Rachel and Eric on wed 29 oct 97
Deep in the solidly Zapotec east valley of Oaxaca, far removed from the
last trace of asphalt, is the third* and final of the valley pottery
villages. In this valley is San Marcos Tlapazola, virtually unknown even to
the Oaxacans themselves, and non-existent to the passing tourist. It exists
hidden in time, beyond the vision of the city, holding on shakily into the
21st century. The Spaniards with their kilns and glazes never came to this
village, nor have the tourists with their fancy whims. San Marcos pottery
has stayed true to its origins and calling, simply functional, simply
graceful. Hold water, cook beans. To its purpose, it is perfection.
I first learned of San Marcos 8 years ago through a Coyotepec potter. He
pointed me in the right direction and I found it from there. I started by
going to the Sunday market in Tlacolula which serves as a hub to all the
Zapotec villages in the east valley. I wandered the market until I met an
old man, Francisco Cruz, selling a dozen smooth red pots. It was San Marcos
pottery and I began to talk with him, swapping Los United States stories for
San Marcos pottery stories. I was hoping to somehow get invited out to the
village. Showing up in an off the beaten track village as a total stranger
can be awkward and uncomfortable. Showing up as someone's guest gives you a
face, and people have a better idea what to make of you. Throw in a common
interest in pottery and you'll be lucky to get out of the village in a week,
and by then you'll be 20 pounds heavier, somebodies god parent and committed
to marriage. In Oaxaca, getting such an invitation requires very little
doing, folks are wonderfully generous and hospitable. After five minutes of
tale swapping with Francisco, I was invited to visit his family in San
Marcos. "Will I be able to meet potters?" I asked him. "My wife, my four
daughters, my mother and aunts and sisters in-law, my cousins and neighbors,
they are all potters..."
I went out the following Wednesday. Blessed be Mexico, for there is public
transportation going EVERYWHERE. San Marcos is no exception, but that
doesn't mean it's easy. The bus out to Tlacolula was no problem. From there
the San Marcos "bus" departs "every hour or so, with any luck," I was told.
And so it was. I spent a long while following the progress of the shadows as
they eased across the street.
The "bus" did finally come. It turned out to be a Nissan pickup truck with
tall wood sides built onto the back with a couple of benches. There was a
tarp rolled to one side to pull over in case of rain. I climbed into the
back with a few men and a group of round women in bright blouses gathered
with red sashes and two wide, colorful ribbons braided into their long dark
hair. They all eye balled me and passed around some giggling comments,
mysterious gringo jokes, in a language unknown to me, but surely Zapotec..
We got going and they became distracted in hanging on and keeping their
tomatoes in their baskets. I pulled my hat down tighter against the wind and
got busy watching the world go by.
The ride out to San Marcos seemed to me like a National Geographic show.
The truck, with all of us sticking out the back, followed a dirt road
climbing the easy rise along the foot of a steep and jutting, pointy, green
mountain. We wound past field after field rowed with enormous bluegreen
agave cactus and lines of bright young corn. These were all vividly set off
against deep red soil freshly tilled by teams of muscled oxen, prodded on by
dark men in white hats. To the left we suddenly passed a large wooden cart
pulled by two oxen and loaded with a half dozen red ribboned and white
hatted country folk, slowly, surely, peacefully getting to wherever they
were going. The rickety Nissan seemed a rocket ship as we dusted by. To the
right, lost in an overgrown field, rose the melting ruins of a fallen
hacienda. With its collapsed arches and dark windows it seemed to still have
the air of the revolution around it. And ahead, on the base of that jutting
mountain lay three villages, each a gathering of trees and jumbled roofs
with a pair of whitewashed stone steeples rising from the old colonial
churches in the town's center.
Two more turns, a dip through a dry arroyo and we climbed into the middle
village, San Marcos Tlapazola. From my vantage in the back of the truck I
could peer over the red brick house walls into the courtyards. There I saw
oxen and goats, palmagranites and squash, red ribbons, white hats, and
everywhere, pots. Smooth, red, round pots. My eyes watered at the sight.
Ok, enough for one night. Part two comming soon to a listserv near you.
*see "The 1st trip to Atzompa" and "Coyoteville" in the archives if you
missed the first two valley villages.
Eric Mindling & Rachel Werling
Manos de Oaxaca
AP 1452
Oaxaca, Oax.
CP 68000
M E X I C O
http://www.foothill.net/~mindling/
telefax (951) 3-6776
email: rayeric@antequera.com
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