What I did one Saturday, part four

Attentive readers will remember my opening description of this ever-extending tale was ‘my trip to the Mitla ruins’. Yet, in truth, I did not begin my journey with that destination in mind. I wanted to go to a small Sierra village known in my guidebook as Benito Juarez. But this name, I have since learned, provokes unending confusion and good intentioned but unhelpful corrections. Benito Juarez the man, for those who don’t know, is, at least in most corners, Oaxaca’s most beloved son and one of the country’s national heroes—not incidentally, as a Zapotec, he is the only indigenous president in Mexican history. As such, many a calle bears his name, the 20 peso note bears his face and many a Oaxacan village is named either something-Juarez or Benito-so-and-so.

Thus, back on the main avenue of Santa Maria del Tule, I fell into conversation with a short, stout, grandmotherly lady who had recently been to Los Angeles to visit her sister. Hearing my intended destination, she directed me to the town of Tlacolula. There I asked around and was directed to a corner to wait for a bus up the hill. I chatted with a few different people at the stop and each agreed that buses for Benito Juarez would pass there. But after some time, none had not come, so I asked again. No, they don’t pass here, said a wild-haired woman who had just arrived at the bus stop. And thus I decided to go to Mitla.

A taxi colectivo dropped me off in a large triangle of asphalt, bordered on two sides by buildings, on the third by the two-lane highway, and buzzing with taxis, moto-taxis and, naturally, vendors. A single street lead into the town from the corner of the triangle, passing under, as it went, a high sign reading: Bienvenidos a Mitla. I was unsure whether the sign referred to the ruins or the town, but I decided to walk on.

At first, I passed nothing but shops selling mezcla or embroidered, traditional-style clothing. Then, after a brief stretch of homes, the street was once again lined with stores, which were once again offering mezcal and clothing. Then I crossed a bridge, and there was, perhaps for those who needed some time to contemplate their purchases, shops selling mezcal and clothing. Reaching what was likely the city center, I found a carnival encamped in the streets, concealing who knows how many shops offering mezcla and clothing. The English-titled rides did not entice me and I kept my pace and soon I was back among shops offering, well, you can guess. Fortunately, as I needed neither clothing nor alcohol, the first ruins were just ahead.

To be continued...