On the Hills of Monte Alban -- October 16

After living in Oaxaca for more than a month, I finally got to see Monte Alban. This includes the touristic site of the ruins of Monte Alban just outside of the city, as well as the Colonia Monte Alban, of which tourists might get a quick glimpse from the bus, before turning their heads in shame and / or disgust. All in all I can describe the day as a beautiful, relaxed, and insightful family Sunday.

It all started with Minerva's question if I could help her two children with their English. She is the lady in charge of the food at the hostel. Of course I was interested, trying to supplement my rather meager schedule with whatever extra hours I could. After a long back and forth we agreed on a price that was bad for both of us. On my end I was selling myself way under value, she on the other hand had to work a whole day for the two hours of English. This alone showed me that we were coming from completely different worlds. Yet I accepted, as I needed the cash, and what was I gonna do on a Sunday morning anyway. When that day came, however, I ended up giving my classes for free, which I explained with the fact that I was going to relocate to Mexico City, and hence couldn't continue my lessons on a permanent basis. Minerva understood.

She picked me up at eleven in the morning, and we took the bus to her house in the Colonia Monte Alban. I have seen the shacks on the hills from the distance, but couldn't imagine that someone, who worked eight hours a day, six days a week in the kitchen of a hostel, would have to live in one of them. Fact is, she has to. But that is nothing to be ashamed of, and she never showed the slightest bit of discomfort, so I tried to do the same. It wasn't easy not to notice the bare concrete floor, the tin walls, the plastic bags that kept the rain from flowing in, and the large holes in the structure fixed with broken sheets of plywood. There were two rooms, one had two beds and some old chests and wardrobes in it, in the other one there was a table with some chairs. The kitchen consisted of a fire-pit and the only tap of running water. The bathroom was an outhouse in the yard.

Only two of the four kids in my class were actually Minerva's. The others were cousins, who lived not too far away. Their ages ranged from ten to eighteen, and some had been studying English for several years. My initial worry, that this might cause problems in teaching them successfully, was soon forgotten, as they all were pretty much on the same level: absolute beginners. After the first intensive practice they seemed to understand the difference between I am, You are, and She is. Meanwhile they all made the impression of bright and enthusiastic students. So what was the problem? How could these same kids have studied three or more years of English without any results whatsoever? The answer they gave me was deeply shocking: The ever present Mexican corruption.

It works something like this: The teacher in a public school gives the class a price-list for grades. For top marks you have to pay the teacher approximately as much as his paycheck is to begin with, which illustrates the incredibly low salaries of teachers. If you just want to get by you still have to pay a pretty steep amount. If you can't, or don't want to support this dirty business, you will be ignored all year round. This is exactly what has been happening to these kids ever since they entered school, which diminishes their likelihood of ever leaving the shacks of Monte Alban.

After our class Minerva suggested to take a walk to see the ruins, as I have never been there before. It wasn't far, about an hour from the city limits. On the way we picked up Minerva's sister, who was going to look for chapulines, and the ruins were a perfect place for that. Chapulines are Mexican grasshoppers that are sold at the market as a local delicacy. They are red, crunchy, and are prepared with limes and chillis. I could never imagine how they were collected, as the beasts, like decent grasshoppers, tend to flee from their predators. Well, there is nothing more to it than simply being quicker then them (if you don't come before sunrise when they are frozen stiff). Usually, however, a good eye is enough to spot them in the grass, then pick them up with your hands, and place them in an empty water bottle. This takes about ten seconds per grasshopper, but then again, we had the whole day and everyone was helping along.

On our excursion we didn't only collect chapulines, but all sorts of plants. Not only the adult women, but even the young girls had a vast knowledge of all the different plants. They got a kick out of overwhelming their teacher with pieces of info on how to use this grass or that herb. Some added a strong flavor to a soup, others kept a certain insect away (I guess the bedbug, but I'm not sure), still others were good against stomachache or wounds, or cramps. One of them was rather esoteric in nature, as it was used to clean one's aura. I felt a bit stupid not knowing any of these herbs, nor any herbs whatsoever (okay, there might be one I'm quite familiar with...) even though they could come in handy anytime. And I considered myself to be "educated".

The ruins of Monte Alban were nice. They were built by some ancient people, and had the usual temples, pyramids, ball-courts, palaces, etc. kinda like in Coba, Teotihuacan, the great Chicken Pizza, and all the others. This time they didn't really capture my excitement, as they were rather a nice backdrop for a crash course in botanic. It was much more memorable to run around chasing grasshoppers and eating wild herbs. After the bottle was almost full, we headed back home.

Minerva invited me for family supper, and as the day had been very friendly and familiar, I accepted. We went to her sister's house, where her mother lived, along with about ten other family members, under comparable circumstances. It was difficult to make out who lived where, but for Sunday Dinner all were gathered at the home of the old folks. It felt like Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner, even though it was "just" a Sunday. There was lots of food, charbroiled meat, a strong soup, lots of tortillas called "tlayudas" (pure corn of course), a vegetable stew, and of course... Coca Cola! The tlayudas made up for the absence of any spoons, recalling the old Hungarian tale of eating your utensils! All in all it was a delicious meal. Only the Coca Cola didn't fit somehow. Why do poor people drink so much Coke? Does their meager diet require a higher sugar concentration in their drink? Or is it maybe the fact that the stores on the hill sell nothing but junk-food, and that it has the same price as water?

After dinner the grandmother asked the kids about all the plants we had collected, and they stuck them into a thick notebook which had many, many other ones in there already. Grandma made sure not to leave any of them out, and the granddaughters were eager to show off their knowledge about them. Grandma explained that this was their health insurance, since none of them could afford to seek medical help, or pay for expensive drugs. But with the herbs they could take care of themselves so much that they never had to go to the doctor. I believe there are certain ailments where a hospital can't be replaced, but on the whole most chemical drugs would be redundant if we just had the knowledge of plants that the people in the Colonia Monte Alban have.