Pigs heads and saints.

Yesterday, we stood by the main highway, scanning all the names of villages on the buses as they raced by. Finally the one we wanted came by, we were on our way to the largest Indian Sunday market in the state of Oaxaca. We had to step over open boxes in the isle to get a seat, an ice cream man in a purple uniform with his cart got on. Even though the trip should be about 30 minutes, it took much longer because anyone who wanted to take the bus would flag it down. It was quite exciting to be going to a new village, I didn't know what to expect. Unfortunately my guide book is in our room and I am too lazy to go and get it in order to tell what the name of the town is. There are about 10 to 12 different distinct Indian groups that come from the various villages in the area. One way to tell the different groups was by the different aprons women wore that were elaborately stitched with numerous designs and colours. Also, their blouses, skirts, aprons and head scarves were of different designs yet it all worked because the colours were similair, mostly pink, purple or red. Everywhere there were many opportunities to take pictures except the people at the market did not like to photographed. It took us 2 hours to explore the whole market. Women argued over the price of turkeys, often walking away and then turning around to continue debating the quality of the turkey and the price. Eventually the poor turkey would be wrapped in a bag and carried away. I bought an apron because I had a cooking lesson with David on Monday. The woman, who was part of a collective made the aprons, kept insisting that I keep trying them until we found the right size. I got to use it today. In one section, pigs heads and feet were being boiled in big pots in order to be chopped up on big wooden blocks and put into tacos with salsa. The heads and feet were too close to the table for me to ignore them in order to indulge in those savory tacos. We opted for the barbaqued chicken instead. In Mexico there is often a tradition that on Sundays nights families go to the barbaque place to buy a cooked chicken. With it you get a bag of delicious cooked rice, salsa and tacos. A lovely finger licking experience.

I wandered through the church, where a baptism was happening. There were numerous saints deplicting being tortured to death. One had a hatchet in his skull, another had arrows piercing his head and body, another, I believe John the Baptist, was holding his head in his hand. All the statues were covered with blood. Despite all this, being in the church was a lovely experience. People would touch the hems of the saints clothes, kiss them and make a washing motion over their faces and bodies or they would take stocks of flowers and pass them over the faces of saints and then over their heads and bodies. There was great tenderness in all their actions and I felt priviledged to quietly observe. Goodnight it is time for bed. Carol

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