Like a Sigh or a Whisper

Step on the first bus you see. It takes us to Monte Albán, the monumental Zapotec metropolis founded more than 2,500 years ago. Explore, scale the pyramids, see the petroglyphs and the astronomical observatory. Speak with the descendants of that ancient culture who now sell handmade replicas of artifacts from the tombs. Wind back down the mountain into the bustling disarray of worker bee traffic and get onto the next bus going who knows where. Eight pesos takes you out of the city, grinding up another mountain to the end of the line at Las Lomas de Bugambilias, Santa Rosa. “Did they get lost?” 

Wander for a while, greet the sleepy dogs who can’t be bothered to open an eye and wave back to the girl in her school uniform riding on the back of her mom’s motor scooter. The bus driver picks us up down the road and stops to point out a good picture. A scruffy dog grins as I take his photo with the valley expanding below him. 

Back at the station you pick another bus, or maybe it picks you. Off in another direction the bus stops after a time. We are the only passengers. The driver asks where we are going. “Here,” we respond before stepping onto the street. He tells us his itinerary if we want a ride back and he roars the diesel back into life. 

The shadows project diagonals and a white cross stands above Colonia Manuel Sabino Crespo. We chat with a lady and her friends at a fruit and vegetable stand. They’re selling roasted chicken next door. A room is for rent. $1200 pesos a month, about $70US. 

Down the hill we stop in to meet Jose, a blacksmith covered with tattoos and soot. I tell him how much I enjoy Oaxaca and its people. He smiles and tears fall from his dark eyes under the visor of his baseball cap. Maybe he just has some dust in his eyes. 

Jose’s friend tells us how when he was a child he’d watch ant colonies building their highways and communities and living in harmony with the world. He says people used to be like that too, but not so much anymore. We have the highways but not as much harmony. You should go meet Venado, they say. He’s 110 years old and knew people from the Revolution.

We cross the arroyo and find Venado’s house as the sun sets. An unhappy dog barks us away and backs into the front door of Venado’s sheet metal shelter. I guess when you’re 110 you sleep through anything, but at the blacksmith shop they told us Venado likes to go out to drink mezcal, so maybe he was at the cantina. 

Crossing the arroyo again and we are back on familiar ground. Calenda dancers and their band are getting ready for a party on the street. We take pictures. Oaxaca. The name like a sigh or a whisper.