Home to Betaza
Betaza means wind in Zapotec. The village was named for the wind that sweeps the sierra, hissing through the pines and coffee plants. I hear the wind in the voices of the people, in the gentle sibilated tones of their language. We went to San Sebastian de Betaza (the Christian prefix the mark of the Conquest) for the annual fiesta of its patron saint. As in other rural Mexican towns, the saint’s days are a time of homecoming. Economic necessity has spread Betaza’s inhabitants far and wide, to Oaxaca city, separated by six hours of hairpin curves, to Mexico City, and to California, where Betaza immigrants are concentrated in one barrio of Los Angeles.
Sra. Guille, (my Mexican fairy Godmother of sorts) left Betaza when she was five years old. Her mother sent her to live with an aunt in Oaxaca so that she could go to school and be spared her stepfather’s beatings. But like most city residents she’s retained strong ties with her ancestral home. When she goes to fiesta in Oaxaca she proudly dons the traditional dress of Betaza, alongside ladies sporting costumes from the state’s six other regions, part of the cultural medley that makes the capital city unique. On special occasions, like weddings, funerals and fiestas, she returns, bearing gifts and gossip for her numerous relatives.
For years I’ve begged her to take me with her; Betaza achieved mythic status in my imagination, a land where the fiestas go on for days and clear water of the mountain streams produces miracle cures. But until now I never managed to make the trip. Something always interfered, teaching commitments, weather, or fate. Once we cancelled our plans at the last minute because Guille had to attend a meeting. The day we would have returned, a bus overturned in the region, killing six people.
The coincidence left Guille unimpressed. “Cuando te toca te toca,” she said. “When it’s your turn it’s your turn.”
I thought we were good to go this time when a chance confusion almost ended our journey before we even left the parking lot of the second-class bus terminal in Oaxaca. We were among the first to board the bus, a typical third world rattletrap with bales of flowers, bread and other random merchandise strapped to roof (but surprisingly no chickens) and a sequined image of the Virgin of Guadalupe plastered to the ceiling above the gearshift. It amused me that Guille and her sister Juana adhered strictly to the seat assignments printed on the tickets. We had not been long installed in seats 14, 15 and 16 when three other passengers appeared with the same seat numbers on their tickets. They went back inside the terminal to check on the situation; upon returning they suggested we do likewise. I started to rise from my seat but Guille snapped:
“Don’t get up, we bought these tickets yesterday and we’re staying right here.” Finally a company employee came out. After examining our tickets he pointed out that the departure time was stamped with yesterday’s date: our bus had departed 24 hours earlier.
Guille did not stir from her seat. “It’s not our fault. I told the kid we wanted to leave today.”
“I’m sorry Doña, but you should have paid more attention.”
“But I can’t read!” cried Juana. The entire bus was in an uproar, Guille shouting and the other passengers echoing her. “Thieves! Taking advantage of folks who can’t read.”
Finally, they decided not to kick us off the bus, but to charge us for new tickets, with the current date. This seemed to me perfectly ridiculous, as there were plenty of empty seats. I expected Guille to march off the bus in high dudgeon, but she relented with regal dignity. “The Lord does things for a reason,” she said as she gave up seat number 14 and walked down the aisle to the unspoken for number 22.
The bus’s rocking suspension put me to sleep and when I woke up we were in a storybook forest of tall pines dripping with moss and mistletoe. I drifted off again and opened my eyes to a gentle, pleasant sense of de ja vu. I recognized the landscape of vertical mountains and horizontal clouds, but in a disassociated way, as if from a dream, photograph or the upside-down view from the airplane coming in to Oaxaca.
When we arrived at Guille's cousin's house in Betaza, she informed us that we'd missed the calenda, the ceremonial procession that opens all fiestas, which had taken place the night before.
"You see," Guille said. "God does do things for a reason. We were meant to arrive yesterday, like it said on our tickets."
Guille's cousin Lorena, 27, lives in a lovely adobe house with blue trim. The adobe in Betaza is a orangish gold instead of the muddy brown found in Oaxaca. The house should have million dollar mountain vista, but oddly there are no windows on that side of the house, perhaps to keep out the cold wind.
High school students perform the famous Jarabe de Betaza. While the traditional white dresses appear simple from afar they are actually are pleasted for form a complex diamond design. An original, handmade Betaza dress costs one thousand pesos and up.
Coffee on the vine.
"Downtown" Betaza
Morning in Betaza after a night of dancing and the wee hours in the community kitchen preparing breakfast for the revelers.
