…of the culture, that is. The toughest part about being tourists is the way in which we´re set apart. Skimming around like waterbugs on a pond, unable to dive into the whole world unfolding beneath us.
This morning, helping Doña Ana stir the pot of Indio Viejo ( a fragrant local stew which we helped prepare in her outdoor kitchen), I felt a tiny bit closer to normal life here. After visiting the intense fresh market behind the cathedral with three fellow travellers, and locating all the ingredients on our shopping list, we were herded by our local guide onto one of the trucks which serve as in-city buses. For 15 cents, you´re hustled up into the tarp-covered truck bed, where you hang onto bars for dear life as the truck whips around corners and lurches to frequent stops in order to load more people than you ever believed possible.
After six blocks´walk from the bus “remember to stay on the shady side of the street,” we sat in the shade of Doña Ana´s modest garden and caught our breath with cold beers and colas. Then we trekked off along the unpaved roads for a few more blocks to the local tortilleria. It turned out to simply be someone´s back yard, where a larger outdoor kitchen was set up. Four or five wood fires burned, heating various bubbling pots and hissing griddles. It was shadowed and smoky and so unbelievably hot that we simply stopped noticing the sweat running down our bodies.
The patient tortilla makers paused in their patterns of slapping and pounding, and taught us laughingly how to form a decent tortilla. Then they fixed our results, and set them to toast on one of the hot surfaces. They told us they get up each morning at 4 am to start work, and produce about 2000 hand-shaped tortillas each day. Apparently they have a contract to supply the local hospital, along with who-knows-how-many other venues. Men sat in chairs nearby, watching the activity.
I spotted some kids, middle-school age, copying Winnie the Pooh drawings from their notebook covers onto some paper, so I sat down with them and drew a few little doodles for them on my own notebook. Kids and adults were mesmerized — whether by my drawings or by the sheer weirdness of my doing such a thing — and they seemed truly pleased. They asked for other drawings, asked me to sign them and tried to pronounce my name. It was such fun, so many smiles, a moment free from language and tourism and separateness.
We trundled our tortillas back to Doña Ana´s, and hung out with her, trying to be helpful while she cooked. She wasn´t entirely thrilled by the peppers we´d brought, because she warned us they´d be too spicy, but they were OK in the end. I have the recipe, and can probably reproduce it at home, except for one particular spice called Achiote. I´m going to try to pack some achiote home in my checked luggage, along with (Hi, Winnie) cocoa beans to share. I have no idea what Miami Airport´s Homeland Security will consider to be a threat, but it´s worth a try.
After a while we sat down with Doña Ana and we all ate, while her husband and son continued with their project of making crocodile stew. Mercifully, that hadn´t cooked long enough to taste while we were there, but we did take photos of the croc´s head with the jaws propped open with a stick. After lunch, Ana´s husband took us proudly around his yard and showed us all his fruit trees — most of which have names I´ve already forgotten. He had one each of maybe a dozen kinds of trees, some with fruit nearly ripe and others dormant in this dry season.
After the amazing lunch (with some packed up in plastic bags to bring back to Bob and one other absent partner), we took another wild back-of-truck ride and ended up near our hostel. It was a warming experience in every way, one small chance to connect with people without quite as many filters in the way. Bob having completed his morning errands (laundry, bank, another pair of sandals to replace the ones he wrecked while motorcycle riding) we settled in for a lazy poolside afternoon of chatting and daydreaming. An iguana sat silhouetted on the roofline of the hostal, watching the swimmers. Ah, vacation!
Dipping below the surface…
…of the culture, that is. The toughest part about being tourists is the way in which we´re set apart. Skimming around like waterbugs on a pond, unable to dive into the whole world unfolding beneath us.
This morning, helping Doña Ana stir the pot of Indio Viejo ( a fragrant local stew which we helped prepare in her outdoor kitchen), I felt a tiny bit closer to normal life here. After visiting the intense fresh market behind the cathedral with three fellow travellers, and locating all the ingredients on our shopping list, we were herded by our local guide onto one of the trucks which serve as in-city buses. For 15 cents, you´re hustled up into the tarp-covered truck bed, where you hang onto bars for dear life as the truck whips around corners and lurches to frequent stops in order to load more people than you ever believed possible.
After six blocks´walk from the bus “remember to stay on the shady side of the street,” we sat in the shade of Doña Ana´s modest garden and caught our breath with cold beers and colas. Then we trekked off along the unpaved roads for a few more blocks to the local tortilleria. It turned out to simply be someone´s back yard, where a larger outdoor kitchen was set up. Four or five wood fires burned, heating various bubbling pots and hissing griddles. It was shadowed and smoky and so unbelievably hot that we simply stopped noticing the sweat running down our bodies.
The patient tortilla makers paused in their patterns of slapping and pounding, and taught us laughingly how to form a decent tortilla. Then they fixed our results, and set them to toast on one of the hot surfaces. They told us they get up each morning at 4 am to start work, and produce about 2000 hand-shaped tortillas each day. Apparently they have a contract to supply the local hospital, along with who-knows-how-many other venues. Men sat in chairs nearby, watching the activity.
I spotted some kids, middle-school age, copying Winnie the Pooh drawings from their notebook covers onto some paper, so I sat down with them and drew a few little doodles for them on my own notebook. Kids and adults were mesmerized — whether by my drawings or by the sheer weirdness of my doing such a thing — and they seemed truly pleased. They asked for other drawings, asked me to sign them and tried to pronounce my name. It was such fun, so many smiles, a moment free from language and tourism and separateness.
We trundled our tortillas back to Doña Ana´s, and hung out with her, trying to be helpful while she cooked. She wasn´t entirely thrilled by the peppers we´d brought, because she warned us they´d be too spicy, but they were OK in the end. I have the recipe, and can probably reproduce it at home, except for one particular spice called Achiote. I´m going to try to pack some achiote home in my checked luggage, along with (Hi, Winnie) cocoa beans to share. I have no idea what Miami Airport´s Homeland Security will consider to be a threat, but it´s worth a try.
After a while we sat down with Doña Ana and we all ate, while her husband and son continued with their project of making crocodile stew. Mercifully, that hadn´t cooked long enough to taste while we were there, but we did take photos of the croc´s head with the jaws propped open with a stick. After lunch, Ana´s husband took us proudly around his yard and showed us all his fruit trees — most of which have names I´ve already forgotten. He had one each of maybe a dozen kinds of trees, some with fruit nearly ripe and others dormant in this dry season.
After the amazing lunch (with some packed up in plastic bags to bring back to Bob and one other absent partner), we took another wild back-of-truck ride and ended up near our hostel. It was a warming experience in every way, one small chance to connect with people without quite as many filters in the way. Bob having completed his morning errands (laundry, bank, another pair of sandals to replace the ones he wrecked while motorcycle riding) we settled in for a lazy poolside afternoon of chatting and daydreaming. An iguana sat silhouetted on the roofline of the hostal, watching the swimmers. Ah, vacation!