I
Sam and I headed out of Oaxaca onto the narrow country road winding toward the Pacific. We cruised my 1969 VW pop-top camper as though chugging an old Chris Craft along the sloughs of some sleepy delta. The ride felt thick and smooth—I had installed air shocks in place of the regular stiff factory stock.
Sam and I headed out of Oaxaca onto the narrow country road winding toward the Pacific. We cruised my 1969 VW pop-top camper as though chugging an old Chris Craft along the sloughs of some sleepy delta. The ride felt thick and smooth—I had installed air shocks in place of the regular stiff factory stock.
Villages with tongue twisting names peeked from under profusions of blooming vines. Churches, soccer fields, and markets overflowing with fresh vegetables and fruits, dark skinned families carrying pottery and crafts, and plots of marigolds pungent-ripe with golden flowers drifted by our open windows. The countryside smelled of fresh tortillas, burning chilies, chickens, goats, and the ubiquitous corn. As we ascended the foothills, the terraces of maize stretched into the clouds that hung around the high peaks above us like wooly ruffs.
Sam drove; I popped some old Moody Blues into the tape deck and cranked it up, making it impossible to talk and leaving me plenty of time to savor the shifting view of Mexico. I settled into my wide, red leather seat that some previous owner had pulled out of a Cadillac and installed into the VW.
I could feel Sam rankle, and I didn’t care. We drove in silence. I was still pissed-off that he’d followed me to Oaxaca—even though he had brought me a suitcase of clothes to replace my entire wardrobe stolen from the bus on my first night in town. It was bad enough that he’d signed up for the same session at my language school, but he finagled lodging with my hosts. Worse, we’d shared a room for three weeks and I’d settled right in to the old relationship. I hated that it was so familiar, so easy, but mostly I was disgusted with myself.
***
When Sam cleared customs at the Mexico City airport, lugging the promised suitcase along with his own bulging duffle, I had already fallen into the easy groove of Spanish classes, cooking, and lively cultural exchanges at Instituto Cutural Oaxaca and was comfortably settled at the Maldonaldo’s home with Parsley, my 12 year old German Sheppard.
When Sam cleared customs at the Mexico City airport, lugging the promised suitcase along with his own bulging duffle, I had already fallen into the easy groove of Spanish classes, cooking, and lively cultural exchanges at Instituto Cutural Oaxaca and was comfortably settled at the Maldonaldo’s home with Parsley, my 12 year old German Sheppard.
The drive between Mexico City and Oaxaca took about twelve hours in the old bus, and we planned to drive all night; I didn’t want to miss any lessons. Sam, Parsley, and I had travelled by car plenty over our eight years together, through the Pacific Northwest, several trips down the Baja Peninsula—once pulling a 23’ sailboat on a trailer, up the Australian eastern seaboard—Brisbane to Cairns, and a month in Mexico and Belize. We had it down, the rhythm of the road. Drive and ride, drive and sleep, pit-stop, walk the dog, eat, change drivers.
“I’ll drive first,” I offered. “I can get us out of the city and onto 190 through Cuautla by dark. Then you drive.” It was six p.m. I had left Oaxaca at five that morning and was exhausted.
I drove; Sam slept. West of Cuautla the sun disappeared behind the distant dead volcanoes, their peaks worn to two-dimensional flatness against the yellowy haze, cooling to ash with the twilight. I’d crossed this prehistoric valley, with its moonscape of cones jutting here and there from the vast expanse of empty grassland earlier in the day and experienced the strangest sense of déjà vu.
I knew this place. I had planted corn kernels in the rocky, fertile soil. See my brown stick-like legs, my dusty feet bound to leather soles by strips of tanned hide, jutting from the thread-bare hem of my rough jute-colored tunic. See my pointed stick plunge into the ground. See my calloused, rough-working hand dip into the cloth bag, drop the seed into the hole. Look about, see the others, dark-skinned against their light tunics, ragged black hair flowing forward across bent shoulders—dig, reach, drop, dig, reach, drop against the backdrop of smoking cones.
This is why I’d come to Mexico. To uncover my ancient roots, my heritage of past lives. And I was going to write about it. I’d been in-country for over two months and so far, this valley held the strongest pull, the sharpest vision. I thrilled to my discovery.
“Ann, I can’t live without you.”
I flinched, startled back from my past-life musings. “You got divorced?”
“I will. I need you, please give me the excuse,” he mumbled, his hang-dog body language barking “loser.”
Nettled, “Get over it, Sam. Don’t bring me into it—if you don’t love your wife and don’t want to be married to her—get a divorce.”
I dumped Sam two years before when he ran off to Belize to chase drug smugglers, and I didn’t need him following me around Mexico, spoiling my big adventure. But I was the one who called for help after the robbery and here we were, travelling together toward Oaxaca and three weeks of language school.
***
I returned my attention to the ribbon of tar, at times barely a car width that wound higher into the mountains. The afternoon air became crisp and fresh. Familiar smells of mountain and wood smoke swirled through our open windows. In places the mist hung heavy in the pines. Adobe huts gave way to wooden cottages that were scattered further and further from their neighbors. The spectacular scenery unfolded as we rounded each bend. Fresh water streams proliferated, spilling over tumbled stones and fell down steep cliffs, disappearing into fern lined canyons. In sunny pockets, brilliant red, yellow and orange flowers crowded against the dark forest. The people we saw wore woolen clothes and hats, stout boots, and thick woolen shawls to protect against the chilling dampness of the shadows.
I returned my attention to the ribbon of tar, at times barely a car width that wound higher into the mountains. The afternoon air became crisp and fresh. Familiar smells of mountain and wood smoke swirled through our open windows. In places the mist hung heavy in the pines. Adobe huts gave way to wooden cottages that were scattered further and further from their neighbors. The spectacular scenery unfolded as we rounded each bend. Fresh water streams proliferated, spilling over tumbled stones and fell down steep cliffs, disappearing into fern lined canyons. In sunny pockets, brilliant red, yellow and orange flowers crowded against the dark forest. The people we saw wore woolen clothes and hats, stout boots, and thick woolen shawls to protect against the chilling dampness of the shadows.
We shivered in shorts and sandals, from the awesome beauty of the cloud forest and the chill breeze flooding into the cabin of the bus as we reached the summit of the range. To our surprise, a small wood-hewn restaurant with white smoke billowing from the chimneystack sat atop the pass.
“I’m cold. Let’s stop for some lunch and change into something warmer. Are you hungry?”
“I could use some coffee. This road beats hell—what've you gotten me into?” Sam said.
Inside, the restaurant was warm and snug. A bright fire burned in a large fireplace along one wall and local crafts and paintings hung above it. Woven yellow cloths brightened the handful of square wooden tables filling the room. Opposite the fire a little bar and the door into the kitchen took muchof the wall-space. Most amazing was the north facing picture window that looked over the rugged peaks to the end of the earth, farther than my eye could see.
This nameless restaurant wasn’t listed in any of my guidebooks, but appeared like a miraculous vision—just when we most needed a rest. We changed into sweats, socks and shoes then hunkered down in front of the fire to sip our steaming mugs of sweet café de olla while we waited in silence for the dueña to serve her mole de guajillo.
