Rachel and Eric on wed 5 nov 97
Part II (being the continuation of part one in which I describe finding my
way to a small village of potters called San Marcos Tlapazola in the valley
of Oaxaca, Mexico. Having arrived, I search out Francisco Cruz who has so
kindly invited me to visit)
The truck came to a stop in the middle of the little village, everyone
piled out and gave the driver a peso. So did I. Then I looked around to get
my bearings. Francisco had told me that I would find him at #12 Juarez
street. There was not a street sign to be found so I asked the person
nearest at hand where #12 Juarez was. She didn't know, and asked another
person if he knew where #12 Juarez was. He didn't know either and asked the
truck driver who said it was here in town without specifying exactly where.
"How about where Francisco Cruz lives?" I asked. The first woman replied,
"Ah, he's my uncle," and she showed me the way to Francisco's house.
Francisco was glad to see me and invited me in. He said that nobody was
working on pottery at the house today because they were fixing the roof, but
that he would send me over to his brother-in-laws where there was plenty of
potting going on. "But first, amigo, you are just in time, sit and eat." He
ushered me to a long table with a dozen dusty, weathered men in white hats
sitting along it. They were the workers who where fixing the roof. It is
the employers obligation to feed his workers three meals a day while they're
working. These men probably weren't hired help, but friends and family,
taking part in the shared labor system used in the villages called tequio.
Work for me today, I'll work for you tomorrow. I sat amongst them and out
came the food. A woman brought us each a large bowl of soup and set several
tall stacks of enormous corn tortillas along the length of the table. The
soup looked good, and I sat there grinning, waiting for my spoon, ready to
dig in. I sat there a while longer before I realized that everyone around me
was eating and they didn't have spoons. They were taking those big
tortillas, tearing off little pieces and using that as a spoon. With each
bite of soup, down went a bite of tortilla. Curious, hungry and having no
other option, I reached for a tortilla and gave it a try.
Except for what I sloped onto the table and floor, over my hands and down
my shirt, I got all the soup into my belly. When I got to the bottom of the
bowl, somewhat frustrated with my efforts, I picked up the bowl and drank
down the dregs. This seemed quite acceptable, for everyone else did the same.
So it was that I had my first truly Oaxacan meal, and in spite of my clumsy
eating skills, I still managed to chat some with Francisco. As it was so
long ago I've forgotten what we talked about, except for one thing. I asked
him if many tourists came out to San Marcos. "Yes," he said, which surprised
and disappointed me. For my efforts to get here, I thought and hoped that I
was far of the gringo trail. He then elaborated on his answer. "In 1989
there was a woman named Maria from New York who came here to study our
language. In 1990, I think it was, a man named Steven was here for two
months working in the fields with Luis's family, that same year a woman
from..." He described to me all seven foreigners that had been there in the
last five years. I guess "many" is relative.
After lunch he took me to his brother-in-laws, Miguel Mateo Cruz, and
handed me off. Old and blind, wearing crooked Blues Brother sunglasses,
Miguel motioned me to a seat and asked me many questions. Where was I from?
What did I do? How did I like Oaxaca? I told him I was a potter and
interested in learning about the pottery of San Marcos. "Ah-ha, come with
me, meet my wife and daughters." He took me to an adobe room where three
women were working. A chair appeared for me and I took a seat and beheld.
The room was cool and humid, too dark in the corners to see what was there.
The three women were working kneeling on straw mats on an earthen floor. The
only light was the soft light coming in off the courtyard through the open
doorway. An occasional turkey or chicken had to be shooed out lest they tip
a fresh pot. The women spoke amongst each other in Zapotec, going on about
this and that. All the while their hands worked away creating pots from
lumps of clay.
I had not long since learned to throw pots on a wheel. Truly an amazing
skill to achieve and behold. But seeing these women create their pots, using
a corn cob and a piece of gourd, with the nearest wheel being out in the
courtyard very firmly attached to a wagon, to see this was beyond my visual
comprehension. Watching them work away with such practiced skill and
realizing that what I was watching wouldn't have looked much different had I
been here 2,000 years ago, gave me a rush like a fast roller coaster ride. I
held firmly to my seat as they worked.
The pot is begun as a cone made up of perhaps two pounds of clay. The
potter punches her fist in to the wide end of the cone to begin a hollow.
She then places the point of the cone into a palm sized divot in the floor.
But first she places a sherd of pottery or a piece of plastic between the
floor and the point of the cone to act as a sort of bearing .It is on this
point, nestled in the ground, that the pot rotates as it is being made. This
is the San Marcos wheel.
With the cone standing point down, hollow up, the potter goes to work. With
one hand inside the hollow she begins to rotate the cone. With the other
hand, holding a corn cob and dexterously using it like a one handed rolling
pen on the outside of the pot, she begins to pull the pot up. The pressure
between the corn cob rolling pin and the hand inside the pot squeezes the
clay upwards. All the while she keeps the pot rotating. Quickly a cylinder
is formed. Then the curved piece of gourd comes out. This is not unlike the
tools we used up in the ceramics studio back home, except that this tool
came from the field at the edge of town as opposed to the art supply store
down the block. The gourd piece is used inside the cylinder to push out the
belly. The hands switch roles and the outside hand now keeps the pot
rotating, the inside one working the gourd. Rolls of clay are then smeared
on the inside of the pot where the potter finds it to be thin. Finally a
neck and mouth are put on using a roll of clay and a strip of leather for
shaping. The pot is set aside to dry and the next one is launched into.
At the rate which these pots are made, perhaps 100 could be made in a day
of straight potting. I suspect that a potter never makes more than twenty or
so, though. There are plenty of other things that need to be done in a day
besides making pots. Children to look after, tortillas to make, wood to
gather, animals to be tended to, gossip to be shared and created. And what's
the hurry anyway? If you've got a few thousand years of potting experience
behind you, you've long since gotten over the need to be in any hurry. The
pots will get made.
Pots formed Monday are scraped and tuned on Tuesday. The point of the cone
is still poking out of the base of the pot like a protruding belly button.
This and the pot bottom fat are cleaned away until the pot has a uniform
thickness.
Wednesday the pots are washed with a deep red clay slip. A quartz stone is
brought out and the entire pot is burnished smooth. The most meticulous
potters will double or triple burnish their pots creating a smooth warm sheen.
Thursday the pots are left alone to finish drying and Friday, after
spending the morning sunning themselves and warming up in the courtyard, the
pots are piled together on the ground and covered over with large shards
from broken pots. This mound is then methodically covered with firewood,
some dry weeds are pushed in one side, coals from the kitchen dropped on
them, and the fire begins to build.
It is a quick fire.The potters watch over it to make sure the wood stays
were it is needed and add wood to cool spots. They watch the smoke and the
color of the pots through gaps in the heap. If it looks like more heat is
needed, more wood is put on the mound. Generally, little wood is added after
the fire is going. The mound builds into a hot bonfire, then calms and
burns down. Perhaps 45 minutes in all and the pots are done. They are pulled
from the embers and let to cool. Then they are dusted, tied into a bundle
and all set to go to Sunday market.
Which is just where this story began, and right where it will end. I bade
my farewell to the good potters and they sent me off with a stack of big
tortillas for my journey home and invitations to come back and visit.
And that I have done.
Eric Mindling
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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