More than just a holiday, my visit to Oaxaca was an escape from reality. My world came crashing down one sunny Tuesday afternoon in February when I was told I had to leave Mexico before the month was out: by Thursday morning I was headed to Oaxaca. I wasn’t even sure what I’d do for 4 days alone in such a small city, but something drew me inexorably there all the same.
Stepping onto the street the first morning, the first thing I could smell was chocolate. Not the sweet, sickly scent of European confectionery but the deep, rich, bitter aroma of roasted cocoa beans spiced with cinnamon. It smelled like heaven. All along the street from my hotel, chocolaterías were blending the stuff with almonds and sugar to make thick, hot chocolate almendrado or pounding it with chillis into a complex, smokey mole negro sauce.
After a breakfast of a huge tamal (steamed corn dough stuffed with chicken mole and wrapped in banana leaves) and a steaming bowl of Oaxacan chocolate, I headed down the road to the city’s main market. Inside was a riot of life and colour, from people bartering over vibrant embroidered clothes and hand-painted wooden animals to stalls selling mountains of dried chillis, heaps of fried grasshoppers or bite-size balls of quesillo, the salty, stringy and incredibly moreish local cheese.
But this wasn’t to be my only market experience. The owner of my hotel had told me about a famous local market in Tlacolula, a town about half an hour away. Situated in the Valley of Oaxaca, at weekends it becomes a meeting point for thousands of zapotec people who come down from the surrounding mountains to buy, sell and socialise.
After an eventful shared taxi journey (sandwiched between the driver and a large man in the middle of the two front seats of a small car), I stumbled out into a street so full of sounds, sights and smells that I could barely take it in. Two large turkeys squabbling at my feet, the sharp tang of lime and the sweet heady fragrance of ripe guavas, a frail old lady holding out her wares and crying “Lima! Lima!”, and everywhere, everywhere people speaking in the native zapotec language.
Inside the main market building, I followed the hotelier’s directions to a specific barbecue spot. Squashed onto a bench between a toothless grandma and a chattering family, I was served a bowl of rich spicy broth loaded with the most tender, mouthwatering pit-roasted meat imaginable, accompanied by a stack of warm tortillas. This was rounded off by a unique and delicious icecream made with milk caramel, candied carrot and prickly pear. I eventually left Tlacolula heavier of stomach but much, much lighter of heart, bearing bags of tropical fruit and incredible local pastries as a short-lived reminder of my visit.
On my last day in Oaxaca, I took a tour of the surrounding area, visiting the ruins of Mitla and the breathtaking petrified waterfalls of Hierve el Agua. On our way back, we stopped off at a mezcalería to see how this quintessentially Mexican drink is made. Like tequila (its more refined and infinitely more famous cousin), mezcal is made from a succulent plant known as maguey or agave. We sucked on sweet strips of fermented maguey as we toured the tiny rustic distillery, then tasted different varities of mezcal to finish. As they say here: “Para todo mal, mezcal; para todo bien, también.” (To cure all problems, mezcal; to celebrate all good things, the same). Just what the doctor ordered…cheers!
In the end, my 4 days weren’t enough, couldn’t possibly be enough, but they were undoubtedly food for the soul.
¡Gracias Oaxaca, te quiero!
Thinking Through My Fingers 