I rose and dressed (showering, of course..) and at reception was handed a note from yet another kindly well meaning person who had been nominated my guide for the day! When would it end?
I moseyed down the road to the hotel restaurant (twice, as I wasn't quite sure I had understood, but it was indeed, down the road and on the corner) and was served a pile of delicious and thick fluffy pancakes ('hot cakes' in Spanish....go figure..), with maple syrup, delicious coffee, more pán del muertos (this time with a small head poking out - how cute - yet unappetizing - this one looked like Frida Kahlo..) and some watermelon (seved with a bit of lime - combination which I have yet to fathom - it's not Corona...but there's a bit of lime in it...but it's not Corona..).
Fully contented by this fabulous start to the day, I was then met by Lesvia (who has three other names but I can't tell you because I'm discreet...can't pronounce any of them, and have anyway forgotten them) and her son who would be back to pick me up at 11am for my days outing. So this is what it's like to be retired! 
After a little stroll down the local park, past yet more skeletons, hanging bodies and traffic, Mme Lesvia returned and whisked me off to visit a local
HIV AIDS clinic where she worked, the biggest in the county. We stopped to pick up her hubby on the way, who - God only could have arranged - just happened to be an English teacher who hadn't actually spoken properly (English, I'm assuming..) in years, so who relished the chance of speaking with me. Oh, go on then. If you insist...The clinic was indeed mightily impre
ssive, though some remarks made previously by JA did make me me wonder whether it was entirely right that AIDS gets 40% of the national health budget. I'm hoping I mistook that figure in my jetlag, although this spankingly new, fully-stoc
ked and comprehensive health facility might just be evidence that I didn't.After a full tour, we headed down the road to San Bartolo, home to Doña Rosa’s famous black pottery or 'barro negro' farm. They are pretty cool –amazing shiny black , mineral-like coloured pots, sculptures and other useless tools. We watched the son of la famosa Doña turn his hand to the pots, and also test his sarcasm on the group of grannies bussed in specia
lly for the occasion. There is also an interesting urban myth surrounding this pottery, that it was tested for NASA as an appropriate coating for their spaceships. I can see how that might have slipped out of Doña Rosa Junior’s demonstration – and caught on as a verity. 
I left with a small collection of random balls and vases, and we drove out to see the 2,000 year old ‘Tule’ tree named after the Tule village. Well, it’s a big tree. And 2,000 years old. But it still looks like a broccoli to me..
By this time, the pancakes seemed an eternity away, so I was taken to lunch in a wicked little local restaurant where they did the absolutely best thing in these circumstances, and ordered for me. I’m still reeling. For starters, a smorgasboard (what is the Spanish for a smorga?) of tortillas of various sizes, memelitas, filled with local cheese (quesilla), guacamole, salsa and pork scratchings (chicharrón, though how they’ve made pork scratchings such a success over here is testimony to the miracle of marketing …). This was enough for me, but this was just an 'antojito' (appetizer or tapas – appekiller if you ask me..), and I had a plate of finely sliced beef - tejado al carbon - (my favourite..) with yet more tortillas, refried beans and one of the town's seven famous ‘mole’ still to come.
Now as my friends will testify, I love getting my hands dirty – especially in times of cholera, so this was a real treat. That aside, it was all pretty tasty, just a tad ‘demasiado’, not to mention that it was getting on for 4 o’ clock tea (and we were a good way from lunch o’ clock thinly sliced beef..) Still, quite an experience, and I felt truly like a local. (The only possible giveaway was my constantly contorted shapes as I strained myself across the table in between bowls of green and black salsa to catch and then translate to myself the various conversations we were having..quite remarkable).
We dropped Mister off for his nap and then Ma’am and I headed into Oaxaca’s historical centre, to catch the contraverse (or something) – the ghostly, deathly procession of brass bands (which are NOTHING like our brass bands, and I’m not just talking about the moustaches…these actually make you want to listen..), followed by entranced ghouls down jiving the colonial streets to the main square (zocale).
Decorating the main square were enormous ‘tapetes’ – a huge sandpit full of carvings of skeletal and deathly yet comical images around which the band would dance, and dotted around, hundreds of altars, each representing a particular village from the surrounding countryside, and with their own speciality food. Manzanilla’s, walnuts, pomegranates, chocolate, more rarking pán, apples, plantain, and plenty of marigold petals. By this time, my brain was about ready to explode so we made our way home.
By this time, the pancakes seemed an eternity away, so I was taken to lunch in a wicked little local restaurant where they did the absolutely best thing in these circumstances, and ordered for me. I’m still reeling. For starters, a smorgasboard (what is the Spanish for a smorga?) of tortillas of various sizes, memelitas, filled with local cheese (quesilla), guacamole, salsa and pork scratchings (chicharrón, though how they’ve made pork scratchings such a success over here is testimony to the miracle of marketing …). This was enough for me, but this was just an 'antojito' (appetizer or tapas – appekiller if you ask me..), and I had a plate of finely sliced beef - tejado al carbon - (my favourite..) with yet more tortillas, refried beans and one of the town's seven famous ‘mole’ still to come.
Now as my friends will testify, I love getting my hands dirty – especially in times of cholera, so this was a real treat. That aside, it was all pretty tasty, just a tad ‘demasiado’, not to mention that it was getting on for 4 o’ clock tea (and we were a good way from lunch o’ clock thinly sliced beef..) Still, quite an experience, and I felt truly like a local. (The only possible giveaway was my constantly contorted shapes as I strained myself across the table in between bowls of green and black salsa to catch and then translate to myself the various conversations we were having..quite remarkable).
We dropped Mister off for his nap and then Ma’am and I headed into Oaxaca’s historical centre, to catch the contraverse (or something) – the ghostly, deathly procession of brass bands (which are NOTHING like our brass bands, and I’m not just talking about the moustaches…these actually make you want to listen..), followed by entranced ghouls down jiving the colonial streets to the main square (zocale).
Decorating the main square were enormous ‘tapetes’ – a huge sandpit full of carvings of skeletal and deathly yet comical images around which the band would dance, and dotted around, hundreds of altars, each representing a particular village from the surrounding countryside, and with their own speciality food. Manzanilla’s, walnuts, pomegranates, chocolate, more rarking pán, apples, plantain, and plenty of marigold petals. By this time, my brain was about ready to explode so we made our way home.
What will tommorrow
bring. And will I have the strength to face it? A ver.
Buena noches.
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