Temexla, Puebla: Perspectives from rural Mexico
The square five-gallon can with a slow burning fire inside generated enough heat to warm the tortillas and beans. Small containers of salsa, chilis and whatever sat on the ground. The half dozen or so workers formed a circle around their stove, talking and laughing, seemingly unaware of the mid-day chill and dampening mist.
The thick eroded adobe walls had not been razed to the ground. They had built the wall up with brick, and later, when it would all be stuccoed over, no one would know. A ramp of wood planks, to the floor above, was still in place. Its primary function was a means of carrying concrete to pour the second floor. Guys on the ground mixed the concrete by hand. Maybe fifteen or twenty carried the concrete in buckets up the ramp, and other guys above worked the concrete. It had to be done in a continuous pour, so they worked as long as necessary to finish the job.
"Does the taxi to Temexla stop here?"
"Yeah, one will be by in a few minutes."
Actually, I knew the run of the taxis. I had gone this route before due to the transmission and computer problems I had been having with my vehicle. I am drawn to construction sites and converse easily with construction workers. Maybe I was also attracted by the warm friendly conversation and laughter. I had already been waiting for a taxi for about an hour on the town square. I had searched the town for a pack of Montana cigarettes. I had bought a roll of film and took pictures of the church on the plaza with its massive, arched, wooden entry door. Off the plaza I had photographed a wall of large, graceful arches which stood alone. Perhaps at one time they had supported portales or were part of a hacienda. All the time keeping an eye out on the road in case a taxi should appear.
I am in the small town of Cuyuaca, off the highway, about two hours northeast from Puebla. The tension of earlier in the day has subsided.
"Do you want a taco".
"No, I don't feel like eating, I think I've got gas on my stomach." There was no point in my taking their sparse rations when I had money in my pocket.
"Are you a Spaniard?"
"No I'm from the States."
"Good, we kill Spaniards."
One worker sort of hung his head, seemingly embarrassed by his companions comment. "Some Spaniards are good people." There is still a lot of left-over resentment from centuries of exploitation and class discrimination by the Spaniards. There is also resentment against the U.S. for little things, such as taking over half their country.
"Do they really shoot Mexicans that try sneak across the border illegally?"
"No, they usually just round them up and send them back home." I give them my usual story, trying to discourage them from wanting to go to the States illegally. I know what a nightmare many of them live once they get there. They usually make less than minimum wage and live in slums. I could write a thesis on this subject.
"How much does a bag of cement cost now?" I asked casually. I also knew the price of cement since I had bought some within the last few days.
"It's 60 pesos a bag now. Some of us have to work a day and a half to make that much money. Just enough money to buy a bag of cement." It makes me reflect. Everything is going up in price, out of reach of working men like these…milk, eggs, a loaf bread, gasoline. Yet, you can be realy healthy eating tortillas, beans and fresh fruit and vegetables. There are things I still don't fully understand, like how these people can be happy and laughing and when I go to the States everyone seems so up-tight.
He continued, "We are not so bad off, gracias a dios. I see pictures of those little brown babies in Africa with bloated bellies who look like they never had anything to eat. There are a lot of people worse off than we are. We're lucky. And we are a happy people."
"Yeah, I understand Mexico has an immigration problem on its Guatamalan border with people wanting to cross illegally, looking for a better life."
A small, crowded, beat-up blue and yellow taxi starts to pass me by and the workers shout at it and it stops. The young driver looks like he has had a rough day. I squeeze in the front seat beside an elderly man and we do the best we can to accommodate each other. It's four or five miles to Temexla, down a bumpy hard packed dirt road. The young driver skillfully eases his vehicle through deep pools of water maybe twenty feet wide. Its been raining a lot.
We pass an old hacienda. Manuel's family lived and worked there before they were given another place to live nearby. Such was the beginning of the village of Temexla. Temexla is composed mostly of families that worked on the hacienda, and their offspring. In Temexla I climb a steep, deeply rutted, slippery wet, dirt street. I pass chickens and turkeys which have a free run of the village. A tethered burrow, and heavily laden pear and apple trees remind me that I haven't had lunch. The people are friendly. Finally I reach Manuel's furniture shop. I sit at the kitchen table and they serve me a cup of hot coffee. With Manuel and three or four of his older children who help him, we discuss business. They are good people.
At a road junction outside the village I wait for another taxi. It's around 6 p.m.. Getting dark. It's still misty. Clouds hang low in the sky and cling to the hillsides. Occasionally a vehicle passes. Sounds seem muffled by the mist and the wet sandy road surface. It is strangely quiet. A brief moment of female laughter drifts from the village piercing the silence. An older man sheltered under a slouchy wet straw hat and a poncho, passes by bringing his small herd of sheep home from pasture. His face is the color of a tarnished copper penny.
I probably won't get home till after 10 PM. Maybe I'll stop a while in Apizaco and look for a place that makes really good warm tacos. That sounds good. And a hot cup of coffee.
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