Salsa Piquante

Some of us started taking dance lessons yesterday, and as you've probably guessed we are already practically professional, and when I say "professional" I mean awkward, uncoordinated and hilarious. You'll probably notice I haven't included a photo in this week's post. That's deliberate.

Today I lucked out and got paired with the instructor. Last Friday, we missed the lesson when the instructor moved it up in order to go out in the evening. We weren't entirely clear on why he required four hours of preparation, although some of the boys suggested it might take him that long to peel his pants off, as his sartorial tastes lean towards a tighter fit than our boys are used to. Trousers notwithstanding, the man is an incredible dancer and I actually felt graceful tonight, and when I say "graceful" I mean marginally less likely to maim any of the couples dancing near me.

So I'm making progress. At this rate, I'll be channelling Ginger Rogers by the end of the week.

Cactus in a cup

J and I hit up el mercado today in search of some ice cream described in her guidebook. The heladero was kind enough to give us a few samples of the rarer flavors, which turned out to be a good thing, as the Beso de Oaxaca (literally a "Oaxacan kiss," and even more literally a mouthful of shredded dried fruit) and the leche quemada turned out not to be my bag. I kind of assumed leche quemada (literally "burnt milk") was a metaphor, but it turned out to be an all too accurate description. You can really taste the burning, which is not the sort of thing I personally look for in an ice cream.

I ended up going fairly traditional--chocolate and coconut--whereas J strayed into more adventurous territory, ordering a mixture of mango con chile (which is exactly what it sounds like) and tuna (which is not). La tuna is actually a cactus, and it turned out to be fairly refreshing. According to our heladero, chocolate and lime are the most popular flavors for children, whereas Oaxacan adults tend to go for leche quemada and tuna (so points to J for authenticity). His personal favorite is mezcal, which is the local liquor of choice, and he let me try a sample. Imagine a scoop of rum raisin without the raisins, and instead of rum, rubbing alcohol.

I am not a fan of mezcal--even in ice cream form.

As we ate, we were approached by several vendors selling bookmarks, scarves and other trinkets, and we began to wonder about the market's target audience. Some of the items (the hunks of raw meat speared on hooks, dark towers of chiles, wet mounds of mole, tortilla dough) are clearly for locals, whereas others (gewgaws and trinkets and festive sombreros) are clearly targeting a foreign audience.

I've done enough reading on tourism theory to know that tourism can harm a community as easily as it can help it, and I'm very conscious of my role as a tourist in this country. So today I ate ice cream (buying local = good!) but refused to purchase any of the Oaxacan gimcracks (spurning the informal economy = bad!) and took the bus (local transport = good!) and then walked to a popular church (photographing sacred spaces = bad!).

Granted, the tourism conundrum is significantly more complicated than I'm making it out to be here, but as today was one of my more touristy (as opposed to academic) days, I was highly conscious of my impact on the local environment. At this point I'm just hoping to break even. Perhaps some further research at the ice cream stand is in order....

Does my moustache intimidate you?

Went to the movies last night to catch an educational film on the myth of the Porfiriato, the thirty-year period in which Porfirio Diaz ruled the country. When we arrived, we discovered the evening's entertainment consisted instead of this little gem, a film called "El Rayo de Sinaloa: II."

This movie had all the subtlety of a sucker punch, with considerably less clarity. But if you like incompetent villains, mustachioed heroes and a leading lady who can bat her eyelashes while coquettishly spearing a slab of beef on a meathook, then I can say with all sincerity that this is the film for you.

Our group got a bit giggly during a few scenes, my personal favorites being the man who, having been "shot" carefully located the stunt mattress before gracefully leaping from the roof, and a romantic scene that involved both a tuburcular coughing fit and horseback canoodling -- because evidently nothing says "romance" like hacking up a lung on the dusty trail.

So the film was a bit of a wash, but it was an interesting experience. Heraclio was evidently a Robin Hood-esque figure who believed in the redistribution of land and money--a major theme in the history of Mexico. After the film, some of us went out for ice-cream and others went for tacos, so clearly it was an evening of high culture all around.

Buy me some tacos and cracker jacks...

Having spent a larger portion of my high school years in stirrup pants than I'd like to admit, I'm not really accustomed to attracting the attention of cheerleaders, and am generally a little nervous when I do. But the part of my brain that recognizes potential public disgrace was, tragically, silent today.

So when a Guerrerita (a cheerleader for the local triple A team -- Go Guerreros!) approached us at the stadium today and asked if eight of us would be willing to accompany her for a special task, I was more than happy to oblige. We were all aware that our selection may have had something to do with racial profiling. The stadium wasn't exactly packed, and we were definitely the largest (if not the only) group of gringos in the joint.

The potential for being subjected to humiliating behavior was clear, but what's life without adventure? Not only did I agree to complete some anonymous task, I actually strong-armed some of my friends into coming along.

"What's the worst that could happen?" I asked. "We face catastrophic humiliation and make asses of ourselves in front of dozens. So what's the big deal?"

And so eight of us left our seats and happily followed the friendly stranger into the unknown.

I'm not going to tell you what happened next. I really think Holly had the best on-the-ground perspective of the whole scene, so I'll leave that to her. Suffice it to say that the stadium seemed a lot fuller on the walk back to our seats. The interminable walk back to our very, very distant seats.

On the bright side, the Guerreros trounced the Yucatan Leones, 7-1, and everybody got a free hat. Holler!

I'm not going to accuse the cheerleaders of applying a double standard, but it is worth noting that the two chicos who volunteered got a completely different assignment, which was fairly incomprehensible. I believe it involved carrying a heavy sack for some distance, but in the video below (which I can post confidently, since Mike still hasn't figured out how to log in and cannot remove it) shows the action.

It kind of looks like he's taking out the garbage, but I assure you it was much more dramatic at the time.