Last Saturday morning I was out the door at 5:45. The sun was sending up color, but still below the horizon. No striking pinks and oranges, only a pale peach hue in the low eastern sky, giving me enough light to shoot. In the end color didn’t matter. I decided these were sufficiently gritty to merit the black & white treatment.
I had no plan to make this photo walk about people. The idea merely to get myself going before the sun came up and see what I could do with the cool grey light in this unpretentious neighborhood. Recording some blessed early calmness, stylistic relief after recent days exploring the hand-to-hand retail energy found in the busy centre.
That’s how it was leaving my place walking east on Carbonera. Empty, quiet, a bit eerie, only me, the meandering stranger, using telephoto to compress perspective, turning the jumbled mismatched buildings and glowing windows into pleasing abstractions.
But this is Mexico. It doesn’t stay unpeopled for long.
Morning People
Walking Oaxaca
#2 in a series
These pictures are from last Saturday, not a day off for most workers here, and sure enough as I walked further things began to stir. I tried to be discreet, but not surreptitious. Taking my time. In plain sight, keeping my distance. No one objected.
Sweepers are the advance troops, the first to hit the streets. Even before you see them you might hear the swish of their comically large brooms, pulling leaves and dust and litter into piles, to be shovelled up and carried away in two wheeled refuse carts. In case you’re wondering how everything looks so tidy without a receptacle in sight.
Down the block this was an intriguing vision. A hamburger cart abandoned in the road next to sunlit buildings. Except not abandoned. Getting closer I was hearing mad shouts echoing off the walls. It was the vendor himself silhouetted under the tarp. He finally stepped out as I passed, a big foolish grin, drunk off his head, three sheets to the wind. “Borracho!”, as they say here.
Maybe he had stopped for a nightcap and things got out of hand. I hope he finally made it home.
A poignant scene, I thought. A couple out together, maybe each going to work, the man keeping pace on his bicycle.
I’m sad to report Oaxaca has a traffic problem. In fact in 2018 this was reportedly named the world’s slowest city. Not sure if that still holds but by mid-afternoon Centro is choked. Blame the buses, the double parkers, the speed bumps, the food stalls. Too many sharing these old narrow streets. To make things worse for us walkers, by local custom, drivers claim the right of way. Keep your wits about you.
All this to say, it was lovely to be out in the early morning unharassed by vehicles.
A bit of photographer’s luck here. I wanted a shot of the mural, hoping to make it even better if I could set up quickly before this gentleman passed in front of me.
At the entrance to a police garage, a single sentry standing post guiding vehicles in and out.
I’ve mentioned already the perplexing array of ground transport options available in central Oaxaca. I chanced upon this strip of sidewalk at a five-way convergence of busy roadways. A lively scene of overnight travellers stepping into the sunlight from full-size buses and twelve-seater vans where several tiny hole-in-the-wall agencies sell tickets at second class prices.
All serving points south it seemed, but it was confusing. No one could tell me how to get to Tuxtla Gutierrez in Chiapas, even the place posting it as a destination. I’ll keep trying.
Is this solitary soul another hardy survivor earning precarious tips wading into traffic at plugged up intersections—singers, jugglers, window washers, snack vendors—patiently waiting for the day’s congestion to build? Is the mask in the tree part of their schtick?
A vivid early memory of Mexico for me is from many years ago in Guadalajara. A fire-eater performing for traffic in the dark of night, his face covered in soot and shiny with sweat. Nightmare fuel!
A phalanx of medical personnel in full stride, perhaps happy that the night shift is over. Or maybe on their way to start a day shift.
If you’re looking for good coffee at 7:30 in the morning here, you might have some trouble. Very few shops, especially those serving barista-style, open before 9. It’s frustrating. Just a heads up. Check the hours when you do a map search.
I pass this woman several times a week shaping and frying tortillas on a purpose-built grill. Enough that she recognizes me now and we exchange greetings.
I was almost home. Time for breakfast.
Bonus #1:
21st Century Abstract Expressionism.
I also captured these wall details during my walk, thinking they’d look great blown up really big and framed on a wall.
Bonus #2:
Another Morning People Story
This happened yesterday…
Yesterday I took a load of laundry to my usual lavandería. After trying a few around the neighborhood, I’ve settled on a place nearer the centre, a blue doorway you could pass and never notice unless you were actually looking for it. A waiting area the size of a closet—one at a time, por favor!—about six blocks away. Close to a coffee place I like. Consistent, reliable, affordable. It’s what I expect. Same day service, nicely folded, no missing items.
What I don’t expect at 8:40 in the morning is complimentary mezcal.
The regular dude remembers my name now, a sign of acceptance much appreciated by an ex-pat. After he put my clothes on the scale, filled out my ticket, and took my money, he reached down and lifted up an unlabelled bottle half full of clear liquid, raising his eyebrows.
“Mezcal?” I was unprepared. Just a simple traveller I am, innocent and incorruptible.
With an expression that said “of course” and without waiting for an answer, he had dropped two tiny plastic cups on the counter, filling each to the brim. Of course, indeed! We raised our delicate vessels and toasted the occasion. Giving me a conspiratorial grin, he slammed his back. I replied with a grateful nod, but only took a sip. Following the first three syllables of this newsletter, I wanted to enjoy this slowly.
There was a colonial times fountain down the block, an 18th century half-circle of green stone built into the wall, jutting into the sunlight. I sat on the ledge and slowly drank the rest, gathering some warmth, feeling the buzz, congratulating myself once again for coming back to Mexico.
Above: self-portrait of me post-mezcal. (You can see a partial view of the fountain in question on the left.)
Thank you. Go ahead and smash that Like button if you enjoyed the read. And the Share button if you think someone else will. Circumspectral will always be free of charge. Subscriptions are optional if you wish to donate to my travel budget.
I looks like I’m settling in to a weekly rhythm, which works for me, since I need as much thinking time as writing time, as well as several drafts, if I’m going to do this right. Coming soon: Mazunte, Mitla, Monte Alban.
This week being Guelaguetza, I’m hoping to find a local village version of this celebrated annual dance festival for a future report.
I enjoyed this very much! Great pictures!