"Aquí aquí aquí Toledo," Andador Turistico for Toledo's 70th Birthday, Oaxaca, July 2010.
It's been less than a week since we've been back in town after almost a month long absence. We left at the height of increasingly ugly political campaigns, a week or so before elections for governor here in Oaxaca. World Cup fever was at its height and we had just recently arrived from a trip down south to Chiapas to get the car legalized (long story I'll come back to in another entry). To be completely honest, in some ways leaving was a relief. Sure I looked forward to a month of fubol hibernation and was beginning to psych myself out into enjoying the rain, but I had also grown increasingly homesick (if that is even possible given my tendency to imagine and construct a place called home that in real life does not quite measure up to my expectations).
I had traveled to the Mexican state of Sonora to the border town of Nogales on several occasions in the past. My grandfather, Sam who lives just a few miles from the Sonora border in the Arizona desert, has always been proud of his Mexican heritage and traveling to the border when one of his daughters or his grandkids visit is somehow often on his agenda. Mauricio had often spoken of Sonora when talking about his father since Don Rafael was born there in the coastal town of Guaymas and had lived between Sonora and Minnesota for what seemed at least ten years. The day we left Oaxaca, we literally packed up a few things, picked up and left behind our home, pet's and all other commitments. Mauricio's father was in the hospital and for the next three weeks we would be bouncing around in the desert, from hotel to hotel, from Hermosillo to Arizona to Hermosillo to Guaymas to Arizona.
I must admit that during the time we were gone Oaxaca almost became a distant memory, a mirage in the desert that at times seemed like another lifetime... and yet not. It was strange to walk the three blocks between our hotel and the hospital, (ironically both located on Avenida Oaxaca), or go through our daily meal routines in Hermosillo and think we were still in the same country. The few times we ventured out or talked to people seemed to confirm the schism we felt within. It was as if we were listening to a record and the needle came to a halting scratch from which it could not recover.
Everything from the language, the food, the car culture streets, the architecture, the land's topography, and even people's mannerisms felt familiar to us yet so foreign to life back in Oaxaca. The hairdryer heat, the Oh too sweet! coyotas and Oh so salty! machaca, no wonder grandpa insists on the 'ton of sugar, ton of salt' balanced meal. The shhhhshing of CHs in words, the unbelievable sunrises and sunsets where the desert meets the sea. The Sonoran affinity for pipping hot menudo or pozole on equally boiling days, their almost all meat diet. Oh and what a delicious diet it is... Hand's down the best meat tacos and tortillas de harina I have ever had. The fast and helpful service, an absolute contrast to the often war one has to wage to buy even the most banal of things in a mercado in Oaxaca or to get served at a restaurant. Yes it almost felt surreal to get our food and check without hounding someone. That's right there was no 1 hour for ordering, 1 hour for food to arrive, and NO1 HOUR WAIT TO GET THE CHECK! phew!
Don't get me wrong I am happy to be back home in Oaxaca, but the time we spent outside also put a lot of things into much needed perspective and made me pick up once again those questions I've had regarding the North South, South North. The month long bouncing from place to place with Mauricio, Setty, Adrian, and M2 felt right. The outpouring of love, the caring, the laughter, the mourning together as some sort of modern-day nomad tribe was a beautiful experience that I for one feel so grateful to have been allowed to be part of. Not to mention that the drives to Arizona and the time I was able to spend with my grandfather and and uncle were priceless.
As much as I love, respect, and am grateful for my life here in Oaxaca, the last month has also helped me reflect on the horse-blinder-effect that acute regionalism can cause. This is in no way a unique phenomenon to Oaxaca, but this is where I live and have daily interactions and so where I stand and from where I can hope to learn and grow.
