Diary of a Reluctant Güera_archives

Victor and Bety's wedding was a typical Mexican affair with good food and bad music. I hadn't been sure what to expect, since Victor and Bety are two of the shyest, most modest people I know. But their families made sure there wedding lived up to local standards of loudness and tackiness, even though it kept the bride and groom blushing the entire night.

The "reception" was held in the patio of the Marquez family compound, also the home of the Marquez family auto body shop. The cars on blocks had been removed for the occaison, but the bikini calenders remained.

The happy couple and their parents passed out bottles of Corona and Coca-Cola, and styrofoam plates of food. I winced everytime Bety floated by in her white wedding gown, vail and all, balancing a tray of mole negro.

After dinner family and friends practically bullied the bride and groom into playing the traditional wedding games. They were made to stand on chairs in the middle of the dance floor, Vic holding out Bety's vail so a congo line of guests could shimmy underneath. Every time the congo line passed, the guests thrust their shoulders into Vic, trying to dethrone him. Eventually, they succeeded, and Vic soared threw the air as if he'd been thrown from a horse, landing in the dusty driveway. Fortunately, he sustained no major injuries and had let go of Bety's vail in time to prevent hers tumbling after him.

But the highlight of the night was Vic's grandmother, who'd had a little too much mescal. She managed to execute a series of sexy moves on the dance floor before she lost her balance and fell headlong into a row of folding chairs.

Posted by Anna at 04:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (96)

One year ago I wrote the following description of Oaxaca’s Zócalo for a travel article:

“Sitting in Oaxaca’s historic town square, or zócalo, where time barely seems to penetrate the leafy canopy, it’s easy to fall under the spell of a Mexico that is every day more elusive. Without stirring from your bench, you experience the most irresistible of Oaxaca’s attractions, the coexistence of ancient traditions with the modern world. In the zócalo young professionals with suits and cell phones walk side by side with women in traditional dress who balance baskets of wares on their heads. Tourists of every nationality while away the hours at street-side cafés, sipping mugs of frothy hot chocolate made from an ancient indigenous recipe. Eager venders work the tables, offering everything from one hundred dollar woven rugs to carved toothpicks for a peso.”

Things look different these days. The tourists have been replaced with federal police officers. Police on the benches and in the cafes, talking on cell phones and snuggling with their new Oaxacan girlfriends – who all appear under 20 - La Malinches in too tight jeans. Police bargaining with indigenous women for woven shawls and black pottery (souvenirs of the occupation) and in the electronics store watching the soap operas. Police sprawled in hammocks strung between the tires of military transports, listening to hand held radios, like the APPOs always did. Police eating shaved ices and reading novels – from Garcia Marquez to Dan Brown - the covers propped against their riot shields as they guard the perimeter of the plaza.

Every evening there is a concert. On the bandstand, where the APPO leaders used to shout slogans, the musicians dutifully perform Oaxacan classics - the Dance of the Mixes, God Never Dies - for the an audience almost entirely composed of the invading force. The officers sit quietly, chins propped on their hands, watching the civilians passing on their way home.

Posted by Anna at 11:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (15)