Disco-Teco

Oaxaca is to the average Mexican what London was to the average comrade of Dick Whittington: for all intents and purposes, it is paved with gold. Something about the traditions, the food, the people, the lifestyle, or the vistas makes this particular member state of the Estados Unidos de Mexico the one to be celebrated throughout the southern half of the country. Here in Veracruz a Oaxaceño (also known as a Teco) can more or less be found on every corner, as a staggeringly large proportion of residents have Oaxacan roots. The Oaxacans are known for their beer-full parties and hospitable demeanour. This makes for one happy resident Guera.

Every Monday I pay a fun-filled morning in two different primary schools in Minatitlan, doing the things that make teaching English fun: playing games, giving sweets to small children (although that also comprises the daily activities of people who should most definitely be kept away from small children), singing Wheels on the Bus and being asked by pouting infants ‘Why do you only come once a week?’ So yesterday-Monday, instead of heading straight back home to my beloved Cosolea after the final bell rung at midday (oh, it is a hard life), I hung around with Nora, a fellow teacher who happens to be from Oaxaca originally, and so the lavishing of attention, surprises and all-round undeserved and unrelenting generosity began. First things first, we got our hair done. A maze of plaits was elaborated in a sweltering salon, only to be complete ob

scured by a two-part flower, hair and ribbon-based headdress. The next most important task was, of course, eating. Nora happens to be an amazing cook. I also happen to be a fantastic eater. So the melt-in-the-mouth cochinita (something to do with pork) and creamy spaghetti, tortillas and cream cake for afters were demolished by the hairstyled, mming and aahing pale white girl she had let into her spotless house. I then did what every girl dreams of after watching Walt Disney Princess films: I got laced into a corset. We stopped short of performing full-blown cartoon lace-tightening, foot resting on buttocks and organs jumping up into the throat.

Fully decked out in our traditional Teca regalia, waved off by her daughter and mother, Nora and I waded into the party. An entire street was decked out with tables, many an ice-box, a live band, a dance floor and an abundance e of food. None of that compared to the amount of people crammed into a relatively modest space. It seems that old Santa Cecilia is someone worth celebrating. And she also happens to be the patron saint of music, so the volume was pumped up full blast. I pushed my corset to the limits, with the oodles of prawns, tamales, ceviche, beer and, most notably, illegally smuggled tortoise eggs which I was plied with. A quick word on tortoise eggs: next time someone tells me to make a hole, whack some salsa in then ‘suck hard’, I will explore all possible alternatives before blindly obeying. At least the clapping and whooping distracted me from the slimy yet oddly firm mass I was chewing and which was also hanging off my chin.

With music comes dancing, and in this case it was like a discotheque of the third age. My boogeying companions were generally upward of 50 years old, all wearing an equal amount of velvet, taffeta and fake gold, but the set-up was oh-so-familiar, evoking memories of Klute nights, club nights and teenage parties, taking turns in the circle, getting down low and pushing your friends into the middle to crack a move or two, preferably without cracking a bone or two. A personal highlight was my dance-off with a gentleman of around three-score years and five, in which I was trounced by his shoulder-shake move. I left with an invitation to the next fiesta, a love for the golden streets of Oaxaca and the golden hearts of its people, and a desire to dress like Frida Kahlo every day.