Golden Days in Teotitlan Del Valle
Hello!
I don't know about you, but for me it feels like the air after a thunderstorm. Maybe it doesn't matter where you go, the holidays are always a chaotic jumble of pressure and speed. On Jan 6th they took down all the Christmas decorations in the streets of Oaxaca. I am also taking down the Christmas decorations of my mind.
We spent three perfect, ecstatic, golden days in the Zapotec weaving village of Teotitlan del Valle. Teotitlan is a village under collective indigenous governance, and it shows. They are famous for their artisan rugs that they spin and dye and weave by hand. The rugs are often dyed with plants, and you can find skeins of yarn colored with indigo and marigold and cochineal hanging in market stalls all over town. I loved it there. I loved it so much. I never felt more at home in Mexico than in this quiet little village of Zapotec grandmothers walking to and from the market in decorative aprons, with silk scarves braided in their hair, and baskets full of treats. People were so friendly, and the aforementioned grandmothers would break out into a wide grin at the slightest "buenos dias". The church bells rang whenever they felt like; 9:18am, 12:07, 6:48pm. Brass music played through the day and night. We were the only people in our little hostel with an unruly butterfly-filled garden at its center. I felt like I was in a dream. Most importantly, we ate the best food of our entire trip. Food that was so transcendent it brought me to tears.
We met Camelia cooking on a comal over a wood fire outside of the village market. The minute I smelled it I knew I wanted what she had. We waited our turn and ordered memelas and yellow mole. She made all the tortillas to order, pressing them with practiced dexterity. As we watched her work, I was struck by how much she reminded me of my grandmother who passed away last November. She physically looked like her, mostly her smile, but more than that - their spirits felt kindred. My gram was the daughter of Italian immigrants, of course, and Camelia is Zapotec. But she cooked with the same joy, pride, love, and craftmanship that is etched into my heart from a lifetime of watching my grandmother in the kitchen. I was mesmerized.
When we got our food, it was unlike anything I've eaten before or since. The flavors were unique, complex and exceptional. The tortillas were perfectly made and cooked. But there was also this intangible other thing that transformed it into something outside of ordinary reality. I felt SO nourished. I felt her love, her purpose, the generations of tradition, the corn, the beans, the herbs, all humming with aliveness. It was a spiritual experience. It was pure magic. And damn, Camelia knew it. She served everyone with a wry smile and seemed genuinely pleased to watch how much they loved it. I watched a woman from Mexico City kiss her cheek in gratitude and Camellia squeal with delight. We went back every single day and I felt like I was sitting at my grandmother's table.
We became friendly with her and her family. On our last morning there, I told her how much I loved her food and thanked her for feeding us. She grabbed my hands, smiled wide, looked into my eyes (they looked like my grandmother's eyes), and...I don't know what to say. I will be unpacking what I experienced in her presence, and with her food for a long time. I'm creatively and spiritually inspired by her.
Teotitlan gave me another gift. I was in their excellent cultural museum looking at an exhibit about a traditional Dance called Danza de la Pluma. It requires three years of commitment from dancers, with dances taking up to three days each, plus elaborate costumes made with feathers dyed and sewn by hand. The last line on the plaque explained that this dance reenacts the meeting of Hernan Cortes with Montezuma. It sent a shiver through my body, and I stopped to ponder that. I was struck by how the people took this traumatic event of colonization and contact and like...enveloped it into a Zapotec cultural context. It disseminates historical information from an indigenous perspective. It tells the truth. It gives physical form to oral history. It explains in a communal context how they became the people they are right now. It tells the story of the Spanish arrival with pre-hispanic dances, costumes, and customs. I couldn't stop thinking about this dance and how profound the act of openly folding cultural trauma INTO culture is.
Teotitlan is very Catholic; Spanish culture has undoubtedly influenced it. The devastating brutality of the Spanish arrival in Mexico is well-documented and I in no way mean to minimize the messy, complicated horrors of colonization. Hell, the Zapotec people were conquered by the Aztecs and Montezuma before Spain's arrival. But Zapotec food, craft, language, and customs are still notably strong and this resiliency is profound to me. And it has me thinking about how this act of naming and enfolding tragedy into our personal and collective stories can be an act of resilience.
I could keep writing about this for pages, but this email is getting long. Just sharing this last paragraph with Ben became a long discussion about the role capitalism plays in which cultures get to be resilient and the anthropology of tourists; it could be a whole book. But for now I just want to share what's moved me lately and what I am thinking about. I''m back in Mexico city getting ready to leave Mexico on Tuesday. We're headed for Thailand to meet up with Ben's godmother. It all feels a little crazy, but also right. Talk soon.
xo
Lauren
