Lemonade

Location:
Mexico

culture, Oaxaca, integration

By Noel Chilton

Ah, lemonade stands...the fond memory most Americans can recall from childhood. Slicing and squeezing those sour lemons, adding a shower of sugar, and serving up cup after icy cup to neighbors and passing joggers. I had spoken of it so often that the boys caught my fever and decided to mix up their own batch of limeade and memories.

I blended the Mexican limes and sugar, Paolo decorated the stand with crudely cut yellow and green circles, and Stefano handled the publicity.

Despite all Stefano’s bell ringing and yelling, “Limonada” with his larger-than-three-year-old voice, the people of Oaxaca, Mexico, just walked on by with a skeptical look in their eyes. I ran over to the in-laws with a pack of pesos to bribe them to come over and I called our friend Erendida.

“You’re having the boys do what,” She asked incredulously.

“They’re selling limonada,” I answered flatly, still thinking it was the most normal of activities.

“If you’re a bit low, I could give you a small loan, “ she said sympathetically.

Suddenly, it was apparent how cruel I appeared. I might as well have sent the boys to the zocalo to hock gum. For all my efforts to improve my Spanish and integrate into Mexican society, there are just some things that don’t translate.

Over 3000 years ago, Chatinos, then Zapotecs, Mixtecs and Olmecs sowed the seeds of language, custom, and culture in what is now the state of Oaxaca. The arrival of the Spanish did little to crush the seedlings so well rooted in this fertile valley. Today, more than 15 languages are still spoken and new hybrid customs emerge all the time with even more color, complexity and conviction.

Ten years ago, a yellow-haired being stepped off an unidentified flying object and invaded the land with her strange appearance, wild ideas and twisted tongue. Oaxaca has never been the same. I am this extraterrestrial.

In 1998, there was just one internet cafe, no cellular phones to be seen and hardly a car with shiny paint. Oaxaca remained mostly untouched by foreign influences. Extended families bound together and passed their customs on orally from grandmother to daughter-in-law and so forth. This web of tradition attracts many a young American like myself who, despite feeling well grounded with her mix-match batch of Hanukah/Christmas/Kwanzaa Day traditions, knows as much about her German great-grandmothers as she does about the Frankfurt International Airport.

However, getting tripped up in the closely-knit web of Mexican society can be a bit sticky. Like the first time my then boyfriend, now ex, Saul, took me to a harvest festival in a dusty village in the middle of nowhere. I learned two important lessons: 1) don’t wear white and 2) always pack a spoon. Bertha, who would later become one of my best friends and my only cleaning lady, served us up a steaming bowl of freshly slaughtered beef in red mole sauce.

I scanned the table for silverware, but found only a 2-liter bottle of Coke, a stack of clear disposable cups and a frilly napkin holder decorated with lace, fake pearls and at least two sticks worth of hot glue. (Coca-Cola and the glue gun industry may be the only groups to have successfully conquered the Zapotecs.) Saul, more Spanish than indigenous, managed to dominate the beast on his plate, but I couldn’t get a grip on my tortilla. I left the party in defeat, my whole front splattered red.

Soon, Saul’s own family invited me over for brunch. Saul’s Aunt Irma nervously prepared a pile of pancakes for her future daughter-in-law, which she proudly set before me.

“Come, eat,” she encouraged.

This time, I wasn’t surprised to find just a folded paper napkin as a dining accoutrement. So, I poured some cajeta, or goat’s milk caramel, on my perfectly round pancake and carefully scooped it up. A few drips spilled on my top, but I could wipe them up without being too conspicuous, I thought. When I lifted my chin, I could see all eyes on me. And when I looked closer, my future father-in-law had his pancake morsel firmly on his fork, frozen mid-path to his open mouth. Luckily, everyone laughed.

That was all from my ignorant bliss period. Just as the Zapotecs divide their existence in southern Mexico into two epic periods (pre-Colombian and colonial) I split mine in three: sweet ignorance, mostly marvelous motherhood and post-divorce. The last is new territory for me, but I manage to forge ahead pretty well. And luckily, I have two small half-aliens, a handful of close Oaxacan friends, and slew of stories to accompany me, every step of the way.

Further Information

Travel tips: Take day trips to the craft villages, archeological sites, and ecotourism spots. The ruins make up Mexico’s foundation, the villages are the hearth, and the eco-tourism is the verdant backyard.

Must see/do at this place: The zocalo or main square is a bustling center of life. People of all ages and class gather to eat steaming tamales, fly tubular balloons, and take a break from the office or field.

You should avoid here: Tito's restaurant and any other food chain. The dives are the best.