Aimless In The Middle

Walking Oaxaca Part One

Between stories of specific destinations and the journeys to and from, which do take time to cobble into a polished tale, I will try filling the gaps with observations and essays as I get to know the city. Looking inward, rather than far afield, a different species of travel. Locating and memorializing the endlessly fascinating tiny details of my temporary home. Today I introduce a new feature: WALKING OAXACA.

Aimless In The Middle

Walking Oaxaca

#1 in a series

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I walk. I look. I shoot.

These were taken over the last few weeks from all around what I call Greater Centro, the area within a crude parallelogram of busy thoroughfares ringing the core of the city. Moments begging my eye, no more thematic intent than that. A bit of a clearance sale.

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Iglesia de la Merced

One of my favorite shady bench rest stops sits just outside the doorway on the right side of this photo, a broad well-treed plaza with a splashy fountain fronting a big old church about six blocks north of where I stay.

This is the foyer of the church office. I quietly stepped in uninvited one day, as I often do when I glimpse the soft light of a courtyard behind an open gate. On my way through I noticed this old canvas, sagging and neglected, with a puzzling rectangle cut out of the middle. Maybe a reader can explain the meaning, the circumstances, the significance. I was brought up secular.

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Jardín del Pañuelito

This is very near Templo de Santo Domingo, an imposing reminder of Spanish Catholic rule, both impressive and oppressive, built using conquered and conscripted indigenous labor. Directly north of the Zócalo, the zone around the old church is the unofficial epicentre for finding sightseeing tours and shopping for souvenirs. In other words, ground zero of Oaxaca’s conflicted relationship with tourists. Thus, vendors like our hat seller here are also ubiquitous. And what fair-complected northerner doesn’t need a protective lid? Although for my own taste I chose a hand-made Mexican cowboy hat from a dedicated store. Smaller brim. 20 litre rather than 10 gallon. Maybe I want to blend in a bit.

Under the inspiration and direction of celebrated Zapotecan artist Francisco Toledo (1940-2019) part of the church has now been converted into a museum and cultural centre, with a focus on Zapotec artisanship from around the region. On the same grounds at the back is a large botanical garden. Looks impressive, but we weren’t allowed in when we arrived. Arrangements must be followed. That’s all I can say for now. We’ll go back.

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Barrio La Noria

As you move concentrically away from the Zócalo, at the very middle of Centro’s square block grid pattern, things get more real. Here a mother and daughter (I’m only guessing) preparing tacos on a folding table in Barrio La Noria. Low-overhead lightly regulated family-run operations like this work as a kind of underground economy in Mexico, essential as an antidote to the country’s class inequality and lack of social protections.

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Mercado de La Noria

As well as seeking out colonial courtyards where I’m allowed in, I can’t resist entering and walking the crowded aisles when I find a neighborhood mercado. Always a visual feast. Most of them seem to be large concrete hangar-like structures, behemoths built mid-20th century without any architectural flair, filled with rows of solidly built kiosks selling anything and everything. Here it’s a booth devoted to dairy products, with balls of stringy Oaxaca cheese resting in a basket, maybe a little too dense and flavorless for my taste. The umbrella is a reminder we are indeed enduring the daily downpours of rainy season right now.

I also come to this particular market down the street to buy fruit and vegetables. Fresh, cheap, abundant and a chance for some personal interaction with helpful, stoic vendors.

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Close to Del Peñasco

There is something both enchanting and heartrending to me about the crumbling plaster, exposed brick and layers of peeling paint seen everywhere here except in the district’s tidied-up inner core, most walls also strewn with graffiti and guerilla artwork. And what is more melancholy than a clown, really? So I’m kind of laying it on thick in this one.

This is Edgar, his non-performing name. He approached as I was framing this shot.

“Excuse me. I like to practice my English, ok?”

“Sure. It’s probably better than my Spanish.”

I told him I was from Canada and he welcomed me. He had a very gentle nature. He spends his time between paying gigs jumping on city buses and performing for a few blocks, collecting tips before jumping off and doing it again in the opposite direction.

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Jardín San Francisco

Go directly south on Miguel Cabrera from the Zocalo past the two big mercados. Past the mezcal outlets and chocolate makers. Past the piles of construction rubble where they’re expanding the pedestrian zone on the cross streets. After three blocks the ambience changes abruptly. You’ve crossed over into authentic Mexico.

Along both sidewalks spilling over the curbs, folding tables under big umbrellas, with old peasant ladies wearing frilly aprons cutting fruit or slapping tortillas on improvised grills, usually a sheet of iron on a steel barrel over a wood burning fire. Tables covered in goods: phone cases, bags of dried chilis, alarm clocks, plush toys, woven bracelets, bluetooth speakers, the vendors sitting on cheap plastic stools, patient and phlegmatic.

Almost hidden by the temporary stalls, more permanent enterprise is carried out behind a line of storefronts, each sturdy battered edifice detailed with graceless midcentury gewgaws, ornate long-ago nods to a civic pride now barely remembered. Barber shops, western wear, construction tools, music stores, printing services, all of modest scale, divided occasionally by dark stairways leading up to bookkeepers and notaries.

Along here is an unofficial landing spot for dozens of maroon and white colectivo taxis, usually well-miled Nissan Sentras, waiting until they have a full load of 4 or 5 separate fares before they take off to one of the many villages in the three valleys radiating from the city. Their shameless stalling makes life difficult for the growling city buses trying to negotiate the tight corner up the block. An old one-armed tout patrols the sidewalk calling out destinations in a singsong cadence, herding passengers into their respective rides, providing a vital service, collecting tips from both passengers and drivers. (I’ll have more about the highly affordable colectivo system, not obvious to rookie visitors, in a later story.)

Feels like chaos the first time you’re in such a street. A way of life for a certain strata of Mexican society, as if encoded in the national DNA, a secret set of rules I can only guess at and never fully understand. The movement, the noise, the encounters, like choreography to an insistent beat. When do they relax?

Hang a left on Zaragoza and go a block. On your left you’ll see an ancient green-stoned church, built from the porous Cantera rock quarried from around the region. It’s like you’ve stepped back 75 years. Except for ever-present automobiles muscling their way through pedestrians, the area with its suddenly tidy buildings, feels and looks as if it’s still 1950. A less frenetic time. Across from the church there’s an unassuming park tucked away, Jardín San Francisco, discreet under broad-branched trees, with a fountain and benches, strangely peaceful at the centre of this world.

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Atlántido Coctiles Y Mariscos

Ok, this one may not have much aesthetic value photographically, but this unpretentious kiosk outside the Chedraui supermarket alongside the Periferico serves an amazing shrimp tostada. Garlicky shrimp, generous chunks of avocado, a pineapple salsa, and perfectly seasoned. Spicy nice! Only 50 pesos. Stopping on a whim, I was truly impressed. Proving you don’t have to live, laugh and love your budget away sampling the pricy bistros up in Centro Historico to taste fine Oaxacan cuisine.

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Bonus Essay:

On Street Photography

I’ve been doing this a long time. Since I was a teenager. I get kind of obsessed, especially travelling. On any trip, time for shooting is top priority. I build my days around it.

I think of myself as a hunter when I’m out with my camera, usually walking a street, patiently seeking my prey. I see a possibility, a moment developing before me, whether it’s a mix of colors or the quality of light or a poignant vignette or a comic moment. I pause and get ready. I’ve trained myself to quickly clear the frame of clutter (unless the clutter tells a story) and I make sure the composition can breathe. I try not to disturb a scene. Like any hunter, I become invisible. This is how I do street photography.

“Street” is a much abused term. Among the online photo community, there’s a clique of self-exalted gatekeepers who claim to be arbiters of a revered tradition dating back to Cartier-Bretton and Robert Frank (although I doubt either of those masters were such proselytizers) who will reject any picture that doesn’t adhere to their strict standards as insufficiently pure and undeserving of true “street” status.

There are rules, you see: Must be black and white. Must use a wide angle lens. Must be close to the subject. Must intrude upon the scene so that the people in the shot are aware of your presence. It’s all nonsense.

I’ve seen the results in gallery shows. Put-upon people looking uncomfortable and self-conscious, even angry. This is considered edgy and real. The worst are of poor souls unwell or in despair, the homeless, the lost. It’s so lazy, a hoary cliche, exploiting private misery. The artist with nothing to say affecting a social conscience.

The only rules are technical. Exposure, color, focus, shadow and highlight detail. On the aesthetic side, your shot can be austere and clean, or defiantly busy. Formal or abstract. Or both. Serious or silly. Above all, make it something people enjoy looking at. Take your time. Make your compositions count.

Coming Soon: Stories from Mitla, Monte Alban, Ocotlán de Juarez and, on the Oaxacan riviera, Mazunte.

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Editor’s Note: I reserve the right to make alterations and corrections without notation, even after publication, both for proofreading purposes and narrative improvement.

©️Michael Farrell, 2025