Stan Gotlieb's
"Letters from México"Behold, A Flock of Tourists
Photography by Diana Ricci
A tomb in the panteón (cemetery) of San Felipe del Agua, outside of Oaxaca City, decorated for Day of The Dead.It has been a quiet summer season, and the zocalo (town square) population has been mostly limited to local folks and individual tourists (with the exception of the French, who never go anywhere in less-than-busload lots). We few "regulars" tend to forget that the end of October ushers in "high season" for tourism. As one friend put it, looking out at the influx, "tide's in".
Today is November 1, the second day of a three day festival known as Dia de Muertos (Day of the Dead). Oaxaca is vibrant with festivities, cultural offerings, and traditional celebrations. There are musical and artistic events, craft expositions, and promenades, all centering on Muertos. There are special foods. There are hordes and floods and scourges of tourists.
Now don't get me wrong, I love tourists. They are me, a scant three years ago. They are my bread and butter (I teach an orientation class). They are, some of them, my future neighbors. Those of you who have read other of my Letters may recall that I have exhorted my readers to "c'mon down". I still do. I say it now: c'mon down!
Tourists as individuals are great, but when they get grouped up a qualitative change takes place. They crowd into my favorite sidewalk café, pulling five or six tables together and shouting at each other to be heard from one end to another. They all go to the same ruins, the same rug sellers, the same pottery town, the same cemetery, the same... Their crowded itineraries and their carefully packaged and sanitized amenities conspire to turn them into unimaginative, unadventurous robots; direction followers; compliant money spenders. They become "good little tourists", every tour guide's dream, following their leader like chicks after a mother hen.
Tour guides -- the ones who bring them down from the States, not the local folks -- live in Orange County. They are about 45, female and have brown hair with a henna rinse. They tend toward gaudy clothes and large ornamental costume jewelry and have loud nasal voices which they use with authority. They are weary, wary, and jaded, like taxi drivers, reporters, and others who deal with the public for their livelihood. They may or may not like the destinations to which they travel, but while they are working they have scant time to spare for adventure. And they work very, very, very hard. And while I may seem unsympathetic to them, I wouldn't trade places with them, especially not for the little bit of money they make.
So what's my point? Why am I grousing? This Letter, like most, is as much about me as about my subject: it reveals me to myself. It would appear that I am becoming proprietary about my adopted home, after almost three years here. For better or worse, I am turning into one of those "old extranjeros" (see Do You Live Here?) that I wrote about when I first arrived: guarding the gates to "MY" Oaxaca. Since this process is probably an inevitable one, I am doing my best to slow it down, by exposing myself to you, and to me.
Oh, one last note: I exaggerated. Some travel agents come from Los Angeles county, and a few are bottled blondes.
If you have comments or suggestions for Stan, you can contact him at:
http://www.realoaxaca.com/email-realoaxaca.html
