi, the chicken feet soup was part of the fun.
Later Emi had all the guests dispersed to different family houses throughout the community, and the invasion was complete. The Gringos had taken over again!
Getting out of town was even more difficult. The hired vans were long gone. For most of us, the hangovers weren’t. Images I remember include piles of fresh plucked chicken, the shy smiles of the local townspeople, dancing and music and mescal and more mescal, and wandering the town’s footpaths in the dark wondering where the party had moved to.
Emi had things planned well. It always seemed like we were on the verge of running out of mescal, with just a little, nearly empty bottle going around, and someone offering you a little cup of the last little bit.
It was only later when I saw the jugs and jugs of mescal that she brought back to Oaxaca did I catch on to the little trick.
The morning after the big dance, my niece Rachael, her boyfriend Mehdi, and I decided to head back to the land of warm showers and real beds. One way to get out of town is to walk. The other way is to sit and wait by the road and try to catch a ride with someone leaving town. We were fortunate and caught a ride in the back of a pickup within 30 minutes.
Back in Oaxaca . . . where my budget room suddenly seemed luxurious . . . we got caught up in another invasion. A tourist invasion! The streets and the hotels and more importantly the café were bustling with tourists! It hardly seemed possible that little more than a year ago the streets were virtually deserted save for burned out busses, blockades, APPO camps, and the regular protest march.
The Zocolo was all lit up. The Acala street was a crowded thoroughfare, and the café hummed with conversation amidst the clatter of coffee cups and the clanging of utensils.
All is not well in Oaxaca. Most of what has changed is just cosmetic. But I can’t help but feel more optimistic than I did a year ago. Vive Oaxaca!
October 31, 2007, Oaxaca Mexico
My favorite time in Oaxaca
People are pouring into Oaxaca as Dia de los Muertos approaches, and the café has been busy the last few days. That means I have to get up from my computer and wash dishes! The women in the kitchen dutifully tolerate my slow and methodical dish washing efforts, but I think they believe I am painfully slow. Sometimes they just kick me out.
We have a tiny kitchen, as anyone who has been here can see. It is actually astounding how many dishes our cook puts out in such a tiny space using what is basically a cheap tabletop gas stove. And everything from scratch. If an order for green enchiladas comes in, the cook starts by boiling the tomotillos to start making the sauce! Not poured out of a jar or purchased in the market. Made from scratch right here.
So usually I just try to stay out of the way. Sometimes I will bus tables or make coffee drinks or smoothies, but sometimes when I try to help I am just getting in the way. And you only have to try working as a waiter once to appreciate the profession.
(I got flustered and quit! Which table was it that asked me for sugar? What’s wrong with these eggs, they look fine! So, there is a hair on your plate. Big deal! Do you realize how much canine fecal matter you breathed into your lungs on your last trip to Mexico City?)
The other night I and one of our customers (Adela, a professor from UC Davis) went to see Lila Downs in concert.
Lila puts on an incredible show. The range of her voice, the variety of her music (singing in three languages for starters!), and her sheer energy are amazing. She is a star here in Oaxaca. “Te queremos Lila!” someone yelled out in a moment of relative quiet between songs. Lila smiled gratefully. The audience applauded.
It must be nice.
I have the opinion that if anyone deserves stardom, it is Lila Downs. All the proceedings of her concert went towards scholarships for young indigenous women. Though she lives in New York and tours the world, she hasn’t lost touch with her roots in Oaxaca. She is proud, yet modest and kind.
That is why we like her here in Los Cuiles. And hope she will stop by our cafe again . . .
Oct 21, 2007, Oaxaca Mexico
No leeches, but weird red bites all over my legs!
A few weeks ago I was in Miami and I decided to take a quick trip to Nicaragua.
Managua was a huge disappointment . . . after looking for a downtown, I soon realized that there isn’t one! I should have taken a clue from the woman at the reception of my hotel. When I asked her which way to downtown (“Por donde esta el centro?”) she looked at me kind of puzzled. I guess the historical downtown was destroyed in a 1972 earthquake. I hadn’t gotten the news. But the Nicas took a hint and scattered for the suburbs, so now you have a city with no apparent design or plan, just newer houses and businesses scattered all over. It gave me a new appreciation for the beauty of historical Oaxaca.
The other towns I visited, Leon and Grenada, were more interesting. Leon is not touristy and kind of has the feel of Mexico maybe 20 years ago. Very poor. Not much happening. People just struggling to get by. Shops without much merchandise (and almost all of it imported because Nicaragua doesn’t have much industry). Power outages. People sitting around because there is little economic opportunity.
I thought: “So, if I lived here and had to start a business to make a living. . . what would I do?”
I would starve, that is what I would do.
Fortunately I live in a place (Olympia) where I can be dumb and lazy, and still get by quite well. I don’t deserve my relative fortune any more than the poor people of Nicaragua deserve their poverty. It just turned out that way because I was born where I was born and got the breaks that I got.
So, should the more fortunate (lucky) people of the world be obliged to share their good fortune (mostly luck) with the less fortunate people of the world? Hell yes!
Just how to do that is a personal choice. But the choices are there, and to do nothing is simply immoral. If I fall out of the sky and land hungry and bleeding in the middle of some poor pueblo of Nicaragua . . . or Indonesia or India or rural Oaxaca . . . I know people would take care of me. I just know they would. I have personally experienced the incredible generosity of poor people around the world innumerable times.
We, the well off, the lucky, have an obligation. Share the luck. It is only fair.
May 18, 2007 Bali Indonesia
No cobras or leeches . . . but lots of monkeys.
So we did Mt Agung, and it was a real slog. We started at about 3000 feet, and climbed 8 hours. The first 6000 vertical was a kind of mountain climbing I haven’t done before; climbing straight up a slippery gully through a humid tropical forest, up and over and around and through countless root wads.
We camped at about 8,000 feet, well after dark, and I just lay on a rock for about 6 hours without sleep, and then we got up at daybreak and started again.
And this is fun? Well I can’t say the trip up through the dense forest was fun. But the last 1000 vertical feet we broke out into the open, and then it was just an easy run up the hardened lava with the whole world spread out below us. You are on top, and that makes it all worth it.
Back at camp, we were greeted by a whole clan of monkeys, which, fortunately, had not busted into our tent. They sat around eyeing us and acting like, well, monkeys as we the more advanced primates acted like humans and took photos, ate breakfast, and broke camp.
Then we climbed/slid back down over all those roots again. Our driver and friend Gede was patiently waiting for us at the bottom, and we slumped in his car all the way back to Kuta.
I leave tomorrow, back to the western hemisphere, back to cool Olympia, back to work, a spring garden, summer backpacking and a fall trip to Oaxaca.
May 11, 2007
Just cobras and leeches. . .
Last night we started planning our climb of 10,000 foot Mt Agung, on the eastern side of the island of Bali. Back in Washington, a 10,000 foot mountain is just a bump next to Mt Rainier, but here the large volcano rises impressively from sea level, and dominates the whole eastern side of the island.
We were talking with Topan, my friend’s son. He has climbed Mt Agung four times, and will be our guide.
We were planning what to bring. Lots of water. “I have a water purification kit,” I told Topan, noting that we could start the two day trip off with less water if we could find creeks along the way.
“No, there is no water except in the swamp that we have to cross in the beginning.”
So two days of hiking on exposed lava flow with no water. Hmmm...
“Swamp?” I asked.
“Yes, no problem to cross. Except leeches. But we take them off.”
That was reassuring!
Surjit (my traveling partner) asked about wildlife on the mountain.
“Just monkeys and wild pigs,” Topan informed him. OK, that didn’t sound so bad. At least there weren’t any tigers.
But Surjit was persistent: “Any snakes? I hate snakes.”
“Yes, some snakes” Topan said.
Surjit cringed.
“What about poisonous snakes, any poisonous snakes? Surjit asked.
“Only Green snake (highly poisonous) and Cobra.”
“Cobra! OK, I’m not going.”
“Not to worry, not many cobra” Topan reassured Surjit. “Last trip, I only see one!”
So that’s it. We are planning to take a two day jaunt through leech infested swamps and cobra infested jungle, then climb straight up a hot dry volcano without water.
Sounds like fun!
May 3, 2007
Adios Oaxaca......
I returned to Olympia a few days ago. Much to my dismay, it was still cold and rainy! I spent the first few days shivering in my office, and the next few days planning my escape. Today I planted kale, lettuce, and broccoli in the back yard, and tomorrow, I leave for Bali Indonesia. I know for sure it won’t be cold there. And just to sit down in a backstreet Padang restaurant is worth the 20 hour flight. Well, almost. I guess I must be hungry.
Sunny and good food, good 'nough reason to swing by Indonesia for a couple of weeks, even if good coffee is hard to come by. Guess I could open a cafe in Ubud. . .
April 21, 2007
Life continues without Mel
Mel never did come by Los Cuiles next day. That’s OK. We were plenty busy without him. And living in southern California, he probably doesn’t appreciate good coffee.
I've been taking salsa lessons. When I mentioned it to Jessica back in Olympia, she said it was about time I learned to make Oaxacan salsas. No Jessica, not that kind of salsa.
Uno, dos, tres, y cinco, seis siete. Salsa has a rhythm that this gringo doesn’t follow too well. Fall a half step behind and you’re all messed up. “You’re not listening to the music,” Mario would tell me. Of course I wasn’t: how could I listen to the music when I concentrating on where my lead (both meanings work) left foot was supposed to go next.
Back at the café, work and life continues. I show up about 9:30 in the morning, groggy, and Bianca greets me with her energetic smile and a kiss on the cheek, Teresa peaks out from behind the espresso machine to see if I have noticed her, and Doña Hilda from the kitchen jokes that is looks like a truck ran over me in my sleep (geez, do I look that bad?).
I pull myself a strong double short Americano and slide into a seat at the open window to enjoy waking up to another beautiful sunny Oaxacan day.
April 13, 2007
Finally, Mel Gibson gets to meet me...
Someone who almost spends as much time in the café each day as I do is Berdardo Ruiz, a Mexican artist and actor. He isn’t just a wannabe actor. . . he had a major role in Mel Gibson’s recent movie Apocalypto. So Bernardo is somewhat of a celebrity here in Oaxaca. Yet he is ever polite and humble. . . and hey, he likes Café Los Cuiles.
So this evening I went to go see my friend Sabina in her office, and in her office was a magazine which happens to have a full-page photo of Bernardo, and two other smaller photos of Bernardo and Mel. “Hey, have you seen the photo of Bernardo in that magazine?” I asked Sabina.
“Oh, the one with Mel? Hey, did you know he is in Oaxaca now? Victor saw him. He is staying in the Camino Real.”
“Ya sure?” I said as I ran out the door.
You see, the Camino Real is around the corner from Los Cuiles, and I knew Bernardo didn’t know that Mel was in town because, well, he would have said something.
So I found Bernardo in the café tapping away on his latest Apple powerbook.
“C’mon, lets go ask at the Camino Real if he is really here,” I said.
So we walked over to the Camino Real and up to the reception desk.
“Hi, I’m Bernardo Ruiz.....I’m an actor...and I was wondering . . .”
“Yes, we know who you are” the receptionist said. (I was impressed!)
“So anyway, I heard that Sr. Gibson is here staying in the hotel. . . is that true?”
“Yes, he is staying here, but he went out. If you want, you can wait for him here in the lobby.”
We decided to come back later, and went back to the café.
The café was full, but Doña Yolanda the cook and Sam were handling it well, so I took up my computer, and sat in one of the window tables. Oaxaca has beautiful evenings, and just sitting in the open-air window is to inhale Oaxacan life. Music reverberates in the little plaza as a group of young Oaxacans practice traditional folkloric dances. Across the other side, Indigenous women sell handicrafts while their kids run around the plaza playing tag. Everywhere, people are walking and sitting and talking and out enjoying the warm evening.
You know what people are doing back home? Watching T.V.
Wanna know why I like Mexico?
But, back to the Mel story....
When we went in to the Camino Real, there was a group of about ten people in the lobby, and before I could pick him out, Bernardo said, “There’s Mel.”
And there he was.
A group was standing to one side, and it looked like a French family had just come into the lobby and saw Mel, and now where getting their photos taken with him. The daughter, a very cute teenager, had her photo taken with him, and I’m sure she is still text messaging her friends back home about it.
Then Mel spotted Bernardo. “Bernardo, how are you!” and a big handshake. I was impressed that Mel remembered Bernardo’s name. How many thousands of people does he know, and how many thousands have been on his sets?
Bernardo graciously introduced me to Mel, and we shook hands, and I became the interpreter. How have you been, what are you doing in Oaxaca, why didn’t you tell me that Oaxaca was such a nice place, etc. etc.
So the other group that was there was Myra, who is apparently a famous Mexican TV actress (and who invited Mel to Oaxaca) and Myra’s family.
So then Myra asks Bernardo to come over and meet her family, and I am left talking with Mel.
Mel Gibson, that is. The Mel Gibson. Me...chatting with Mel Gibson.
Of course as the only native English speaker around, I was the default conversationalist!
“Where you from, what are you doing here?” he asks. I tell him I have a little Café, and I just like coming here and hanging out and meeting famous actors and directors.
“Any come through her recently? He asked.
“Not any good ones," I said.
OK, I am lying. I don’t think I would say that to Mel Gibson. I wouldn’t want to judge his acting or directing, but in person he comes across as very friendly and down to earth. He told me how he liked to travel, how he is going to Colombia soon, “muy peligroso,” he noted.
“But I’m sure you’ve got guys who will look after you,” I said.
“No, actually I don’t do that. Don’t like bodyguards. Make me feel uncomfortable. I rather go by myself.”
I told him I had just been to Lima Peru. “Yea, I want to go there too,” he said. “And Costa Rica.”
“So where did you say you were from?” he asked again. (Was it my accent?)
Then he wanted to know what it was like having a café here, and how much time I spent here. He whisks in and whisks out (he is leaving tomorrow), but I have to think he wouldn’t mind scratching a few days or weeks off his busy agenda and just chilling in Oaxaca.
Finally Mel asked me if I had a light, and then quickly said, “No, you look too healthy,” and he went off to get a light from the front desk.
Bernardo introduced me to Myra. “Hola, Pablo, o Paul en ingles, mucho gusto,” I said. She wasn’t beautiful and sultry in a stereotypical Mexican actress way (like Salma Hayek, who shops in our Olympia Compass Rose store), and I wouldn’t have taken her for an actress, but she was pretty and you could sense something special about her. She asked me my name like she really wanted to know, not just to be polite. I will have to find out who she is. . .
Mel chatted it up with the hotel staff for a bit, and then came back, and Myra and her family said goodnight, leaving Bernardo and myself with Mel. Mel invited us to breakfast in the morning, we shook hands, and said goodnight. “Que descansas.”
I told Bernardo I would skip on the breakfast, but if he brought Mel by the café then I could take a picture of him with the staff.
Bernardo was happy that he had caught up with Mel, and I have to say that although I am absolutely no celebrity admirer (I think brilliant scientists, doctors, engineers, and visionaries are the real celebs) I have to say that it was fun meeting Mel. It is a little bit reassuring when you meet someone of his fame to find out that they are nice, modest, and just human, basically nothing exceptional about them except their cards fell a different way in life. Not necessarily better or worse, just different. Life brought Mel fame and riches. It brings other people other things of equal but less appreciated merit.
It brought me. . . a little café in Oaxaca.
April 8, 2007
Back in Oaxaca...
I pulled into town a week ago on an ADO bus from Mexico City. No burning busses or blocked roads this time. In fact, a smart new 4-lane road now curves around the Cerro del Fortin and drops smoothly into Oaxaca and up to the brand new and stylish ADO bus station. Geez, was I gone that long?
Only two months.
But it could have been two years from the looks of things. A huge, and I mean HUGE Mexican flag . . . it must be 40 feet long . . . now flaps gloriously in the wind above the town. In town, there are new pedestrian street crossing signs with the same irritating chirps as the ones in Olympia. Chirp, chirp, chirp, as the little white man walks.
And new tourists signs everywhere pointing in all directions.
Want to know which way to the Basilica de Soledad? Just look up at the sign you are standing next to.
The government has stomped harshly on El APPO, and has obviously redoubled its efforts to lure tourists back into town.
It seems to be working. Partially. This Easter week, the town seemed lively if not full of tourists like Easter’s past. But they are coming back, slowly.
Meanwhile, while I was gone from Oaxaca, I had a quick but interesting trip to Lima, Peru. I hadn’t been to Peru for years, and the Peru I remembered was the Peru of the late 1980’s (though I have been there more recently). In the 1980’s, Peru was the sorriest country I have ever seen, a country that seemed without hope. You could see it in the faces of the population. Despair. Absolute, utter despair. Downtown Lima was grimy and dirty and it seemed every third person was a thief. I got robbed twice and kidnapped once.
The Maoist group Sendero Luminoso controlled much of the countryside, and in Lima there was the fear that they would ultimately take over the country. Bombings were frequent in Lima. One conveniently went off at the Lima airport while a gnarly customs official was holding me up. He wanted a bribe. I was smiling at him and playing the dumb gringo who doesn’t understand when suddenly there was a big boom and all the windows rattled, and the customs official ran off. I grabbed my pack and moved on with my loot.
Ah yes, those were the days. Traveling to Peru was a bit dicey.
Today tourists are pouring into Peru. Downtown historic Lima has had a face-lift. And it is clean! Much cleaner than Mexico City. Lima doesn’t have the backdrop of other nicer cities; it sits on a less than spectacular coast, is surrounded by desert, and is covered (oddly) by a thin mist most of the year. But it no longer has the feel of a forgotten, crumbling city in a backwater country. Lima is rising.
And Oaxaca is.... well, that remains to be seen. Some want to return Oaxaca to the stone age, others want to grab the tourist loot and run. I think Oaxaca will eventually find its own way and move forward.