Today it is snowing in Madison, Wisconsin. The continuing journal of the last buying trip to Mexico makes me homesick for the warmth and color and fine friends of Mexico. Sigh. . .
[Continuing journal written by Chiripa partners on a recent buying trip.]
August 23
Jacobo Angeles and his wife María produce the finest alebrijes in Mexico. They are also wonderful people, and it was a pleasure to visit them again this year. We found them in their family workshop in the village of San Martín Tilcahete, Oaxaca, Mexico.
Many artisans in the Oaxaca area produce alebrijes -- carved and painted wooden animals that can take many forms. But Jacobo and Maria have raised this craft to the level of fine art. Their finely carved pieces are typically produced from a single piece of wood, and have an amazingly graceful and living form. The figures are painted with intricate, precise and complex designs (using beautiful naturally-derived colors and traditional indigenous patterns) that you must see to believe. The completed figures have a pensive, elegant, almost human quality. We bought a number of fine pieces from Jacobo and María, including a big, exquisitely painted Jaguar head.
Maria with the jaguar head that she so expertly painted.
In a place of honor at Chiripa.
The road to San Martín Tilcahete goes through other craft villages including San Bartolo Coyotopec, Santo Tomás Jalieza, and Ocotlán. In San Bartolo we visited the workshop of the late Rosa Real Mateo (Doña Rosa discovered the process for producing the famous Oaxacan black pottery), and picked out a number of black pottery pieces for Chiripa.
Click on the photo to see a piece of black pottery for sale on the Chiripa website.
In Ocotlán, we visited the family workshop (commune, really) of the famous Josephina Aguilar and her extended family. Chickens and turkeys strutted through the compound, and a host of grandchildren ran about and posed for photos as we selected some of the small clay figurines for which Josephina is famous.
Between villages, we got on and off several local buses. In San Martín, we also got a ride in the little golf-cart type vehicle that serves as the village taxi. Finally, as evening approached, we climbed on the bus and headed back to Oaxaca. On our way back to the hotel, we stopped in at the Majordomo Chocolate store in the bustling market district southwest of the zócalo, where they make fresh chocolate to order, and had our traditional hot chocolate.
[Continuing journal written by Chiripa partners on a recent buying trip.]August 23: The Abastos Market
There are a large number of craft-producing villages within a short bus ride of Oaxaca. But to get a bus, you must ordinarily go to the 2nd class bus terminal in the sprawling Abastos Market. Some buses leave from the terminal itself, while others leave from various locations in the market. You learn these locations only by hard experience (you can ask for directions, but will probably get conflicting advice).
In a perverse way, we look forward to our periodic forays into the Abastos Market. The market is fascinating, but it is not easy. It is not a place frequented by the wealthy class. It is a teeming, noisy, dirty place. Dust is everywhere, and loud buses belch fumes into your face until you feel queasy. We always leave somewhat exhausted, sweaty, and abraded as if by sandpaper. Of course, market regulars live in this atmosphere all day, every day.
The government recently constructed a gleaming new 1st-class bus terminal on the other side of town. But the 2nd-class terminal in the Abastos Market has been unchanged in the quarter century that we have known it. It just gets more rundown. And God help you if you need to use the bathroom.
Ancient buses arrive at the terminal through a wasteland of dust (or a sea of mud, in the short rainy season). The potholes are legendary, and get bigger by the year. Swaying buses disappear into them like struggling galleons in a storm-tossed sea, only to climb out again and make slow headway toward port.
The rare first class ride.
August 23: On a 2nd-Class Bus
The U.S. State Department says that you should only take 1st-class buses in Mexico. That may be good advice, especially if you are taking a long trip. But I must admit that I have seldom felt happier, or freer, or safer than on a 2nd-class bus. For one thing, a 2nd-class bus is more interesting. There is also a feeling of humanity, community and courtesy that you will seldom experience in a place like an international airport.
On a 2nd-class bus, there is no pretense or falsehood, and there are no metal detectors or cell phones. The bus is friendly and comfortable, in a worn and homely way. The seats are shabby, and sometimes broken so they lean way back. The seat covers are dark with years of accumulated dust and exhaust, and some of the seats are held together with packing tape.
Some windows are cracked, and frozen in place. If the window is frozen in the shut position, you may get a little hot and stuffy. If open, you may be a little windblown. If the window can be adjusted, you may have to negotiate the adjustment with the person in the seat ahead. But all of these things can be managed.
The seats fill with beautiful, decent and patient people. They sit in the front if they can, in the back if they must. Sturdy middle-aged ladies push down the aisle and drop into their seats, maneuvering big plastic bags and wearing sweaters despite the heat. There are old people with weathered hands and faces, school girls dressed in uniform, Indian women carrying sleeping babies in rebozos, small children smiling shyly, and boisterous young men whistling out the window to buddies on the street.
The adventure starts as you roll out of the terminal, dust everywhere. The bus rocks from side to side, like a ship in heavy seas, as it navigates the enormous potholes at the terminal entrance. The rosary beads, crucifix and holy pictures hanging in the windshield sway this way and that. The bus driver, a sweating and seasoned pro, grinds the gears and hauls at the big wheel – all the while honking the horn, waiving to fellow drivers, and joking with the teenage kid who proudly “rides shotgun” to his right.
Of course, the kid has no shotgun. He just collects fares and serves as a kind of conductor for the journey. As the bus rolls out of the terminal, the kid bangs the metal side and shouts the bus’s destination with the well-rehearsed nasal voice of a street hawker. The bus picks up more passengers -- some standing at the curbside, others chasing the bus with waving arms. On a 2nd-class bus, passengers just climb on without paying. Later, when things have settled down, the kid comes back to collect. The kid always remembers, with unfailing accuracy, who has paid and who hasn’t. Of course, the people would pay even if he didn’t remember.
Looking out of my bus window.
As you pull out of the station, a street vendor or musician may climb onto the bus. The vendor may offer candy, nuts, melon with salsa, or a cream to ease your arthritis. The musician may strum a twangy, well-worn guitar, or render a nasal a cappella version of an old Mexican folk song. In some cases, the seller may have a mental or physical handicap. The bus riders, who are themselves none too affluent, always buy and contribute generously.
The bus, which may have its own name (like “Angelito”) on the front window, stops anywhere and everywhere -- wherever people want to get on or off. We remember one long night ride when groups of faces would appear in the headlights as if from nowhere, the bus would stop, and campesinos would bundle themselves, their babies, and their belongings onto the friendly bus. The bus always accepted them without fear or question.
NEWS FLASH: The truck is getting closer. We'll let you know when to expect to see new product from Mexico on the Chiripa floor!
[Continuing journal written by Chiripa partners on a recent buying trip.]
August 22: Small Things in Puebla
This morning, on our short stopover in the beautiful colonial city of Puebla, we walked a few blocks from our hotel to the little shop run by our friend Miguel Paredes and his wife Lilia Cruz Ruiz. Today, Miguel’s school-age son Daniel is helping at the shop (Daniel, a friendly and bright kid, attends school in the afternoon).
Miguel is a perfectionist with a sense of humor, and an eye for detail. In his home, he makes miniature clay scenes in little glass boxes. The scenes feature amusing skeletons engaged in everyday activities. The skeletons appeal to Mexicans’ black sense of humor: indeed, we all feel like walking skeletons sometimes.
Miguel Paredes with his skeletons at Casa de las Artesanias, Puebla, Mexico.
When we got back to the hotel room, the phone rang. It was Miguel. He had discovered that he inadvertently short-changed us by 8 pesos (about 80 cents). He felt bad, and said he would return the pesos to us. We told him to keep the change.
August 22: The Road to Oaxaca
Today, something unusual happened. When we arrived at the bus station in Puebla, we had to wait a couple hours.
The Mexican bus system is a miracle of efficiency – moving millions of people every day with a minimum of trouble and fuss. In our experience, you can usually walk into a bus terminal without prior reservations and, for next to nothing, you can usually climb on a bus to the destination of your choice within 20 minutes (quite often within 5 minutes). But today, we had to wait.
Late in the afternoon, we finally boarded for the 4-hour bus trip to Oaxaca (Wo-HAH-cah) in southern Mexico. If you can ignore the U.S. movie shown en route, the trip from Puebla to Oaxaca is wonderful. There are 5 major volcanoes near Puebla, and on a clear day you can see some of them as you pull out of the city and head south (including Popocatepetl, spewing smoke at 17,802 feet, and Orizaba, Mexico’s highest mountain at 18,880 feet).
A view not from the bus!
On the outskirts of Puebla, as in other Mexican cities, you pass a lot of industrial and commercial flotsam – junk yards and facilities selling cement, tires, auto parts, construction supplies, bottled gas, and car repairs. Between these gritty places there are scores of taquerias, carnitas stands and other open air eateries where people gather to eat at all hours. Trucks and bus roar past, belching fumes.
Eventually, you emerge into the countryside and glide through farm and ranch land green with recent rains. About halfway to Oaxaca, you enter a wild and seemingly uninhabitable mountain area. The land is crumpled and tortured, and a vast forest of 20-ft. tall cactuses covers the landscape. As you climb along sheer canyon walls, and cross a bridge suspended a thousand feet over the river below, you find yourself thinking of earthquakes and landslides. But you never doubt the skill of your bus driver.
Even here, there are some signs of human life. A shepherd stands near his lonely tent, watching the flock below. And at a high scenic turnout, there is even a little comedor selling tacos, carnitas and other muy rico (very rich) and exquisite treats.
Later, the road drops into a slightly more inhabitable landscape of arroyos and running streams. Campesino huts blend into the natural landscape, and hand-planted milpas (corn and bean fields) cling to terraced hillsides. Smoke rises from the little huts, and families head home from a long day of hand-cultivation.
Finally, we drop into the broad, beautiful Oaxaca valley (still high at 5,070 ft.), which has nurtured humanity for thousands of years. The spectacular pre-Hispanic ruins of Monte Alban sit high over the modern city of Oaxaca. Rural Oaxaca state is very poor, but the city of Oaxaca is a colonial gem that draws tourists from all over the world. The site of recent political turmoil, the city is now quiet.
When we arrived on Friday night, the streets and cafes were alive with people – including visitors from Germany, France, the U.S. and other places. As usual, we walked the mile or so from the bus station to our hotel (carrying the box from Miguel’s shop in Puebla, as well as our packs).
Las Golandrinas, Oaxaca, Mexico.
Later, we enjoyed an excellent and inexpensive dinner in a candle-lit courtyard restaurant. We felt glad to have arrived.
NEWS FLASH: The goods described in the past few posts and a few more to come are now on a truck making it's way to the border. We'll let you know when to expect to see product on the Chiripa floor!
[Continuing journal written by Chiripa partners on a recent buying trip.]
August 21
The town of Dolores Hidalgo is important in Mexican history. There, in 1810, the radical priest Father Hidalgo launched the Mexican rebellion against Spain with his famous cry of rebellion (“grito”) in the parish church. These days, Mexican presidents are still obliged to shout a symbolic “grito” every year on independence day.
Things did not go well for Father Hidalgo. He was captured and executed, and his head was publicly displayed for 4 years as an example to other would-be rebels. But the rebellion eventually succeeded, and Mexico won its independence from Spain.
Today, we were in Dolores Hidalgo to look for high quality Talavera-style ceramics for Chiripa. Dolores is a ceramics center, and one of our favorite producers is the Liceagui (Lee-say-ah-GHEE) family.
Estella, Gerardo, and Maria
Beth checks our sums.
It was nearly 3:00 PM when we finished our order, and rushed to the Dolores bus depot to begin our 8-hour marathon bus ride to the city of Puebla (where we hoped to find a hotel). We caught the bus with 3 minutes to spare. Two hours later, after a violent electrical storm, we got off the bus in the booming city of Querataro. There we caught another bus (with 5 minutes to spare) for the 3-hour trip to Mexico City.
Mexico City is an unfolding drama. It was the site of the epic encounter between Cortés and Moctezuma -- between the Old World and the New – that is still playing itself out today. When Cortés arrived in 1519 (after burning his ships so he couldn’t turn back), Mexico City was already one of the biggest cities in the world (bigger than any city in Europe at the time). The population collapsed after the Spanish conquest (mainly the result of smallpox and other diseases brought by the Spaniards). But today, it is again one of the world’s biggest cities.
The city sits in the high central valley of Mexico, at an altitude of 7,400 ft. (over 2,000 ft. higher than Denver), and is prone to earthquakes. When Cortés arrived, the city was built on an island in the middle of a lake. The lake is gone now, but the earthquakes remain. Huge volcanoes loom over the valley, and sometimes you can see them when the view is not obliterated by smog. This is a place of raw natural forces and raw human struggles. A taxi driver in Michoacán once warned us to be careful in Mexico City – it has a reputation for danger, even among Mexicans.
As our bus approached the megalopolis, farm and ranch scenes gave way to the gritty reality of urban life. There were recently-constructed ghettos of identical, bleak, wall-to-wall cement houses, intermingled with makeshift tin, wood and cardboard shacks. Smoke rising from the shacks confirmed that people were, against all odds, living within.
Children from the shacks played in streets strewn with rubbish, between walls covered with graffiti. Their parents probably came from some famished village, looking for a better life. I wondered: what kinds of bathrooms do these people have, and what happens to the waste? There are people who scratch out a living by combing the dumps for useful trash items. But you can also find wealth, refinement, learning, elegance, lovely buildings and parks, fine museums and restaurants, and friendly neighborhoods in this great city.
We arrived at the bus terminal in Mexico City, and eventually got on another bus for Puebla. It was dark now, and the city lights stretched on forever. Our bus traveled, in reverse, the original route taken by Cortés when he crossed the high mountain pass and first set eyes on the Aztec capital.
We arrived in the big city of Puebla after 11:00 PM, without a hotel reservation. But a friendly taxi driver took us to one of our usual hotels near the Zócalo (central plaza), where we found an available room. We were glad to have a bed.
[Continuing journal written by Chiripa partners on a recent buying trip.]
August 20, 2008
Today we had a good breakfast, because we knew there would be no lunch. Then we plunged into the depths of the San Miguel artisan market, to finish the work started yesterday. At the market you can buy many small treasures from the artisans themselves. By mid-morning, we had a good collection of Huichol beadwork, amusing coconut heads, hand-carved flying angels and other items to make you smile.
Huichol artist painstakingly picks up beads with a needle
and places them on the carved form that has been coated in beeswax.
Eggs for sale at the doorway of Ricado's home and workshop.
Working is a family affair.
Of course we'd get a ride back!
Beth goes over details with Felix.
A Man of Few Words
Victor Manuel Torres Osuna is a patient and efficient man. He is slender, and has a somewhat Asian appearance. He radiates precision and practical intelligence. He wastes few words, but means what he says. He writes down little, but remembers all. He speaks only in Spanish, but smiles with apparent understanding when we speak among ourselves in English.
Whenever we are in San Miguel, we pay a visit to Señor Torres because he consolidates and ships our San Miguel orders to the exporter in Guadalajara. All of the San Miguel artisans know and respect Señor Torres.
Today we arrived at his shipping establishment unannounced, and without any prior notice. Señor Torres recognized us and, as always, invited us into his tiny back office. He sat behind his small desk, studying us amiably through his glasses like a Zen master. As always, he wore an agreeable but slightly ironic smile.
We asked whether it was possible for him to consolidate our San Miguel shipments, as he did last year. “Por supuesto” (of course). How much will it cost? “Pues, depende, no?” (well, it depends, doesn’t it?). Can you collect the shipments from the artisans, for storage here? “Claro que sí” (of course). Can you deliver the consolidated shipment to Guadalajara in 4 weeks? “Sí.”
We told Señor Torres that, last year, everything had again arrived in perfect order. He smiled, and responded in Spanish: “Yes, but I was not paid the 2,800 pesos ($280) owed to me for the shipment.” He stated the precise unpaid sum without consulting any invoice, account record or computer screen. We were stunned. The exporter in Guadalajara was to have paid Señor Torres as part of its service to us, and we had received no notice of the nonpayment (either from the exporter or Señor Torres). Yet the shipment had occurred a year ago.
We immediately paid the overdue amount to Señor Torres in cash, without consulting the Guadalajara exporter, because there is something about Señor Torres that tells you he is always correct. We counted out the peso bills. “Gracias,” he said, smiling, “Nunca he tenido ningúna problema con ustedes” (I have never had any problem with you folks). Then he wrote out a precise receipt acknowledging the payment. And that was that.
[We regret that we do not have a photo of Sr. Torres. If you have read this far, you probably have your own picture of the man we rely on in San Miguel.]
[Continuing journal written by Chiripa partners on a recent buying trip.]
August 19
Today, we left Patzcuaro before breakfast (we ate a granola bar and drank some yogurt), and spent most of the day traveling by bus to the colonial town of San Miguel de Allende. The landscape is drier there, and dotted with cactus. But this is the rainy season, and tonight it rained in San Miguel.
The storm moved quickly up the normally dry valley. Lightning flashed, and thunder rolled through the town. The rain came down in torrents, and flowed like a river down the steep cobbled streets. The sudden downpour caught us in the open, and we were drenched. Later, in the dry comfort of our hotel room, we listened and dozed as the rain splashed in the open interior courtyard.
The Cathedral on the zocalo at San Miguel de Allende (day and night)
If you want a break from shopping, you can climb the hill past the old public washbasins (still used to wash clothes). In the hillside residential area above the town, there is a house with a world-famous collection of orchids. Further up the creek bed, there is a hidden canyon with quiet pools, shaded by willows and steep cliff walls. The ruins of an old Spanish water mill overlook the canyon. Beyond that there is a reservoir, where waterfowl splash about, and an adjacent botanical garden with an amazing variety of cactus species.
End of post from 2008 trip.
Note: One of the businesses we patronize at the San Miguel Artisan Market is Luciano owned by Hector Bustamante. Hector and his family specialize in metal creatures: animals, day of the dead figures, suns, and beautiful tree of life wall art. In this photo his daughter is working on a small metal Day of the Dead figure. We carry many Luciano creations at Chiripa and you'll find some of the metal figures on our website. -KL
Maria with the jaguar head that she so expertly painted.
In a place of honor at Chiripa.
