So if I thought Ajusco was like a small town, I should have been better prepared for our trip to Veracruz. We left last Thursday in Saul’s janky old Ferrari – myself, Angela, Saul, and Angela’s mom/Saul’s grandma who I know only as “Abuelita.” Eight hours later, we arrived in Ixcatepec, the little country town where Angela grew up. And it was sooooo country: I woke up every morning to our rooster’s crow. The first night we arrived, we went to a rodeo (“jaripeo”) and watched eight-year-olds successfully lasso cattle. Saul’s cousins had recently killed deer heads in their fridge. Angela washed my clothes in the same river where downstream, someone else was washing his horse. Going to Veracruz, I thought I was getting a beach vacation. Instead I got the Mexican version of Grundy County, TN. But with a much prettier landscape.
Abuelita’s house, where we stayed, had two bedrooms, with an outdoor kitchen and “bathroom” complex (bathroom = outhouse + enclosed space for bathing with a bucket) and a large garden in the back full of chickens, ducks, cats, one dog, a variety of fruit trees – lime, guava, orange, mango, banana, coffee – and tons of mosquitoes. I soon came to learn that almost every house in the town sported more or less the same features, although some had flushing toilets.
We visited the homes of what seemed like all of Angela’s family members, few of which knew we were coming (Not really an option to call ahead when there’s no phone). Yet within 5 minutes of entering each house, the woman of the house would immediately produce a glass of homemade fruit juice (from the fruit in the garden) and ask if we’d like to stay for a meal (even if they themselves weren’t going to eat at the time). It’s impolite to say no. I can’t remember the last time I ate so much. The only thing I turned down was the “panza” or soup of stuffed cow stomach. Typical was enchiladas, black beans and manchego cheese, best of all was one cousin who served us venison. I also learned to make tortillas by hand (harder than it looks) and picked up a few words in Nahuatl, the traditional Huasteco (Aztec/indigenous) language, which many people in the town still speak regularly. Tlashkamati = Thank you. After lots of chatter, we would leave, always taking with us another package of some fruit or veggie our host had cut from their garden, or bread from their oven, or the extra chorizo, or whatever. Then, on to the next house, where we’d share the bounty from the first and end up with something new.
At first, the whole tour of family visits, for me, was charming and relaxing, but after hearing Angela tell the same story about her granddaughter for the gazillionth time and stuffing myself with God knows how many tortillas and glasses of fruit water, I got a little sick of it. Everyone asked me, aren’t you bored here? On the first day the answer was no, of course not. On the fifth, yes, yes I am, I like the city.
Two other exciting things did come my way. The first was the quineceñera (girl’s 15th birthday party, huge deal in Mexico) of one of Angela’s distant relatives. The celebration, like a combo bar mitzvah-wedding, started with a mass, where the birthday girl processes in in a fancy dress, followed by three male attendants about the same age, dressed to match, and her godparents. Afterwards, the day continues with a big meal, a big cake, and music/dancing that continues into the night. Favorite moment: after the meal, as our plates and trash were being cleared away and drinks refilled, Saul’s aunt whispers to her husband, look, look at your mom. We look over, and Abuelita – 74-year-old, gray-haired, big-bellied, slow-moving, raspy-voiced Abuelita – is stuffing a pile of extra tortillas into her purse. She then zips the bulging bag closed, rests it on her lap, and takes a giant swig of her Corona. I died.
Anyway, eventually the birthday girl also does a few traditional dances – one, a choreographed dance with her attendants from the mass, one with rotating family members, and one with her father, announced as “the last time she will dance with her dad,” of which I did not approve. The music, in my opinion, was also terrible. Saul taught me how to dance to it, not like a fun salsa or bachata dance, but a really really boring and easy two-step. Every song was the same step, same beat. Even more, Saul told me most celebrations there use the same music, and the same type of dancing. All in all, I’m glad I never had a quinceñera.
The second exciting event was a trip to the Tapin ruins, which to my surprise became a 2.5 hour ride, piled in the back of a truck with Saul, Angela, and like 10 more relatives. The scenery on the way there was beautiful – bright shades of green, fog-shrouded hills in the distance – and the ruins themselves were of course impressive – a huge complex of pyramids and ancient worship facilities. Besides the sights, I enjoyed the ride. Both there and back, we made several stops at roadside fruit stands and always passed the deliciousness around the back of the truck, and the littlest kids fell asleep as we drove. It was so satisfying and peaceful, my favorite day of the whole Veracruz experience.
Now, though, I am more than happy to be back in the city, where I can shower indoors and take advantage of the nightlife, and a much better music scene. The weekend starts now.
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