Rachel and Eric on mon 1 sep 97
The rain came back this afternoon. Out of the east, a dark sky full
of water. The shepherds on the hill hid under their little squares of
plastic or took shelter on the lee side of large cattle. The drops turned to
vapor as they hit the hot dry earth, dissapeared into the crisp brown leaves
of the field corn. It has been fourty nine days since the last drop of water
fell from the sky into this valley.
The Oaxacans, corn farmers, subsitence farmers, people who eat no
meal that is not centered around corn, who's dreams are permeated with corn,
planted their corn in late May, as they do every year, with the onset of the
summer rains. In July, corn waist high and ready to flower, the last drop
fell that would fall for six weeks. For the couple weeks or of this
unwelcome blue sky, thirsty eyes read the horizon, there still being hope
that the heavans would return with their generosity. After that, with the
healthy green leaves fading and curling in, the tips yellowing, the dust
swirling in the afternoon wind, there was no longer need to watch the skies.
The harvest was lost. The stalks would be salvaged for feed, and maybe a
planting of late season pinto or garbanzo would help hold things together
through the long dry season.
The potters, like everyone living under the whims of nature, watch
the sky like hawks trying to read it's mood, predict it's will. A rain
mid-firing can mean the loss of a week's work. Generally the potters here
close shop during the rainy season and go to work in the fields. Wet soil,
wet wood, mist, vapor, tremendous afternoon thunder showers take too heavy a
toll on the fragile pots to make potting worthwhile. Clay and pots from
October to May. Mud and corn the rest of the year.
Inspite of their hawk eyes, I bet this afternoon's shower caught
them unawares. And I bet they didn't mind a bit, for potters are farmers
too, and this rain, which is continuing into the night, gives the vital hope
that a harvest of some sort can still be made this year.
A few Augusts back I was out in San Marcos, an ancient village of
valley Zapotec potters who make smooth and round, burnished, red pots and
the essential comal, upon which tortillas are cooked. I was buying pots to
fill a truck with old Catalina and her clan. Daughters and Daughters in law,
sisters and cousins and nephews. There were perhaps a dozen women gathered
in Catalina's yard, together with the goats and turkies and pigs and one
tall gringo. As it usually is when I go to buy pots, after the haggling is
done, there is chatting, laughter and story telling. That afternoon I was
entertaining the group with hopped-up tales of my follies that rainy season,
of getting stuck on muddy roads, being chased by oncoming showers or caught
in the open and soaked through.
As we were working the clouds were rapidly building along the ridges
above. Worried that I was again going to get hit by a big shower and that
all the pots and packing cardboard would get wet, I summed up my story
telling with a bold, foolish statement. "Damned rain!".
There was a sudden silence among the women, an enourmous still and
almost silent utterences of "madre mia!", "ai, senor!" and some bit of
Zapotec that I couldn't understand. And just as quickly, recovery. The chit
chatting resumed as if nothing had ever been said, for the Oaxacans are
nothing if not hospitible and accomodating. But old Catalina, with her
broken spanish, the matriarch of this clan, said to me very seriouly, "rain
makes the corn grow. Rain is a blessing from Nuestro Senor".
Of course I was immediatly aware of the depth of my verbal blunder,
even as the words left my mouth. But the words left. How could I explain to
Catalina that where I come from it never rains in the clean, wide,
flourescent rows of the fields where I take harvest. Not only that, but it
doesn't matter if it's June or January, there are always green veggies and
red apples.
I only have it by theory that rain and food are united. I have not
lived with the need to watch the skies every day for sign of water. I have
not had to follow the rythyms of the seasons nor worry the hot blue sky. I
have never lived the glory of the feasting at harvest, the juicy sweetness
of fruit that you can only get and eat during four weeks of the year, the
good pleasure of eating your own hard earned reward.
Or at least I hadn't, but I'm not in Oaxaca for the good weather,
though God knows I watch these days. It tells me things about the lives of
my friends, these farmers and potters. I'm here because these potters and
farmers know a whole lot about things of which I know squat. I'm listening,
I'm learning.
And it's ok, they know we gringos have our tricks, but in general are
fairly foolish. Such an understanding helps me enourmously amongst these
good people.
With mud in my sandles, and the occasional foot in my
mouth Eric
P.S. see real pictures of Oaxacan Pottery, read more tales, check out the
shiny web page at http://www.foothill.net/~mindling/
Eric Mindling & Rachel Werling
Manos de Oaxaca
Apartado Postal 1452
Oaxaca, Oaxaca
CP 68000
Mexico
tel/fax (951) 3-6776
email: rayeric@antequera.com
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