Oaxaca-Waka-Waka

It´s 6AM... we must be in a new Mexican town!  With only a few hours of fitful sleep, we arrive in Oaxaca City, capital of Oaxaca State, Southern Mexico.   We´ve got one day to take in Oaxaca before we head out towards the Pacific and the promise of cheaper pastures.  We check in to the Paulina Youth Hostel - and look, by now, I´m starting to resent the "youth" part.  Old people need cheap places to stay, too.  Paulina is staffed by a hilariously unfriendly front desk receptionist, hair slicked back like a pelican taking a BP oil bath, wearing a navy blue blazer, and a stern, stoic expression.  Like most people who run hostels in Mexico, he is seventeen.  Paulina runs a tight ship.  We are handed our towels and sheets and told to make up our own beds and then asked for a 50 peso key deposit, which we will forfeit if we misplace our key.  We are told that we can have breakfast tomorrow morning but not this morning unless we want to pay extra.  Breakfast is only served to those with pre-printed Breakfast Tickets.  Paulina, loosen up, girl.

We take a three hour early morning nap and then hit the ground running.  I instantly like Oaxaca.  It is small and quaint (well, in comparison to where we have been, at least), colorful, artisitc - much more "foreign".  In a good way.  It has the feel of colonial Antigua, Guatemala with its brightly painted buildings, tree shaded parks, and cobblestone streets. 

We spot many more tourists here.  It is, quite simply, a beautiful and charming place.  Our day starts with a stop at Cafe La Brujula for some authentic organic Oaxaqueña coffee. William splurges for a homemade bagel and cream cheese, which is decidely un-Mexican, but a delicious reminder of home, especially considering our new diet´s heavy emphasis on the corn tortilla.  Then there is the requisite visit to the main cathedral - which is never unimpressive.  But honestly, once you have seen one, you´ve pretty much seen them all.  There´s Plastic Jesus again, bleeding in a plexi-glass coffin. 

What makes Oaxaca´s cathedral remarkable - aside from the awe-inspiring vaulted ceilings, the ornate gold altars, the stained glass - are the ridiculous amount of balloons being sold in the public spaces surrounding.  Thousands of balloons.  Shiny mylars in a myriad of colors and sizes, stars, hearts, piñatas.  My Little Ponys.  Dora the Explorer.  SpongeBob Squarepants.  10 foor long crayola crayons.  They´re everywhere.  It is completely absurd.

We next take the advice of our Lonely Planet guidebook and visit a local Mezcal merchant.  A word or two about Mezcal is necessary at this point as it will feature prominently in the rest of our day here.

Mezcal is a spirit distilled from the agave plant, the same plant from which we get tequila - whose joys we have already extolled here.  Long considered tequila´s cheap and barely drinkable cousin - ever seen the bottle with the worm at the bottom? - that´s Mezcal.  The best mezcal in Mexico is said to come from Oaxaca state and it should never have a worm in it.  And the worm does not make you hallucinate.  That´s a tale apparently for gullible gringos.  It is sipped straight with slices of orange and a small plate of salt flavored with hot chili.

Enter the Union de Paleñqueros de Oaxaca.  A tiny, scrappy little temple to mezcal.  The walls are painted a crumbling blue and are lined with shelves of housemade spirits bottled in second-hand glass, plump wooden barrels and various implements of distillation.  It looks like an ancient apothecary shop or an alchemist´s.  Along the counter to the right sit large glass vats of various mezcal concoctions, stewing with apples, citrus fruits, and various herbs, spices and tree barks. 

The girl behind the counter is fifteen.  And she is a veritible mezcal expert.  We get a mini-crash course. complete with samples.  Blanco is clear and unaged.  Bitter, woody, very strong.  This is the "cheap shit", as the kids say.  Reposado is better, a mellow amber tone.  Añejo is the best, aged the longest, darker in color, sweet and rich, like brandy or a nice scotch.  Then there are the cremas - colorful, milky and infused with fruit.  Strawberry is a pretty rose pink.  Passion fruit is sort of orange.

While we are getting tipsy on free samples, a local man comes in with a sizeable plastic gasoline canister.  The girl fills it with the smoky mezcal while he waits and smiles a big toothy grin at us.  "Es muy bueno."  Ha.  Obviously.  I ask him what he is doing with all that booze.  He says he sells it by the cup in the zocalo.  "Es legal?" I ask.  "Claro."  As if one couldn´t just enjoy an adult beverage out in public.  Oh America, you´re so uptight.  He then tell us to get the reposado as it is best for casual drinking.  And by that he clearly means getting drunk for cheap.  We taste again just to be sure.  "Cuanto cuesto por una botella?"  "Cinquenta por un litro."  50 pesos?!  For a liter?  That´s like, less than four dollars.  We´ve hit the Mexican lottery.  We briefly consider buying a hundred bottles and going into business, but clearer heads prevail and we settle on just one.  It is surely the best deal of my adult life.

Flush with the endorphins of a hoarder at a thrift store, we head off to the market for some local color and cheap eats.  Our iron stomachs have so far withstood repeated onslaughts of street food and, by this point in our journey, we are brave and undeterred by either sanitation or good sense.  Which is probably why William readily volunteers to eat grasshoppers.  Fried in oil and chili.  It tastes just like it sounds.  Huge mounds of the reddish-brown creatures are piled in woven baskets lining the street in front of the marketplace.  Bored-looking grannies stand guard, hoping to entice someone to buy. 

William gets a sample.  He winces.  We run.  I fare much better a a lunch counter run by a friendly Doña named Bety.  That´s my mother´s name, I tell her.  She smiles and invites us to sit at her counter.  "We are all Bety."  She gestures to the other woman cooking with her, three generations of grandmothers, mothers, and daughters.  All Betys.  I am here to try Oaxaca´s most famous contribution to Mexican cuisine, mole, that rich, complex sauce stewed with spices, vegetables, chiles, and chocolate.  Here Bety serves me chile rellenos, green poblano peppers, stuffed with stringy Oaxacan cheese, dipped in egg batter and deep fried.  Then coated with mole negro. 

Heavenly.

William can still taste grasshopper on his tounge.

Having got a taste earlier, we are anxious to get down to some serious mezcal drinking.  We breeze past the brightly painted colonial stone buildings, the endless racks of handsewn Zapotec costumes,

breezy Mexican dresses adorned with needlepoint flowers, florescent striped fabrics, blankets, a dazzling selection of jewelery - grand polished stones, turqoise, amber, opals. 

Frida Kahlo´s mother was Oaxacan-born and Frida´s love of her Zapotec heritage was reflected not only in her art but in her personal style as well.  Her spirit obviously still lives on in the colorful streets here.  My favorite are the cardboard Frida mannequins, dressed in voluminus red ruffled skirts and embroidered peasant blouses, complete with unibrow. 

Since our arrival in Mexico we have been so far unsuccessful in our search of the fabled Mexican cantina that serves botanas - free snacks to those customers who pay to drink.  I am assuming these are not on offer at the tourist joints we pass, since most Mexicans are doing their level best to squeeze every last peso out of us.  We once saw Anthony Bourdain on the Food Network visit Mexico City .  He was shown an unnamed bar in the capital that served, in his estimation, the most wonderful food.  The catch - there was no menu and the only way to get the food was to drink.  Each new round brought a table full of tasty delights - botanas.  The more you drink, the more food comes your way.  Which is probably a good thing.  So here we are at The Casa de Mezcal, on a scrappy side street near the market. 

The exterior is painted bright yellow and blue, but inside it is dark and wood paneled with huge dull colored murals covering the walls, most depicting bloody conflict between Aztec warriors and Spanish conquistadores.  There are no women inside, except for the waitress.  The bar is full of men who look a bit worse for the wear - it is only 4pm after all.  Each of them has at least six empty beer bottles lined up in front of them.  Either a badge of courage or a Mexican accounting system.  In any case, it is a perfect place to drink.  We order a couple new varieties of mezcal and two Indios, my new favorite local beer.  (A bit surprisingly, Corona is actually quite popular here with locals.  It isn´t just the stereotypical beer American college kids drink at their ironic Cinco de Mayo parties).  Our mezcals are served with oranges and salt mixed with chili.  And then, without asking, we are given a plate of crispy tostadas slathered with stewed chicken.  For free!  At that moment, I didn´t care that I was a vegetarian.  We had found them.  The elusive botanas.  Every bar should be like this!  I scraped the chicken off and ate my soggy tostada with a gusto only someone consuming free food can manage.  When you are living on a backpacker budget, free food is the most delicious kind.  Now if we could just find a place with free beer...

Later, flushed with more mezcal, we stroll the streets of the crowded zocalo, soaking in the sights as all of Oaxaca city takes to the streets to enjoy the evening breeze.  We are surprised by a concert in the ornate baroque iron gazebo in the alameda given by the symphony orchestra of Oaxaca. 

They play a John Philip Sousa march.  We listen and drink our mezcal, wincing at the taste and rapidly sucking on limes, all in 4/4 time.  An old lady next to us tries to strike up a conversation with William.  "De donde eres?"  But all he can say is "uuuuuhhhgghhhghhh...." while making silly faces and waving his hands over his head.  I think this is supposed to mean "No hablo español."  The lady giggles and pokes her friend.  "Lo siento" I say.  "Mi amigo es un payaso loco."  "Ahh, ya ya, si si si.  Oy.  Oy. Siiiiiiii." says William, his head bobbing weaving, arms outstreached, signifying absolutely nothing.

The rest of the night is hazy to say the least.  Thanks to the mezcal and to my amigo loco.  At some point in the evening we meet two random guys on the street.  I´m pretty sure William strikes up a conversation based solely on the fact that one of them is wearing tight bright blue pants.  They are Oaxacans (which makes them sound like they are from outer space, but they are not.)  They are somewhere around our ages and out for a night on the town.  They introduce themselves to us as Jorge and Roosevelt.  Roosevelt??  "Like you president," he says with his thick accent.  "Ah, George was the name of our first president and Roosevelt was our best.  You know, the cherry tree and the WPA.  Washington and Franklin Delano."  Haha.  Whatever.  They don´t speak very good English, I don´t speak enough Spanish, and, well, William just grins and flaps. 

They take us to an out of the way local bar where several litres of beer are brought to our table along with more mezcal.  We drink.  Roosevelt sings weepy karaoke in Zapotec.  We comb the files for Lady Gaga - I have kindly offered to sing "Alejandro" - because, you know, it´s kind of Mexican.  But no luck.  More mezcal puts us on our hostel´s rooftop terrace, admiring the stars and the views of the mountains.  I know this because there are approximately fifty photos on my camera of the four of us posing suggestively with the mezcal bottle, hanging over the side of the building, standing on chairs, and reinacting Mexico´s Next Top Model. 

We realize we never had dinner, so Jorge and Roosevelt take us to have Oaxaca´s favorite street snack - the tlayuada.  I still can´t pronounce it.  This place is packed with all walks of life - from dusty tourists to taxi drivers to overdressed women in high heels and mini dresses.  The tlayuada is a stupidly large tortilla, slathered with refried beans, cheese and salsa, folded over itself and grilled over hot coals.  I know that I ate a whole one because, again, there are photos.  We eat, we drink, we come close to death.  It is two in the morning and we have an early bus to catch.  Except our new friends don´t have any money.  So we have to pay.  They walk us back to our hosel with the promise of getting some money for us, but now Roosevelt doesn´t want to leave because he has taken a liking ot William´s very exotic American Apparel v-neck t-shirt.  "I´m not just giving you my shirt."
"For trade." he says, all pathetic.
"What do you have?"
Roosevelt takes off his wooden crucifix.  I am quite sure this will result in some ancient Zapotec curse, so I intervene.  "No, no.  No one is trading anything.  Time to go home."
But by this time, William and Roosevelt have switched shirts and Roosevelt is admiring his new look in the mirror.  "Por favor, por favor?"  Now he is one of those ancient women on the steps of the cathedral begging for pesos.
"No."
"Por favorrrr.?"  Sad face.  Bottom lip turns out.  What was at first a friendly night out has fast turned into a multi-national situation.  I wonder briefly if I should call the US Embassy.
Roosevelt will not remove William´s shirt.  A drunken scuffle is on its way. 
I´m convinced they are going to rob us.  I wonder if he has a knife?  Maybe we should just give him the damn shirt and cut our losses.  I´m in the background screaming "American Apparel dot com!  American Apparel dot com!  You can order your very own!"  Then William digs in my bag and pulls out one of my shirts.  Roosevelt´s eyes widen.  He likey.

Oh no, not mine!  I only have four shirts for this whole trip!
"Por favorrrrr."
Now he´s creeping me out. 
"Look, please don´t kill us.  I paid for dinner.  You have to go now."
William wrestles his shirt off Roosevelt´s back and we very kindly shove them out onto the street.  Its 3AM.  The alarm is set to go off in 4 hours.    I quickly get ready for bed and lock the door.  William is, of course, already passed out.

And just before I turn off the lights, I notice he is in bed, clutching all of his t-shirts to his chest, in a mighty death grip.

Who knew.  Most tourists get held up for money or credit cards.  We almost get hijacked for slim fit cotton.