WF***CBs

The goddam Moors launched a preemptive attack early this morning on the church of Carmen Alto, using WFCBs (Whistling F***ing Cherry Bombs). The Christians answered right back with a huge spate of churchbells. Plot counted them all.

"It´s 47 o´clock, Duck," said Plotnik.

"49," said Ducknik.

This morning, Sophia made enchildas in red mole for breakfast, topped with onions, parsley and queso fresco. It helped out, stomach-wise, because The Plotniks are beginning to feel a bit of Traveler´s Bubble. Afterwards, they walked downtown to the Zocalo and found Rodolfo, a cab driver who agreed to drive them up into the mountains to see the Indian tianguis (market) at Etla, a Mixtec Village.



There really wasn´t much to see, but Rodolfo pointed out things Plotnik might have missed, like this green-glazed pottery from the village of Santa Maria Atzompa, or the squirming worms that they put on the grill, cover with salt and chile and grind into a powder that you eat with tortillas. An old woman held out her finger and invited Plotnik to dip his into the powder to taste it.

"It tastes like salt and chile," he said. "I can´t taste the worms."

The old lady looked disappointed and started to grill some more worms but Plottie beat it out of there first.

There were little girls selling tiny, baby rats and other little girls selling "veneno de rata (rat poison)."

There were many, many chiles. Plotnik bought a bag of Moritas and a bag of Oaxaquenas, both smoked, and will have to hope the Customs Inspector has a bad cold and can´t smell a thing.

They passed on the grasshoppers and the, well, goat, uh, stew, that looked really, really unsavory. It was time to go.



Rodolfo now drove Plot and Duck to the large archeological zone of Monte Alban where they walked around basically bored out of their minds while their guide, Hector, spoke in large Spanish words that Plot and Duck could understand most of. It was really hot. Monte Alban is a Zapotec site, not an Aztec site like Tenochtitlan, nor a Maya site like Chichen Itza, which are spectacular. The Zapotecs are the accountants of Indigenous People. Their sites aren´t tall or painted particularly well and there are no cool sacred spots and they don´t appear to have sacrificed anybody. Ho Hum. BZWZ, it was Willie at Uxmal all over again and your parents kept laughing while thinking you would have hated Hector even more than you hated Willie.

There was also the issue of the Traveler´s Bubble, which kept threatening to make things very nasty very quick, but didn´t.



GODDAM IT ANOTHER WF***CB!! Ai-yee!

Back in Oaxaca, Duck found a beautiful jewelry store, Uh Oh.

Plottie went looking for accordions, but found none. On the streets of Oaxaca, many tiny children (6 years old and up) sit in doorways and play accordion, while their little brothers beg for money. They play the same damned song, over and over and over and over. It's very sad to Plottie -- the same kids are in the same doorways if you walk down the street at 8AM and they're still there when you walk back at 10PM. Some can barely hold the instrument. Their clothes are dirty and they don't really play tunes -- they just kind of noodle while they move the bellows in and out. It may be the worst gig ever...but they do get a few tips. Plottie kept dropping 10 pesos in the hat ($1) but the kids' eyes registered nothing.

It´s one of the enduring senses of Oaxaca -- the smell of corn tortillas and the sound of Cielito Lindo on accordion.

Plottie could really use a nap.