Back at the ruins . . . a student group is consumed by the downpour. Both the group and its eccentric guide are drenched and wearing frowns. The Zapotec people must have known these kind of heavenly outbursts -- embraced them, no less. The ruins are amazing. The setting slightly less fantastic than the Palenque jungle, but the vistas on a clear day of the Oaxaquena valley must be breathtaking. Even standing on the brink and looking down into the fog and mist, my imagination perceives this million-mile view. Foothills with hanging shanty shacks with multi-colored roofs, clinging precariously to the edges of mud slide prone hills. I am sitting in a culture from BC times, one that flourished so many generations ago . . . here for everyone to come drive their rental cars right to the entrance. Tromp all over and snap pictures of the holy sites. Cigarette butts stamped out on the stones that were at one time crafted and placed with such precision that they aligned with the stars.




The night before our hike in the ruins, I had missed out on some nightlife action. Billy left me to my Kem Nunn novel "The Dogs of Winter" and charged into the rainstorm, armed only with his ten-peso rubber Ducky umbrella. Evidently Billy was mistaken by an entire bar for an Argentinean soccer star; his Jesus locks and handlebar moustache backing up the tan of a man who has been in Mexico for more than a month, and everyone was buying him beers all night long! Now, I don't have videotape, but it sounds like a good story!
Oaxaca is a city filled with a flavor, so distinct, so raw. The missionary aspect is undeniable, with classical architecture abound, but a true indigenous balance exists side by side with this pompous, European segment of society. An obvious class difference can be detected on every street. As in the high mountain town of San Cristobal de Las Casas in the rebellious, neighboring state of Chiapas, the poorest of the poor work as street cleaners. Their odd, orange-colored outfits contrast with the grime and muck that darkens their lapels. Constantly sweeping, are these men, and always smiling at the passersby. None return the smile, not even one simple gesture of appreciation. The cobblestones and street corners are always spotless, but the centavos they eaern will not be sufficient to feed themselves nor their families. Ahh, the disgusting juxtaposition of being an American ultra-consumer traveling into the bowels of nation where poverty is worse just being on welfare.



All over the city there are people in constant motion. Bicyclists, pedestrians, people on mopeds and driving in cars . . . all honking in unison. Oaxaca is a bustling city in the downtown sector, even on this late morning that is filled with rainy and cloudy skies. Everyone seems to be working some sort of angle, whether selling Chiclets, food, clothing, sombrellas, or cigarettes. Some of the artisans display their works in a desperate stab at luring a strayed British tourist into buying one of their paper machete wonders. Then of course I bare witness to the sadness of the "have-nots". A native mother holds her weeping child close begging loudly and sitting uncomfortably with the youngster wrapped around her along with a filthy blanket. There are mariachis working the Zocala plaza area. They form a distinctly Oaxacan blend of horn, string and falsetto that attracts a little crowd despite the drizzle. My Oaxacan memory snapshot: walk, look, sell, eat, sit, smile, hide from the rain -- repeat for a lifetime.

Time to get back to the oceanic action!

ER Harris