It starts with a road. A road with potholes and bumps and dips. A road big enough for only two cars and yet there are three lanes. A road that snakes in and out of the tree-draped mountains. And on the side of the road, life blooms with an untamed vigor. Flowers shine their radiance and the most middling shrub has a striking personality of its own. To the left, a long, affable cactus waves at the passing cars. To the right, a valley dappled with flora that gracefully ends at the bottom sturdy mountain in the distance. Ahead, a small village bubbles with life: a seasoned man and an exhausted donkey resting on the side of the road on their way to the market; a giggling girl points at a frolicking dog...
Who ever knew that beauty could exist in such a place? I wonder, does anyone ever stop and experience the simple yet complex beauty that breathes in a small town in the south of Mexico? My family and I were invited to an Indian wedding in an Indian village, and I shall never forget that trip. We drove on patchy, coiled roads where reading was impossible, yet never once did I really take notice. All I could think of was how the clouds rested on the top of the mountain, how the old wooden shack on the side of the road gave an aura of mysteries, how the road slipped into the mist, how the cars fingered through the velvet fog. The wedding was held in a hushed mountain village, protected in the fog. I could not see more than thirty feet in front of me. The native women, young and old, all wore their typical dress: red huipiles, hand crafted masterpieces with long colorful ribbon streamers floating to the ground after them.
Needless to say, we had to wait two hours for the bride to get ready for the wedding, but thank goodness time is not more important than the people in Mexico. Finally, when the bride and groom arrived, we took the steep, muddy path that led to the undersized wooden building (or the church) seated on top of a hill. I was dumb enough to bring my high heals to this Indian wedding, so as a result, the journey up was an interesting one. Once at the top, I had to sit outside in the freezing weather since the church held only a few. Thankfully, I was smart enough to bring my jacket. As I waited for the wedding to end (I had developed quite the desire for food by the end), I passed time by playing with the fallen pine needles and pleasantly chatting in Spanish with Andres, a Mexican chavo (lad).
After the wedding, and the time finally came to eat, the whole village was involved. We made our way down to the town square where the meal was to be had. My feet have never hurt so badly from walking on village paths with my city high heels. My advice to anyone who will hear me: never wear high heels in the mountains. Thankfully, a young man kindly offered to take me on his bike so that I didn’t have to walk.
The whole village was still blanketed in fog. The tables relaxed under a big tarp. The chair sunk into the mud when I sat down in it. As I waited for my food, I looked out, and gazed in amazement at the fog and how it gave the village a sense of vagueness. When my place was served to be, I ate with delight. Oh, how I love Mexican food. How can I describe the taste? I cannot honour with my words the perfection of the Mexican food. It was so salty and spicy; it makes my mouth water even as I speak of it. The red pozole with long pieces of meat called my name with a passion. I took my plastic spoon and enjoyed my food con gusto. And to make it more authentic, I drank coke, but real, Mexican coke, not American coke. There is a difference, you know. After I had finished my food, my father and I tried some of the chile peppers. I felt like the fog moved into my head it was so hot. I’m surprised I didn’t drown myself in the amount of liquid I drank.
On our way back, the fog was so thick, the car inched forward. Any simple mistake and we could all fall over the edge of the mountain to be lost forever. We finally got to the bigger village where we were going to sleep. I sank into my bed and slept for a full twelve hours. In the morning, we ate tamales with the family we were staying with. I ate two and was absolutely stuffed. As we all finished our breakfast, we shared stories and laughed and smiled. I felt so happy to be included in the grown up talk. It almost felt like everyone was family. The father laughed the loudest. I never knew exactly what “a twinkle in his eyes” meant until I met him. His crow’s feet seemed to be outlined in Sharpie. He seemed to smile and laugh at anything. He energetically told his stories, but was needy in listening. Yet still, I liked him. I was sad leaving that house...
It ends with a road. The river glides in and out of the weeping trees. The Catholic temple positioned beside a mountain that belongs in a fairy tale book. The sky above must have been painted by God, Himself. Clouds distribute themselves. Birds flit here and there. Butterflies bounce and bees buzz. The road heads straight for a red clay mountains contrasted with green tress. Words do no justice to the stunning foothills, the captivating Mexican sky, the common bush, the lonely cactus, the small house on the side of the hill. Anyone who is has the honour of seeing such great treasures is truly lucky indeed. Never would I give up my life as a missionary kid. I have fallen in love with Mexico, its feral mountains and trees, its dusty villages, its roads full of potholes, bumps, and dips.
