A bicycle gang, ruins, and two boys

"I'll stand _near_ the shade", said Avid Alex, of our sparsely treed road with sharp sides and no other shade to be had. This was yesterday, and we had formed a bicycle gang, Avid Alex of Box Storage, my Serendipity Kathy, and Local Artist Wendy, a friend of Alex's. I felt the long-lost joy of wheels heightened by being in a group of us, pedaling along together. And with Alex as guide, we didn't have to spend time being lost. 

We started with a dusty bicycle trail (rails to trails! In Mexico!) along the highway, then through to a neighboring town, Atzompa. Having Artist Wendy along offered us a behind-the-scenes peek into a potter's workshop, one of her connections. The area is famous for green and black clay, sold in many shops along the road, and we stopped into a workshop of a Mrs Potter, with 9 children, all of whom crafted pottery also. Bowls, napkin holders, tiny intricate figurines, large surreal creatures. Somehow bicyclers and potters all got together for a huge family portrait. 

It was to be a very authentically Oaxaca day, for after the craftsmanship, we were off to the ruins of Atzompa. Which involved a huge shade-less climb, the ruins overlooking the valley, all high and extra holy in that way. 

Preparations for the Climb (with bicycle tour system commentary in parentheses):
I left my bike on the sidewalk, unsnapping from the handlebars my Crying Bag (with me at all times, containing phone, passport, money, and named thusly because if I lose it, I will cry. Also called: Executive Bag), and ducked into a shop breifly to get a cold orange drink and some Emergency Cookies (always have backup food and emergency backup food; packaged cookies purchased from a dusty uninteresting tienda are more likely to remain uneaten and thus available for when I really need them). 

"Hay agua?" I asked Mr Tienda, hopeful to fill up from the spigoted container behind him. "ah no, es mescal!" he said and we both laughed. THAT could have been the most surreal and sickening hill climb ever, ha. 

Then I came out to discover my bicycle gone. 

But turning the corner, I found Avid Alex about to load it into the back of a taxi. "Thought we might get a lift up and save us the time and heat of the day", he said. 

Absolutely no way was I going to cooperate with that.  

I explained: "It's been three days of nothing but enjoyment and pleasure! And now it's time for some suffering and earning." They could taxi up but I was going to ride. Everyone decided to ride anyway. 

So my first riding, after months of being off the bike, was heading 1000 feet up in a sun oven, at the elevation of Denver Colorado. Needless to say, I sounded like the bellows on an old pipe organ and got loopy on endorphins. I played in Spanish with Alex: "I'd like to eat patacones in Patagonia with peacones (pedestrians)!" 

At the top we took photos and gloried in ourselves and the views. I felt fabulous. I was so high on endorphins and the effort and the heat. I learned the words for climb (sube), optimistically small climb (subito), sweat (el sudor), and "I encourage you!" ("Animo!"). 

The ruins were basically deserted, just the sky, dry dusty ground, the unhampered wind, the ancient stones, and us. I got chills regarding the structures, especially having the place to myself. I sat alone for a while on a rock, gazing out over the valley view and watching the grass weeds on the ruins wave in the wind. Just meditating on the mind-boggling age of this place, and the tenacity of the people who built it up here. 

Lunch was at a little roadside place: a hot grill, a parrot, and a large loud television. The cook there grabbed a wad of corn dough from a block and smashed it in a press into a flat round tortilla. Then she took pumpkin blossoms, stringy squeaky cheese famous in Oaxaca, mushrooms, and beans and put them inside and folded it. A real empanada. 

Lunch cost $4. For three of us. Plus hibiscus drinks. Wow. So delicious and healthy and original-to-this-place feeling. 

After flying down from the ruins, served as bliss concentrate with a side of thrill, we climbed another 1,200 feet to another ruins, Monte Alban. Why not? When in Oaxaca, climb ruins, enjoy views of the valley, and then eat so well afterwards. 

For dinner we had vegetable mole, and Mrs Mole, patient for a while to answer our many questions about the many miles, ended up bringing us a plate with individual splots of all the different ones to try. Ones made with chocolate and chilies, some with chilies and sesame seeds, fruits and chilies...herbs. The variety of flavors continues to amaze me here. (A culture based off so much more than just different types of meat, like some of the places I've traveled before) We exclaim that each meal IS the best meal and that we just cannot wait to be hungry again. 

How is this much enjoyment and pleasure and experience even possible? I think Oaxaca may be evidence that heaven does exist. It's on earth though, here in southern Mexico. (I haven't even raved about the nightlife and live music and community commons space yet either!) 

 
This one made me laugh: 

I overheard one of the other hostel dwellers, an older gentleman who is an inspiration that one can still be out being adventurous at 70, ask Kathy:  "Are you traveling with two boys?" 

I heard Kathy respond, "No. But I am traveling with one woman. She has very short hair." 


Great. I've been mistaken for a lot in the past, but never before have I been two boys. I kinda like that.

We're a bicycle gang!

At the pottery studio, of black and green clay. This is the kiln.

Figurines, intricate and bizarre.

Regarding the weeds in the wind at the Aztompa temple, completely alone.

Hand-smashed corn hunk to make an empanada with squash blossoms in it. The string cheese pleases me hugely.

Endorphins and sun on the climb.

The massive jaw-slacking stretch of ruin complex that is Monte Alban.

Splats of tasting mole, a taste painters palette