Well. I won’t go so far as to say I was anti birthday this year. But I will say I was scared that all I’d notice is the change in celebration, the lack of things, Mike, an abundance of close friends, etc. And to that end, I’d decided to have a very different kind of birthday. So I ran away to Oaxaca with the intent of eating well, disappearing into the mountains for a spiritual retreat of sorts, and because Juan Cirerol was playing in Oaxaca on 3/15.
Oaxaca is both a state and city in the southern part of Mexico. The city sits in a high valley famed for mezcal production, the state extends to a tropical coast on the west, up into rainy coffee growing mountains where it borders with Veracruz on the east and Chiapas on the south. The state boasts the most flora and fauna diversity of any state in Mexico and the capital is maybe the most charming city in the country. And it’s definitely the culinary center. Fran and I spent 3 and a half glorious days eating.
So the thing about food in Oaxaca is that it’s all good (ok, haven’t had pizza and that’s definitely not Mexico’s strong suit), but we did live it up a bit. Got into town Thursday evening and were immediately treated to a stunning sunset over the west Sierra Madres. Airport staff were also taking photos, so you know it was an extra good one. After getting a colectivo to our air bnb and unloading, we mosied our way over to Levadura de la Olla. Best tomato salad of my life. So many tomatoes, vinaigrette and herb mix on top, beet (they say salsa, I say jelly) underneath and omg what heaven. And I am partial to a tomato salad, so I do not say that lightly. Oaxaca prides itself on the number of tomato cultivars grown within its borders and this salad took full advantage. There was a whole table in a side room dedicated to tomato varieties. Not a small table.
The next day we aimlessly wandered the city taking in the beauty, clean air, warmth and my oh my was it warm, daily highs were near 90. Eventually on our jaunt we encountered Dani, who Fran knows from Puerto Escondido, and is now working at a mezcal shop. So we stopped for like 3 hours. He had some really excellent agave spirits, your classics like Espadin, Tobala and Madrecuishe, but also both some harder to find varieties and as well as a selection of agave spirits that are, but also aren’t, mezcal. There’s some rules on labeling… These were potent, both higher in alcohol and in sugar. One with intense smoke. I tried my first Jabali mezcal which was super complex, grassy, sweet and smoky all at once.
After our necessary relief from the heat and arguably less necessary impromptu mezcal tasting, we ambled thorugh town and signed ourselves up for a Mayan massage the next day. And we laid our eyes on Oaxaca’s Templo de Santo Domingo de Guzman. This might be my favorite church in the world. Heck it might be everybody’s, I have never seen a church churn out weddings like this. The first time I was in Oaxaca there was one in the evening and all the guests lit floating lanterns, you know those terribly romantic, terrible for the environment things, and sent them into the clear sky and it was poetic.
This time it seemed like there was a wedding every 10 minutes, with wedding celebratory parties waiting in line for one to finish for their turn. You see, post ceremony you get a little mini parade.
That evening Fran and I went for a meal at Criollo, also outrageously tasty, when our 6 course menu was interrupted by an earthquake. Now, growing up where I did, we don’t get nearly the action of California, but it is THE natural disaster we learn about and I have been through a couple. Fran, from Texas, is less accustomed to earthquakes. Which meant, I was like “well, we’re already outside” and Fran was like “omg what do we do”. This was a 5.6 with the epicenter around 150km away, far enough to feel like a shake, simply like you’re trying to walk on a moving surface in a different direction than the motion. In a sign of just how common earthquakes are in Oaxaca, not a minute after the shaking ceased, staff armed with stacks of shot glasses and bottles of mezcal circulated the restaurant. Nothing to make you feel a bit more alive than a completely safe earthquake followed by a shot of mezcal.
The next morning I dragged Fran to the ethnobotanical garden which is one of my favorite Oaxaca City activities. This ambitious project is housed behind the Templo Santo Domingo and is an attempt to house every species of plant found in Oaxaca. Remember earlier, when I described the diversity? You’re required to take a tour. In previous visits, the English speaking tour guides were volunteers who were invested in the space in really different and unique ways. The first time was a political science graduate student who was interested in the fascinating history of the site. The second time it was a botanist who’s husband was an anthropologist doing work in the area. Needless to say, these focus points made for dramatically different tours. Unfortunately they’ve now had to stop doing English tours and while I got more of the Spanish than I anticipated given the subject it was a really big group and the tour seemed a bit more scripted. The space is still lovely, although more restricted.
Afterwards, Fran and I took ourselves for our Mayan Royal Massage and it was all my hippie heart desired as we were given bouquets of powerful herbs and asked to hold an intention and funnel it into a piece of copal. Then the copal was burned and the smoke drifted around our bodies. We stood on our bouquets to feel the eonnection to earth. And then we got a massage.
Saturday night meant Juan Cirerol night! We’d been advised to get there early if we wanted a table and perhaps we got there too early. Justa Rufina is a tiny rooftop bar with about 5 tables and seats at the bar. A cleared space at one end and speakers mark the stage which actually also has Templo Santo Domingo providing a pretty spectacular backdrop. Having gotten there a bit early, Fran and I settled in with a caguama. No, not a sea turtle, but rather 32oz of beer and our very cool ticket. I was somewhat relieved that the caguama came with glasses cause I have definitely just been handed the bottle and they are heavy and awkward to hold.
I suspect Fran hadn’t listened to much of the music as she kept referring to being around “your people” and I think hadn’t quite caught that cowboy hats and shirts are not generally my scene. There was an amazingly drunk and so happy girl in front us. She knew all the words to everything and was there to live it up. I remember being her.
First band up was Los Compas (a common abbreviation for compadres here), a clearly well known local act. The bar was packed with about 30 people. It made for a sense of community as everyone stood and shared tables.
And then Juan Cirerol came on and the whole place went mad. All 30 people. Tiny stage with a gorgeous back drop, him and his guitar and a remarkably good sound system for the venue. Just like at a proper show everyone smushed together up front, staff raced out to clear tables and move them and chairs to the back. And he played every song I knew. Ok, in fairness that’s not too many and while a fan, I was clearly among the lesser of the fans. He played for about 2.5 hours, no breaks, occassional pause for convo with the audience. And then he signed my ticket and Fran snapped a pic of us.
I am tall in Mexico.
I also completely failed to take any video or adequate photos of his performance. So a reminder for those of you who maybe missed his music in an earlier blog. Suffice to say, we had a grand time.
Woke up on Sunday a little worse for the wear. Fran and I grabbed a bite and went our separate ways, which for me meant taking a mini van to the small mountain town of San Jose del Pacifico, population under 1000, elevation 8000 ft. There was an intentional arc to this trip. Go to Oaxaca, eat indulgently, see some music and then go to mountains, get some crisp air, do a magic mushroom ceremony for which the town is famous and participate in a temazcal (prehispanic sweat lodge with a shaman kinda thing). It felt cathartic and cleansing and empowering. Reality shaped out a little differently.
The road into the Sierra Madres is memorable, being both narrow and curvy and bumpy. A google search will likely advise dramamine. San Jose del Pacifico was about a 3.5 hour jaunt of being bounced about. The initial part of the ride, exiting the valley was hot and thick and just unpleasant. But the air (and the van) cooled as we began to pick elevation in the mountains. Pine trees rose around the hillside of the road with a sharp cliff drop on the other. Random agaves interrupted the trees. It smelled like eastern Oregon. Despite a slight hangover, I successfully managed the trip. When we arrived at the bus office in town, I grabbed mototaxi for the about a mile ride to Rancho Viejo where I’d booked a cabin.
Rancho Viejo boasts some upscale cabins with a king sized bed, good water pressure, a fire place, a TV, and a deck. The views are just beautiful and the grounds are lovely. It’s a big property with a hostel on some other part that I never made it to, a restaurant, hiking trails, some gorgeous viewpoints, a temazcal area and a Catio attached to one of the cabins. Nestled on a crest, it’s surrounded by hills. Wanting to stretch my legs after the lengthy ride, I dropped my stuff in my room and wandered down one of the hiking paths and caught just a stop in your tracks view.
Grabbed a bite as the extremely slow restaurant, did a little reading and crashed early. And learned that apparently on the crest of hill wind is loud. Very loud. Like kinda scary. But my cabin was cozy.
March 17th is Benito Juarez’s birthday. This is not unlike our President’s Day, although it offers a bit more fanfare. Except in San Jose del Pacifico where it interferes the town’s weeklong celebration of itself from best I can tell. Everyone was extremely clear that it was NOT for Benito Juarez, which was a bit of surprise since it’s definitely a point of pride that he was Oaxacan. Guests at the ranch were invited to participate in the parade. Ok, I am deeply unsure if any of what follows is accurate. But the population of various neighborhoods meet up. They each have a marching band, a group of female dancers in traditional garb, a large ball that someone carries which states the name of the neighborhood, and likely a mojiganga or two. Mojigangas are giant human puppets, at least 12 ft high, whose frame sits on the shoulders of the puppeteer. They’re are a multimedia affair with a wooden frame, fabric clothing, and paper mache faces. I’ve generally seen them in celebratory or comedic functions.
So our barrio met at the top of the dirt road and proceeded to walk up the highway.
During the walk into town everyone is kept well supplied with water, hats, bandanas and mezcal. Straight from a bottle with a pour spout, I saw at least 3 bottles going around and it just gets passed up and down the parade line to everyone walking along with no small amount of peer pressure. The band played intermittently and with dubious skill and the dancers would perform briefly waving around pineapples. Chants were heard “Viva las costumbres oaxaqueñas” “VIVE” the crowd roars in responses. Both ‘crowd’ and ‘roaring’ may be overkill. We reach town on the highway and pause for a more ambitious dance as we turn to wind up the hills the town extends onto. The music is jarringly disjointed, I was waiting for the poor boy carrying the globe to fall over and chaos reigned.
After which we carry on up the hills to the covered basketball court next to the church. Crammed into a clearing before a cliffside, stalls of tlayudas, tamales and atole are packed in against extremely antiquated small fair rides and bouncy houses who ripple in the wind.
And then more mezcal and dancing. After a few hours, I decided to retreat and spend a little downtime before my guided mushroom experience in the evening. On my down I encountered so many visibly drunk people, including a group of three swaying women entirely supporting a man who’d given up on walking.
While illegal in Mexico, this town embraces its historic tradition of the medicinal use of psychedelic mushrooms, and apparently the authorities look the other way, cause there is nothing subtle about it. They sit for sale on counters in most hostels & hotels, street art features them everywhere and nary a shop lacks some kind of wooden carved or ceramic mushroom. I’ve read that Mexican exempts sacred plants from the law and it may be some part of why it’s so publicly permitted.
The region has 3 different types of mushrooms, Pajaritos, San Isidro & Derrumbe. The first are for fun, light hearted and with little connection to the earth. San Isidro are said to identify and heal illness, and then Derrumbe are translated as “therapy”, though the more literal translation would be collapse or landslide, and are to help you behave well in life.. Since it was the off season, my choices were a bit limited and derrumbe it was. My guide asked where I’d prefer to do them and said in nature. I’d been recommended a guide and anticipated a led experience that would help me to better let go, reclaim some parts of me and just heal. As it turned, I’d more or less just hired a baby sitter. So as I started to trip, sitting on pine needles off the side of a trail, I abandoned this idea and asked the guide to put me in a mototaxi back to my cabin. Mototaxi on mushrooms in the dusk is an adventure in and of itself.
I have no idea on my audience’s experience with mushrooms, but suffice to say, for me they’ve always been nurturing. Even when something unpleasant arises or comes up, it’s like you’re wrapped in a big warm blanket that just tells you it will be ok and to not take it too seriously. You’re gifted a confidence in knowing what you need in any given moment, in part because the consequence of being incorrect is still that you’re in that blanket. The earth around you shines. It’s how I picture the Garden of Eden, lush and growing and your senses to appreciate it all are heightened.
I somehow fell asleep and had the most insane dreams in which I was in hypercolor and safely falling through time. It was like my mental image of what the 4th dimension, time, would look like played out- sorta Matrixy. When I awoke it was pitch dark and out my window I could see the town, fireworks exploding, music & firecrackers at volume, and a party still underway. Overhead on my crest, the wind whipped against the cabin. I honestly have no idea how much was reality or ummm enhanced. Mushrooms give me a childlike sense of wonder and safety and I watched the town for hours. Mushrooms allow me to explore parts of me without fear, it’s a different kind of uninhibited than being drunk, by virtue of feeling more connected to all living things, feeling more grace and empathy. Even though it wasn’t the experience I’d been hoping for, it was lovely.
I woke up the next morning not imbued with the enlightenment and inner peace I’d hoped for, but perhaps with a bit more self assuredness than I’d felt in a long time and I still had temazcal for healing. So I set off on a walkabout on the property.
I returned from walkabout to find that the temazcal had been canceled because it requires at least 6 participants and we were only at 4. This was a bit of a blow as I was very much hoping for a highly ceremonial cleansing/healing event, but I carried through with a different lesson in that as much as I might want to the universe will conspire against me in my eagerness to speed forward time and healing. It was rueful and I felt bested. I consoled myself with heading back to Oaxaca early and the promise of another tomato salad. The drive back down was beautiful and I was more prepared for the curves.
Year One Project 
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