Leaving my final class with Araceli a little early, Enrique, Sarah, Kim and I caught a colectivo to Teotitlí¡n del Valle. Yes, it’s true: every village in Oaxaca is famous for something, and this one for its weaving. We visited Enrique’s friend Luis Lazo Mendoza to learn about the process.
[Photo credit: those with me in them were taken by Enrique and Kim.]
Teotitlí¡n was the original capital of Oaxaca in ancient times and is still predominantly Zapotec, which is the first language of most residents. On the mountain peak at the right of this photo there are Aztec ruins; at lower left is Luis’ daughter.
As soon as we arrived, Luis’ mother showed us how she cards white and black wool to make grey.
Then she gave a demonstration on her 50-plus-year-old homemade spinning wheel.
For her, the operation was fluid and graceful: a dance of the hands. But when she asked me to try, all hell broke loose. I alternately broke the yarn or propelled the wheel heavenward from its moorings. Her good humor ameliorated my feelings of uselessness.
We got to paw through a bunch of materials that Luis uses for his dyes, all of which are natural. There’s a flower similar to camomile for yellow, and a rock (might have been cobalt) for blue.
I was curious about a silvery, vermiculite substance. On further investigation I learned it’s made up of tiny bugs called cochinillas that dwell on the nopal cactus. It’s their blood that’s the source of red on his weavings. To illustrate how the dye is made, Luis used my unsuspecting hand. First he squished the dried bugs. To this dust he added water, and the contents of my hand turned a brilliant red. When he squeezed in lemon juice it went orange. With an alkaline rock, it transformed to purple. Chemistry has never been so much fun, though I remained red-handed for quite a while afterward.
By blending these variations of the three primary colors, he dyes and overdyes to get a stunning variety of shades. There are all kinds of other variables — like the temperature of the dyeing water and how much oxygen it has in it — that affect color and how well it fixes.
He also showed us his giant loom on which he does his weaving, but if you’ve seen one loom, you’ve seen them all (to paraphrase Ronald Reagan). Finally, he showed us a bunch of his work. One by one, every single tapete flew from its folded-up resting place to the floor for our viewing pleasure. Enrique makes a good Vanna.
In the end, I bought two small rugs. They are pictured below. Each cost $50 US. The amount of work that goes into each, and the quality, are astounding. The one I really wanted a muted lime green, but it was big and expensive. The colored shapes on the one I’m holding are created from permutations of bug-blood.
Here’s: Luis’ 11-month-old baby boy who was full of cheer; a view from Luis’ roof; a view of me on Luis’ roof.
And a view in the other direction of a runaway soccer ball.
And some pictures of Luis’ vecindario (barrio) (neighborhood) (the place he lives).
We walked down steep stone streets to where the taxis descansan, en-route passing a Catholic church built on — and of — the ruins of an ancient Mayan structure.
As we drove away, a runaway cow dashed headlong toward us. Our driver tried to use the car as a roadblock, while a man in an alley blocked that direction; but the cow, after a brief fall to her knees on the cobblestone, squeaked past us down the narrow road. A block later the driver slammed on his brakes as herd of goats emerged from a cross-street.
On the Spanish front, I’m tired of the way everyone has to go around speaking it all the time. At first I thought I was doing pretty well. But now, even when my brain does know something close to the right words, my mouth muscles get tied up in knots and sentences emerge garbled or partial. And strangely, I’m getting worse at English, too: forgetting vocabulary, pronouncing things funny. I’m not kidding. The only words I don’t have a hard time understanding are chinga [equivalent to “feck”] and blah blah blah, frequently used around here.
A bunch of us arranged to meet near the Zocalo at 8:00 tonight. We three Americans showed up fashionably late at 8:15. The others showed up on Mexican time, closer to 9:00. While waiting, we got to see a wedding. I had video and photos but somehow they have disappeared. They were really cool, damn it. As the bridge and groom appeared at the massive church door, a brass band started playing and towering figures of a bride and groom started dancing around a giant spinning ball bearing the names of the happy and confused-looking couple.
Here we are on the town: Enrique, Sarah and Adolfo; Adolfo looking refined; Ginna looking likewise.
After dinner, some of our party wanted hamburguesas and hotdogs. While in search of them we found a big canvas mural with holes in it for faces. Here are: Ginna and Logan; Sarah and Kim; Araceli and Kelen.
