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Tale
Four - Oaxaca City - by Malik
Pronounced as "wah-hah-kah", Oaxaca is 523 km away
from Mexico City. It is nestled in a valley between towering
mountains. I was on a busride to the city and off and on, the
bus-engine roared while heading uphill. The road was windy,
causing nausea and dizziness to many passengers. The bus was
not suitable when many wanted to vomit in unison. A second class
bus with open-windows would have been much better for a heavy
disgorge. Being a night journey and that too in a cloudy season,
it was pitch dark. At dawn, the visibility had improved giving
some glimpses. The valley was dotted with small town and villages
and even in those wee hours, some villagers were tending the
fields. Age old techniques were being used for farming. The
luxuriant vegetation with landscaped terraces portrayed a picture
pleasing to the eyes.
When I reached the city, I had no idea where to stay. I dragged
my luggage to the left side of the bus terminal till I came
across a hotel. It was fully booked and I was advised to go
a little further to other hotels. I found one willing to accommodate
me though it was still early for a check in. I enquired whether
there was a provision for safekeeping my passport etc. The counter
clerk did not understand. I fished out my Translator and fed
the word "LOCKER", pushing ESP button for Spanish
equivalent. "CAJA DE SEGURRIDAD" sprouted up, bringing
a shine in his eyes. Of course he had one and allotted me a
box.
In any Mexican City, Zocalo or the city-centre was the place
to begin the day. I found it next door. Zocalo was humming with
activities. Vendors had set up expensive, exotic pastry stalls;
women were selling fruits, knitted blankets, masks and straw
baskets. A live concert was shaking the square, keeping the
people mollified. Women with children clinging to their colourful
skirts were moving freely in the Spanish, French and English
speaking crowd.
The place was reported to be best for chocolates. Unfortunately,
I had to watch my cholesterol. As I moved further, I saw a stall
selling hand-made ice-cream in wooden barrels. It was too tempting
to ignore and I ordered a rose-flavored cup. After all, one
has to die one day, why not with a mouth full of rich food.
Despite being built on an uneven land, Oaxaca was a well laid-out
city; its street plan drawn by a mathematician, Alonso García
Bravo. The city was studded with cathedral, temples, museums
and monuments. Fortunately, all were conveniently located within
a walking distance.
Of all the places, a church "Santo Domingo" impressed
me most. It had very thick walls to withstand earthquakes. The
exterior was plain but the interior was colorful. It had been
described as "one of the most extravagantly gorgeous churches
in the world". Perhaps the most spectacular single element
was "Tree of Life," sketched on the inner roof, visible
only when I craned my neck up. A renowned writer, Kate Simon,
had described it like this: "Imagine a tree with a thousand
branches, all of thick gold, and among the golden leaves, polychrome
figures and ornaments, the whole overwhelming tangle backed
by dazzling white to make the most baroque of churches, and
one of the most beautiful."
While moving in the zocalo, I saw a few hefty and plump ladies
shopping around with an air of confidence. Later, I learnt that
they were very different from their Mexican sisters and were
truly labeled as "macho women". Their heavyset and
fleshy size was a status symbol and not a cause for embarrassment.
They ruled in their area, Juchitan, while their men had to work
in the fields or hunt iguana or weave hammocks. As a reward
for the obedience, a wife would buy a local drink, Mezcal, for
the docile husband, or a kick at the right place would be a
norm.
In the evening I was having tea in a café when I heard
some familiar words. I said spontaneously, "Thank God,
someone is speaking English." A lady got up and said, "Well,
there are quite a few of us in a seminar on Archaeology."
"Oh, I see, you must be knowing about our Mohenjadaro and
Harappa", I said. "I have been there !!!" she
exclaimed and floodgates of conversation were opened. Later,
we were joined by a German with his Japanese wife and had a
lively talk.
Hafeez ur Rahman Malik, Karachi-Pakistan.
Submitted: 21 September 2002
Next: Tale 5 - San Cristobal |
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Malik
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