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Dancing In The Streets

Since my near-nightly stroll to the Zocalo takes me right by the front door, I plan to stop in for a couple of free mezcals and a look around. Oaxaca's system of andadores (walking streets), paved with cobblestones and closed to traffic, branches out to include the block the gallery is on. We use these streets whenever possible, to avoid the brutal exhaust pollution of the town center.

As soon as I enter the andador, I begin to hear the music: brass and reeds, slightly off key and lusty, playing a cross between a marching tune and a waltz. It is a distinctive sound, the accompanyment to an entertainment which is puro (pure) Oaxaca. I feel my whole being lighten up. The monos are dancing!

Monos are figures made out of paper maché and bamboo. People put them on and dance around. No public fiesta is complete without them. First you construct a sort of igloo out of hoops and struts of bamboo. Then you model a head out of paper maché to fasten to the top. There is a "chavo" (cowboy), complete with hat and long sideburns; a couple of women with long earrings; a peasant and a couple of city guys; some kids (easy: just make the frames shorter); and a chicken (wearing a dress).

The talliér (workshop) where they are made and stored is next door to the gallery. A series of rooms in front and living quarters in the rear, it is a rabbit warren with some paving and some dirt floors. The family who live there are poor in money but rich in spirit. They are the repository of a tradition that goes back beyond living memory.

The dancers wear the monos. They lift them up over their heads, and lower them down to the straps that fit on their shoulders. Depending on their height, and that of the mono, they look out of an opening in the pelvis, stomach, or chest of the mono, which is fully -- and very colorfully -- clothed. As they dance, they whirl around, causing the arms which have been sewn on to lift. It is hard for me to imagine what it must be like to be a five-foot person in a ten-foot mono, whirling round and round like a dervish on the uneven cobblestones.

It turns out that the monos are the entertainment for the opening. There is a crowd of local folks gathered around, almost all of whom will not go into the gallery. Interspersed here and there are opening nighters. Entranced, I take a seat on the stone wall across the street. The monos dance on, the band blares out its tinny tune, kids start dancing with them, adults chat with one another and teeners hold hands and exchange soulful gazes.

Around the corner, guided by antennae which never cease to amaze me, comes the refreshment stand: a man with a strap around his neck attached to a multi-tiered tray; a sort of grandstand of cigarettes, candy, peanuts, pocket combs, chicklets and chocolate.

During the break, I wander in to the gallery, to check out the show and greet old friends. Shortly after the music starts I am back on the wall. After a while, with my soul replenished, I ease myself off the wall, "con permiso" (excuse me) my way through the crowd, and continue my walk to the Zocalo. I just got back last night, after three months away. Now I am home.

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