Things I Wish I had Time to Write About

Still without regular child care for all 3 children at once, I am living for August 24th when school begins. Since I am completely exhausted by the end of each day, I am constantly thinking about topics I'd like to explain, and explore, and wondering which ones I will still remember in September. Here are just a few:

1) Each child's unique responses to Oaxaca and to learning a new language and culture. Harper's fierce opposition--in principle though thankfully not in practice-- to studying culture and history when, "you just said we had to learn Spanish, Mom." Amelia's total regression on potty training--thankfully just pee--and my dramatic daily battles to get her to sit/squat/crouch on whatever form of toilet may be at hand. Crispin's deep absorption in the back strap loom weaving class offered at the language school; and the rest of the time, his utter disappearance in to Harry Potter volumes 4 and 5--only natural for a 9 year old, or a symptom of culture shock we should be carefully monitoring?

2) Hazards and joys of learning a new language. Thinking Marx needed no proof stronger than the primary phrases mastered by every novice language learner: "I have." "I want." "Where can I get...?" Art really did order dessert for himself and the kids recently, "with 4 butcher knives please."

3) Our weekend visit to Apoala, a remote valley community in "the Mixteca", a region named for its language and people, whose founders appear in the Nuttall Codex, one of the very few indigenous, painted leather books that escaped destruction by the Spanish. Realizing how tempting it is to refer, as most of the history books do, to "the Spanish," as opposed to "the Europeans," which while being less precisely accurate would of course encapsulate the even greater sweep of intercontinental history and cultural genocide. The wonder and excitement of a family from Mexico city, staying in the same set of "ecoturistica" cabins near us, gathered for a grandfather's 80th birthday in the tiny country pueblo where he was raised. One middle aged patriarch in particular took us under his wing, all of us mangling both Engish and Spanish in order for him to explain their (1,000 year old, or more) family roots and ties to this particular swath of land. While showing us images of the local waterfall painted in the 500 year old Codex, he and his wife warmly pointed out that Celia Nuttall, the early 20th century Harvard translator, was an American...

4) And then, our visit to Apoala itself! 11 year old guide, Roberto, took us on a dusty, hardscrabble hike to the gorgeous "La Cascada del Serpiente"--i.e. waterfall of the snake--with its 3 different "cola"s, or narrow, plunging cascades of white foam into brilliant turquoise pools. In 75+ degree weather, Roberto hiked in heavy jeans, a t-shirt, and a thick sweatshirt hoodie zipped up to his neck. Later he took the boys and me to caverns full of stalagtites, in total darkness except for our meager flashlights. I smacked my forehead--HARD--(11-year-old-cave-guides-be-damned) on a low hanging wall, but it was worth it to hear Harper and Crispin's excitement when, at the rearmost point of the cave, we lifted our own flashlights by chance to the ceiling and encountered dark, furry clusters of bats, snuggling together for warmth. Later spent some time reflecting on the meaning of Roberto's--and nearly every other male under the age of 30--deliberate, gel-supported upsweep of hair at his forehead. Two year old locks are carefully pushed into spiky feathers and encouraged periodically by the fingers of mamas, papas, grandparents, brothers and sisters. It surely represents maleness...if I had more time I would find and post some pictures.

5) More on our weekend trip: making some attempt to describe the amazing landscape, utterly different from my previous encounters with mountain flora and (farmyard) fauna; sort of a cross between a N. GA farmyard and a 19th century tropical greenhouse and the California desert. Just bizarre and wonderful. Legends of "the eagle with two heads" which was supposedly shot by a local hunter hundreds of years ago and memorialized in sculpture and murals ever since. Our Sunday morning visit to the local market in regional capital Nochixtlan (roughly pronounced No-cheesht-lahn; try that even 2 times fast!) where everything from Dolce & Gabbano knockoffs to queso preserved in banana leaves was for sale. High points included a lunch of blue corn tortillas, stuffed with beans, cactus, onion, cilantro, salty local cheese, and thin-sliced beef, HOT off the comal in a tiny tented booth. I requested addition of a few of the brilliant yellow squash blossoms but was informed (I think), "no, they don't go with that." Ancient Indian ladies passing by with an armful of hierbabuena or roses or fried spiced grasshoppers for sale. The fact that none of these terms; "ancient," "Indian," OR "ladies"; are terms I would typically use to describe other people, certainly not with respect, and yet as I watch their tiny hunched backs, gnarled hands, salt-and-pepper braids knotted with brilliantly colored ribbon at the small of their backs; this is somehow the only term that seems to convey their impoverished, dignified presence.

6) Counting, as our friend Alvin from Canada has taught us to do, the number of human beings that can fit on one motorcycle. He's seen 5, but our family spotting record is 4; a father with the toddler in front and 2 elementary-age kids behind him. Need it be said that none were wearing helmets? I pointed out 3 people on a "moto" the other day and the kids declared I was wrong, until I helped them to see the tiny red crocs dangling between a mother and father's paired legs. The pink backpack looped to the mom's purse helped me make my case.

7) Food in general, from the fact that I cannot find shredded mini wheats to save my life, but Coke Zero is widely available; to the delicious sabor resulting from the addition of sweet corn to a Hawaiian pizza. Popsicles come in guava, cactus fruit, tequila/lime, and mango/chili flavors, among others. Tejate is a local drink whose appearance some expatriates compare to dirty laundry water, but it tastes like the mild roasted corn and cocoa that ancient Zapotec legends are made of. There is a Sam's Club--did I already mention this?--where I've begun to find, ironically, some local ingredients that don't seem to be easy to find at the markets. This week I found huitlacoche, "corn mushrooms" also referred to, depending on the quality of the restaurant's menu translation, as "corn truffles" or "corn smut." It is literally a breed of corn that is overtaken by fungus during the rainy season, and very rarely I've been thrilled to find these mushrooms at Pura Vida or another good Latin restaurant in Atlanta. I expected to consume them ravenously most of this summer, but could not lay my hands on any. Oaxacan advisors all assured me that it simply hadn't been raining enough; now I discover that Sam's Club has been cornering the market! More on my home huitlacoche experiments to come. Sauteed on quesadillas first, then a corn mushroom soup...

8) Things I love about my husband: his ability to work like a demon, whether billing hours, doing laundry, or washing the dishes that are continually piling up in our dishwasher-free kitchen. The fact that he now folds laundry on long conference calls. His immediate affection for our NEW PUPPY despite first making every effort to remind me of our decision to remain dog-free for a year. Things about my husband that occasionally frustrate me: his absolute commitment to getting work done that means he is still shut up in our home office more hours than would be ideal for either his language aquisition or my need for a break from the kids, his willingness to wear--and have his family wear--clothes covered in lint (due to our dryer-free laundry room), and his occasional inattention to detail that can leave a stack of freshly washed dishes covered in tiny scraps of green basil from the most recent pesto meal. Isn't it usually our finest qualities that have a challenging flip side? To my chagrin Art was also insightful and pointed in responding to a guilty moan from me, reluctant to leave Amelia with a non-English-speaking babysitter; "don't you think Amelia could use a break from YOU, too?"

9) The DRAG of exercising without boot camp compatriates! Early forays in running were not particularly fruitful; the high altitude has meant a chest-thudding heart rate and that constant feeling that your breath will NEVER catch up with your need for oxygen. And we live in the mountains, so the routes inevitably include a too-easy downhill followed by steep, painful climb. I'd cut my distances way back, but managed to run every step of 3 miles on Sunday, so for all the Oaxacan chocolate con agua that I've been drinking, there's hope I can burn some of it off. Interestingly, it's very young and elderly adults who work out here, in general. I'm figuring all the others in mid-life either get plenty of exercise at work--many hard labor jobs--or are too busy chasing small children.

New puppy is trying to eat the cords on Art's work computer, so I must sign off now. Don't forget to call!