OAXACA
Had I listened to my ‘little voice’ I still could have stopped somewhere along the way, popped-off the valve covers and avoided disaster. But by the time my VW threw a rod just outside Oaxaca it was far too late. Thankfully a passing businessman aptly named Jésus stopped, somehow arranged for a cattle truck to transport my mortally wounded car to Oaxaca’s VW dealership and I entered that magical little city in the comfort of his air-conditioned Mercedes.
As well as magical, Oaxaca is also deceptively charming, and full of contradictions. Which is not surprising for a city whose two most famous sons are Benito Juárez (an egalitarian revolutionary) and Profirio Díaz (an elitist dictator).
Let me put it this way. If your car engine is going to blow apart and you have to be stuck somewhere for three weeks waiting for it to be repaired, then Oaxaca is a great place for it to happen.
Jésus pulled up in front of an small but quietly elegant mid-19th century hotel in the heart of the city’s famous ‘colonial’ section – just a three block walk to the zócalo. After a few quiet words with the proprietor my Good Samaritan informed me that I was welcome to enjoy a large room with a bath for the peso equivalent of one dollar and 80 cents US per night. Then apologizing because he had to leave to continue on his business trip, Jésus waved off all attempts to express my sincere thanks as he took his leave. That was the last I ever saw of him.
It was like stepping back in time. I half expected to meet a mysterious Señorita as I ran my hand along the polished oak banister up the wide stone staircase to my room on the second floor. But with my luck, her mustachioed Dueña would have been trailing close behind.
And what a room! Cool and impressive, with high ceilings, a big dark oak wardrobe, a heavy carved oak dresser, writing desk and chair, spotlessly clean tile floors, beautifully woven woolen rugs, and a tile and marble bathroom that can only be described as luxuriously huge. All for less than two bucks a night!
I hired a taxi to bring my belongings and three surfboards back from the VW dealership where I learned it would take “at least a week” to get the new head my car would need. Shoving the boards under one of the two beds (with old polished brass bedsteads), I unpacked my gear and thought how lucky I was to have ended up in Oaxaca.
How was I know that this was just the beginning of an extremely hazardous undertaking that would not only see me involved in the rescue of a kidnapped child, but also threatened with being ‘disappeared’ by my very own government? After all, my ‘little voice’ was keeping quiet for a change.
The next few weeks went smoothly. The VW people kept making excuses about the continuing delays in repairing my car, blaming it on Puebla not sending them a new head (another story), but I was having such a great time I wasn’t really pushing them. Besides, I’d phoned the hotel manager in El Salvador and he was happy to hold the job open for me.
By now I had a regular routine. Get up. Shower. Walk down to the giant food mercado a few blocks away and enjoy a big glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Then I’d wander around the food stalls picking up what knowledge I could from the herbalists, and stroll back up to my favorite zócalo cafe for some ‘caffeine kick-start’.
Sitting at an outside table to keep watch on the ever changing human parade, I’d enjoy a plate of fresh fruit or sweet rolls, read a newspaper and write some letters, then meander off to explore more of Oaxaca’s magic.
One day my orange juice must have been supercharged because I walked from the hotel up 1,300 feet to the ancient Zapotecan ceremonial center of Monte Albán. It was a long journey along a narrow winding road to the summit, but I’d stop from time to time to eat an orange or two from the bag I’d bought at the mercado.
On one such rest stop a near naked boy suddenly emerged from a steep, densely wooded ravine beside the road and we shared a couple of oranges with silent smiles.
Just as suddenly he ran off and returned with a fragment of pottery that turned out to be the ear-disk belonging to what was left of a small statue of an ancient deity he’d found in the stream below. Seeing how pleased I was he scampered down the ravine again to return with the well-worn head of what looked like small household god with a feathered headdress. These small but valued gifts still occupy a special place in my office.
By late morning I reached Monte Albán just as one of the tourist buses that had passed me earlier was leaving. A small army of souvenir sellers pressed the boarding passengers for one last sale, then jumped into their odd assortment of vehicles to leave me totally alone to enjoy the powerful and mysterious atmosphere of one of civilization’s architectural masterworks.
It must have been a slow day at Monte Albán, because I had time to explore the all temples, tunnels, passageways and bas-relief sculptures before the hawkers reappeared a moment or two before the next tourist buses. And later, one of the souvenir sellers gave me a bumpy ride back to the city in his battered old pickup. The sun was just setting when I reached the hotel and wandered over to the zócalo for a cafe con leché and sweet roll.
A few days later I returned to my hotel to find a message. My car had finally been repaired and was ready to be picked up. The news came as a bit of an unwelcome jolt. Perhaps was beginning to think I’d never have to leave Oaxaca. Perhaps I was falling in love with the place.
Slowly, I forced myself into another reality. And after lying on my bed with my eyes closed, I found myself visualizing the route I’d take from Oaxaca to El Salvador.
On my last morning in Oaxaca, I was crossing Miguel Caberera to my regular orange juice stand when I was assaulted by the ghastly, pungent, sickly-sweet aroma of patchouli. This was quickly followed by a pale, blond, curiously costumed young woman who seemed to be having trouble keeping her large breasts inside her dress.
In a part of the country where the weave of a woman’s handmade clothes can tell the initiated what tribe, village and family the wearer comes from, this flamboyantly dressed Gringa must have looked like someone from another planet. Her thin cotton dress was from India, her multicolored tie-died scarves from God knows where, and the mostly pot metal jewelry and bells that festooned her neck, arms, legs and waist looked like they’d come directly from a Haight-Ashbury trinket hustler.
She was a walking parody of a sixties hippie and she was heading straight towards me. “Oh shit” I thought. “She’s going to hit me up for money.” And she did.
Looking for a way to stall for time I asked her why she wanted this money. Without hesitating she matter-of-factly told me that her three-and-a-half year old son Stefan had been kidnapped and that she needed the money to buy a bus ticket to Mexico City so she could beg the US Embassy to put pressure on Mexican authorities to get him back.
As she spoke I noticed that despite her appearance and my initial aversion to it, she and her clothing were freshly washed, her sun-bleached blond hair was clean and her skin smooth and healthy, like fine white silk. She was also surprisingly articulate and clearly telling the truth. This wasn’t some sort of story made up to get drug money.
Making the kind of spur of the moment decision that makes my ‘little voice’ choke, I invited her back up to the zócalo for some coffee. There was something in her clear blue eyes that was drawing me in.
It was desperation.
| Kidnap in Oaxaca © Robert R. Feigel 2022 – All rights reserved |
Pieces from a Puzzling Life 