Building Habitat
A couple of months ago I found that the lake bed was dry, and that substantial mounds were being built on the margins of the original islands. The old reservoir had been drained for maintenance.
That this kind of work is being done is unsurprising: the preserve is managed sensitively and imaginatively. Every year, El Charco becomes richer, an relic of the original environment before population growth pressured wildlife and native plant populations.
What is unusual, though, is the scale of the work. Recently, I've noticed more and more heavy machinery being used on construction and road building projects in our part of Mexico. Here in the El Charco lakebed, I was surprised to find some heavy equipment doing the work, instead of the usual gang of shovel-wielding laborers.
The big Komatsu shovel looks almost new. Somehow, funding for El Charco must be sufficient to enable rental of gear like this; a miracle in itself.
A bulldozer shapes the margins of one of the islands, spewing clouds of black smoke as it scrapes the earth.
In other circumstances, such pollution would horrify me. But population density in our part of Mexico is low, and few smokestack industries feed components of smog into the air. At least locally, the atmosphere seems to be able to absorb what we humans put into it.
Someone will probably point out that the carbon footprint of these machines is huge, and of course she would be right. It's hard to know which might be better for the planet: huge diesel engines or gangs of manual laborers.
I'm ashamed to admit that I have a childhood affection for big machines belching black smoke. When I was ten, my father would take me on the steam train to New York City. We'd cross the Hudson River on a coal-burning ferryboat, past huge brick smokestacks throwing dark clouds into the sky. I understand the horrific impact that kind of industry had on us all. But my old-fashioned engineer's heart unaccountably still loves the look and smell of black smoke, the signature of what we thought of as progress at the middle of the last century.
In the case of El Charco, an investment of a couple hundred pounds of carbon results in a sanctuary for native wildlife of the Bahio. How can we tell if the environmental cost is balanced by the benefit? We're driving the egrets out of the city center (post). If we want to avoid their disappearance altogether, shouldn't we provide some sort of home for them?
A Walk through Valle de Maiz
At fiesta time, streets are festooned with papeles picados (pierced paper banners). Traditionally, these are made by stacking hundreds of sheets of tissue paper and hammering chisels through the pile to make cutout patterns. Recently vinyl has replaced tissue paper and automatic presses have replaced chisels; another dubious leap into the First World. Vinyl banners last longer, but ultimately they break and become indestructible litter. Tissues conveniently melt away in the rain.
No other neighborhood achieves the ebullience of Valle de Maiz, neither in festive appearance nor in quantity and impact of fireworks. Street processions on the Salida de Querétaro snarl traffic for hours. Tempers flair. Cops stand around helplessly.
The people of Valle de Maiz don't care.
Thunderous explosions rattle my house and send Rosie (my Boston Terrier) scurrying into my bed. In between blasts, church bells clang frantically. Music—amplified as only Mexicans can amplify—knifes through my windows.
Of course, after you've lived here for awhile, you get used to noise. Or you leave Mexico. One or the other. 'Cause it ain't gonna get quiet here anytime soon.
A frustrated newcomer wrote a letter to our English-language newspaper, Atención, complaining about noise. A bad move—his concerns failed to reach sympathetic ears. Next issue, a tidal wave of responses accused him of being chauvinist and mean-spirited.
Nicer letters to the editor suggested he might be happier in Flint, MI. Nastier ones suggested maybe we'd be happier if he lived there.
—§—
Between fiestas, the decorations remain, but the neighborhood becomes placid. The day I walked through, camera in hand, the only noise came from a man hammering a chisel, the ubiquitous sound of all Mexican abañiles (construction workers) and do-it-yourself homeowners.
A five-gallon plastic bucket serves as a stepladder. We're in the country of make-do. Stuff designed for one use finds new life in another. Almost nothing gets thrown away.
For example, this Valle de Maiz entrepreneur rents used wood. That's right. The top line of his sign reads: "Wood for Rent."
Wood is scarce and expensive in Mexico. Posts and beams are used to support masonry during construction. Planks get used to make forms for concrete. Afterward, all that wood is recycled for use in another project. If you need more wood than you have on hand, you can rent some from this guy.
I don't think his is a booming business. His delivery truck has a couple of flat tires that look like they've been there for awhile. Should he get lucky and get an order, he'll probably pump them up. Otherwise he'll just leave them they way they are.
In this country, deferred maintenance is the watchword. You know when something needs attention when it breaks. Even then, you leave it broken until you really need it. Only then do you get out the duct tape, an old coat hanger, and a sawn-in-half plastic Coke bottle, and effect repairs.
Every barrio has its own church. The one in Valle de Maiz is named Santa Cruz Peregrina. It's architecturally uninteristing—looks more like a blockhouse than a church. One interesting detail—the entry is framed in old carved cantera that was recycled from another building.
Along one side of the church, two benches have been formed from a large tree trunk sawn in half lengthwise. Stubs of the branches form some of the legs, rocks were used for others.
Walk into any modest Mexican neighborhood, and you'll see this dichotomy: an economy of materials reused, recycled and adapted to various needs, and a profligacy of fiestas and celebrations. For my money, the residents of Valle de Maiz have got their priorities right.
Another priority is community pride. The residents of a good barrio pull together. They find their sense of identity with their neighbors. Some neighborhoods are more like tribes than neighbors.
A mural depicts Iglesia Santa Cruz Peregrina with a row of corn planted in front. There hasn't been a cornstalk grown in Valle de Maiz in years, but that's not important. The people here identify themselves as living in the valley that used to grow corn, and they have built an entire culture and community around that idea.
In a week or so I'll hear a banda blatting away. That'll be the citizens of Valle de Maiz letting us all know who they are, one more time. I've learned to sleep through it. I wish Rosie could.
Rambutan
They look like something out of The Little Shop of Horrors. The label on the box said "Rambutan" which I figured was a brand name. A one-kilo box was priced at $60 pesos—less than the price of peaches in Los Angeles—so I figured I'd splurge and buy some.
Once I got them home, it dawned on me I had no idea how to prepare them. (I often get myself into those kinds of fixes.) I decided to gain knowledge by dissecting one. I sliced one of the 1½" fruits in half with my french chef's knife.
Instant identification: these had to be big, hairy lychees. The translucent white, rubbery flesh and the big clingy pit were giveaways. And the fruit tasted the same. Well, once you know they're lychees, you know exactly what to do with them, so I won't repeat the tedious details here.
For the hell of it, I googled "rambutan" to learn about the grower. To my surprise, I learned that: 1) My fruits are not lychees, and 2) Rambutan actually is the proper name. In fact, the rambutan has its own website, well worth visiting if you're interested in exotic fruit.
I wasn't far off the mark, however, in identifying the fruit: "rambutan" means "hairy lychee" in the Malay language.
These fruits, along with lychees and carambolas (star fruits), are not expensive imports from Southeast Asia. Mexico is partly a tropical country: my rambutans were produced by a Mexican grower.
Rambutans appear in Soriana to appeal to Mexico's growing middle class. Such people have discretionary income and the curiosity to explore new culinary horizons. Less-developed parts of the country still see food in terms of one kilo of tortillas per person per day. But in the north, food means more than just nutrition. Distribution of wealth and income is still grossly uneven, but not so much as it was in the 20th Century. Many Mexicans now have money to spend, and malls are being built to accommodate them. The world's 12th-largest economy, for better or worse, is becoming more like the colossus north of the border.
Employing the Handicapped
Second: Centro de Crecimiento was founded by Lucha Maxwell, a long-time resident of San Miguel who provided care for her handicapped husband
—§—
The other day Paul (El Guapo) Latoures and I were headed out the Dolores Highway to Parripollo, planning to pig out on barbecued chicken and cecina. Paul was grumbling as he often does about all the new housing developments on the outskirts of town, when we passed this place:
"Look," said Paul. "They're even building way out here. Who's gonna live in all these houses?"
Turns out this isn't a housing development; it's an industrial one. Light industry. Very light.
Most of the buildings on this estate consist of a warehouse, some offices, and some small factories owned and operated by Charles Hall. His business, called Exportadora Camino Norte, exports Mexican handcrafted items to retailers in the United States. In recent years, Charlie has begun manufacturing some of the goods he exports, to ensure consistent and reliable supply and quality. Part of his mission is to keep Mexican handcraft traditions alive by providing a place for people to learn and practice artisanship.
You can see some of the glassware and candles he produces in this view of his warehouse.
Charlie, shown here with his chocolate lab, has one other mission: To provide employment for handicapped persons. He is particularly qualified for this, because he himself is handicapped. He has worked in corporations that, while laudably hiring the handicapped, fail to get the most out of such people, shortchanging themselves while at the same time limiting career growth of employees with disabilities.
You can read much more about what Charlie is up to in his blog.
Here's a look at Charlie's operation. This view is from the grabado (glass-carving) factory, which now employs seven, four of whom are disabled. Here, Miguel looks on while Remedios and Magdalena learn the art, carving practice pieces of flat glass.
Soon they will be producing objects like this partially-completed drinking glass.
The newest of Charlie's operations is the candle factory. Previously he bought candles from an independent candle maker, but supply issues caused him to purchase the process and begin manufacturing them himself.
Although the candles appear to be hand dipped, they are actually made by repeatedly pouring molten wax over them. Above, Rosa dips wax form the galvanized tub and pours it over a candle, rotating the circular frame to bring new candles into position as needed. The tub sits on a gas heater which keeps the wax at about 100º C.
Below, Paula, Erika, and Elia apply brand labels to the candles.
The finished Santa Rosa candles are available at a number of U. S. and Mexican specialty stores.
Today Charlie worries about the state of the economy and the effect it might have on his business. But his is a well-run, successful enterprise of which an important ingredient is something few understand: Handicapped people represent an underused reservoir of people who are every bit as productive as anyone else. The secret is to allow them to work out how to get their jobs done in their own ways. They know best how to apply their individual faculties to any task.
Government agencies and NGOs provide aid to the handicapped. But they're not enough. It takes a visionary like Charlie to bring such people into the mainstream. His workers hold desireable jobs in a country where it's difficult for anyone to find work, much less someone with a disability.
He's not cutting his people any breaks. Exportadora Camino Norte is not a charity. Charlie just makes the effort to seek out such people and gives them the freedom to do their thing. They are expected to perform as well as anyone. They have to—if the business is going to succeed.
Handicapped in Mexico
We have a lot less of that in Mexico, especially in a colonial town like San Miguel de Allende, where streets were laid out in the 1600s without SUVs and wheelchairs in mind. (Our situation can hardly be called poor urban planning.)
Narrow sidewalks and steep hills characterize our city terrain. Steps may be wheelchair-unfriendly, but without them, the resulting steep, slick flagstones would greatly increase the already large number of injuries from falls, conceivably putting more people in wheelchairs.
Stopping in our narrow streets blocks traffic, so no estacionar (no parking) signs abound. If people actually obeyed them, commerce would grind to a halt. Instead, they park on sidewalks, leaving just enough room for passing cars, but making walkways impassible for pedestrians, handicapped or otherwise.
To prevent sidewalk parking, bollards have been placed at the edges of some walkways. While they clear the way for strolling tourists, they reduce the width of this particular sidewalk just enough that no wheelchair could navigate it.
Just ahead of the illegally parked Safari (note that his plates have been taken by the traficantes), the sidewalk has been narrowed, permitting parking without blocking traffic. So the bollards really haven't reduced the effective width of the sidewalk, anyway. No matter how passible the path looks, you can rest assured that some obstacle will appear a few meters farther on.
—§—
We have many handicapped people in Mexico. Some make their livings by begging.
This man is a fixture in San Miguel de Allende. He sits patiently in high-traffic spots or tap-tap-taps along as he moves from one place to another. He has the city layout memorized; the locations of potholes, open utility holes, and those quintessential Mexican sidewalk hazards, lengths of rebar sticking up like punji stakes.
Other beggars inhabit our streets. One plays guitar and harmonica. Both of his feet are bent inward at 90º angles—a condition that probably would have been corrected in a rich society. Another musician hobbles along on her crutches, one leg missing.
This woman plies her trade in an outdoor market near Oaxaca. Her legs end at mid-thigh and she's missing both hands. She crawls through the market to where she sells whatever that stuff is on her back. Waiting for customers, she sits with other women, talking and laughing: she has not let her disability destroy her spirit.
I imagine it would be against the law to crawl down a sidewalk in Indianapolis.
Julieta lacks the mental capacity to perform any but basic functions. She works as a sander in a workshop that makes mesquite furniture in Adjuntos del Rio.
No government program placed her in this job; her family did. But she is self-supporting.
—§—
In the last few years, handicapped parking places have become more common. Some spaces are reserved for pregnant women. (Are they handicapped?)
The sign with a wheelchair signifies a parking space is exclusively for the handicapped and "persons of the third age." That would be me, among others, although I'm way too healthy to feel right about using these spaces.
Not these people, though. We're looking at nine handicapped parking spaces, eight of which are occupied by automobiles none of which bears any indication that it transports the handicapped. The man in the blue shirt has just parked his tan car, springing lightly out of the driver's seat and striding purposefully toward the store entrance. He appears to be neither handicapped, aged, nor pregnant.
The woman in the red dress doesn't appear to qualify either. From her slim form, I'd judge that if she's pregnant, she isn't very. She has just backed out of a handicapped spot and is briskly pulling away. She's clearly too busy to bother with parking another ten meters from the entrance. You can gauge her acceleration from the bow in her radio antenna. Believe me, she was cooking!
In the US, years of awareness-building, strict enforcement, and heavy fines pretty much have freed parking spaces for those who really need them. Here in Mexico, many unqualified people have no compunction about abusing them.
There's a couple of handicapped parking spots near the Jardín in the center of town, clearly marked with blue wheelchair signs. The section of Canal where they're located is constantly patrolled by a covey of traficantes. I rarely see cars with handicapped plates or stickers parked in either of them. They seem instead to be reserved for Cadillac Escalades and H2 Hummers. Such vehicles never receive citations: the local cops know better than to tag a narcotraficante.
Drug runners aside, Mexican people's awareness of the needs of the handicapped appear to be at the level of the US in the 1970s. Facilities for people with disabilities are expensive—the province of rich countries. As Mexico advances economically, we're seeing more wheelchair ramps, more, reserved parking, better funding for appropriate government agencies. Hopefully too, more people will support them.
In San Miguel we have NGOs that look after the disabled. One of the best is Centro de Crecimiento, which trains children with disabilities in skills that will allow them to support themselves and contribute to society. Their funding comes mostly from the norteamericano community. Check it out.
Goodbye Chiapas
I am devastated.
I find it hard to convey a sense of the powerful bond that can form between a parrot and his person. The Chop-man and I did everything together. He rode on my shoulder as I made my rounds around town. Once I was carrying him into Office Depot when the security guard stopped me. "Mascotas no se permitan en la tienda," (no pets allowed) he said. Chiapas and I just stared at him. The guard got the message and waved us in: Chiapas is no pet.
We took naps together. He perched on my knee, one four-taloned foot drawn up underneath, head tucked under his right wing. When it was time to get up, he would clamber down onto my chest and do a little dance to wake me up. When I was writing, he'd sit on my shoulder or on the edge of the computer screen. We ate meals together, he standing beside my plate, helping himself to my pasta and carrots. He liked to take showers with me. He'd perch on my shoulder, and when the spray hit him, he'd reel off his entire bilingual vocabulary, about 30 words.
He'd greet me in the morning by saying, "I love you."
I miss him so much.
After he flew the coop, I posted a reward on the local radio station. I went out and spread the word among all the local kids. I got no response whatever.
—§—
I'm spending a few days at the beach. Yesterday I ate breakfast at a palapa restaurant where I met another parrot; a yellow-head Amazon just like Chiapas.
I'm embarrassed I didn't learn his name. But he was a talker, and he repeated almost every word and noise I made in his presence. We had a lengthy conversation while I tried to develop a deeper, more physical relationship with him. He responded by trying to eat my shirt. A true parrot, indeed.
I held out my finger so he would step up. He bit it, hard enough to let me know he wasn't having any, but not so hard as to break the skin. He was saying, "Keep your distance, Bud."
Had he climbed onto my shoulder and rubbed his cheek against mine the way Chiapas did, I would have lost my resolve never to own another parrot. Having Chiapas in my life was a loving experience, but parrots need constant companionship. I used to curtail my travel urges just to accommodate him.
I can't be arranging my life around the needs of a parrot, can I?
Auto-Erosion
Scrapes, dents—this was a brand new car when I brought it to Mexico, resplendent in pearlescent white paint. Were I to bring it to a US body shop, it would cost at least half its value to make it like new. Given the condition it's in today, it would sell for a low fraction of low book.
See how the sidewall rubber has been ground off the left front tire? (Upper left picture.) That white ring around the tire is bad news. Our streets are so narrow that you have to park touching the curb to avoid scrapes from passing cars. Then you have to fold in your left mirror or it'll be sheared off. I've replaced three so far at $300 a pop.
Our streets were not designed for cars, especially trucks and SUVs. They were laid out during the days of horses and mules and pedestrians. They can't be widened because exterior walls are built on property lines, right out to the edge of the street. The left hand photo below shows a small pickup descending Calle Piedras Chinas. When I attempt it, my Explorer has no more than a couple of inches to spare on either side.
On the right we see a garbage truck squeaking by parked cars on Calle Jesús. I'm in awe of these hombres de la basura, and of anyone who drives a large vehicle in town. They get through places that I swear are narrower than their truck. They keep a beveled block of wood in the cab to use as a ramp so they can drive up onto the sidewalk if need be.
The turn from the Salida de Querétaro onto narrow De Loreto is a little tight. Some of the scrapes and scars on the wall of that building are quite deep. I put one of them there myself: check out the left front fender in the upper right photo at the top of this post.
Scratches and dings are one thing; mechanical deterioration is another. Our roads shake everything loose. My once nice tight car squeaks and rattles pitifully. The electronics controlling the four wheel drive controls have shorted out. The gas gauge has become misleadingly inaccurate. The cd changer eats cds—won't give 'em back. All too often the car has to go to the shop to get something tightened. Or to replace stuff that fell off.
Many of our streets are paved with cobblestones, like those pictured top left, below. Cobblestones set up vigorous vibration. You can just feel bolts working loose as you drive.
We like cobblestones because they add to the 17th-Century feel of the city. But they're hell on cars, they work loose leaving vicious potholes, and the paving only lasts three years. When the streets wear out, crews of about 20 guys come in. They dig out all the cobblestones, re-grade the dirt underneath, and re-set the cobbles. By hand.
Some streets are paved with dressed stone. They're a relative pleasure to drive on, but water softens the ground underneath and so you get more potholes, like the one the scooter driver is avoiding. Another source of potholes is neighbors "borrowing" a stone or two to repair their houses.
Sometimes you don't even get cobblestones: cobbled streets randomly peter out into dirt roads four a couple hundred meters, before paving resumes.
Had enough? It gets worse.
As in every country in the world, speeders are a problem. One hugely ineffective solution in Mexico is to post ridiculously low speed limits. This sign posted on Avenida Independencia, a major thoroughfare, sets a limit of about 6 mph.
Of course, nobody observes it. Nor can it be reasonably enforced. Not enough cops. To write you a ticket, they have to confiscate your driver's license, write out the citation, and appear at traffic court that day to testify against you. Takes a couple of hours to process just one speeder.
Too cumbersome. So Mexico uses passive speed controls called topes—industrial-strength speed bumps. The one below doesn't look all that vicious; in fact, I haven't been able to capture in photographs just how serious these things are. But if you hit one at anything over 5 mph, you're gonna go airborne.
Topes come in several varieties. The metal dome type will jar your fillings loose. Sometimes small boulders are sunk into the pavement instead.
Wide topes double as crosswalks. These are very effective: The Ancha de San Antonio, a four-lane arterial, can be crossed by small children in complete safety. More easily than automobiles can.
Groups handing out advertising flyers or soliciting for charitable organizations have discovered that topes make great places for conducting business. It's hard to resist these guys when you come to a near stop and they look you right in the eye.
Dirt roads, cobblestones, and potholes beat the hell out of cars. Here my friend Lee points to the collapsed suspension on her Blazer, a victim of one too many topes.
The bright side is that Mexican mechanics are ingenious and affordable. They can repair anything. Not with factory-approved parts, of course. Nobody can afford those, especially when you need them so often.
Paul (El Guapo) Latoures' Jeep is a case in point. He's got more bailing wire and duct tape under the hood than you'd think possible. Vital components are held in place with bungee cords. There's a pair of wires snaking out through the space between the hood and a fender, through the wing window and into the passenger compartment. God knows what for. His sled is a vision of what my Explorer will look like in another five years.
Which brings me back to my original problem: What to do about my poor beat-up car? Expats know there's only one way out: Drive it into the ground. If you're lucky, it'll still be running when it's ten years old at which time you can import the car without paying high duties. Then you can sell it in Mexico for a few thousand dollars more than it's worth in the States, use the proceeds to buy a new car, and start the process all over again.
Defeat of the Egrets
They're beautiful creatures, and they've nested in the area of Parque Juárez for ages. But humans have moved in. Many want the birds out. Recently the city triumphed in the years-long battle with the Parque Juárez birds. I posted about the cleanup effort two years ago.
Driven out of the park, the egrets moved to neighboring trees in the area of El Chorro, referred to by some as the Beverly Hills of San Miguel de Allende. The guano load in effect was transferred from the park to this exclusive neighborhood, a situation everyone knew would not be tolerated for long.
The other day, I noticed arborists topping trees, the same tactic that deprived egrets of nesting sites in the nearby park.
This solution to the guano problem seems rather extreme: no more bird poop, but it leaves the trees looking like amputees. Gone are the graceful forms and leafy shade, replaced by ugly, hacked-off stubs. The birds can't nest on stubs, so they move on. Less poop: more ugliness. Is the tradeoff worth it?
Nesting egrets ordinarily live aloft, rarely descending to the ground. But today they have no other place to perch. They stand around on piles of slash looking dazed, avian equivalents of Hiroshima survivors.
At least this year, the trees were cut before nesting had begun, unlike two years ago when the ground was littered with nests and nestlings. Then, neighborhood cats made quick work of the baby birds. Adults, though, are safe enough on the ground; felines wisely keep their distance from long-billed adults.
Escolástica
The stone of choice is called cantera, a Spanish word that means quarry but in Mexico refers to an easily-worked stone formed of volcanic ash. Cantera is relatively light stone and can be carved into architectural elements and sculptures.
To me the word brings up images of colonial ornaments, but today the stone finds application in modern architecture, even something as pedestrian as the surround of this garage door.
A major source of cantera is the little town of Escolástica, about a half hour south of Querétaro. The name of the town has a religious connotation: It refers to the Middle Age doctrine of organizing Church dogma based on the works of Aristotole, a concept invented by Saint Thomas Aquinas. Heady stuff for a community where people bang rocks with hammers.
Looks to me like there are a couple dozen talleres de cantera (workshops) in Escolástica. Most line the two-lane highway that winds through town. All are small operations, the largest employing maybe twenty stone carvers and laborers.
The stone is so malleable that it can easily be formed into almost any shape. Here, heaped beside the road, are fountains and ornate window frames. The cylindrical objects at the bottom of the image are waste—cores bored out of the center of columns to admit steel reinforcing.
In Escolástica, cores and other scrap are used as construction materials. Free to stoneworkers, it's cheaper than bricks. Stacked in front of this house are hundreds of cantera pavers. Finely dressed ones are used to floor interior rooms in expensive homes.
Stone carvers sometimes enjoy pleasant work conditions. In our year-round pleasant climate, the shade of a huizache (Acacia shaffneri) makes an open-air workshop.
Much stone carving is done with hand tools. The man on the left is hollowing out a fountain with a tool that combines the functions of a chisel and hammer, made from a tiny lozenge of tool steel welded to a heavy bar of mild steel. The artisan on the right uses a conventional hammer and chisel for producing fine fluting on a pink cantera column.
Electric grinders and saws permit quick removal of large amounts of stone. They also make a lot of dust. Workers protect their lungs with bandannas. On the right we see an illustration of Mexico's relaxed attitudes toward work. These three men remained gathered in companionable conversation for the half-hour I was in their shop taking photos.
Pavers are cut using large water-lubricated saws. All of the workers I met had all their fingers, unlike the mesquite furniture-makers of Adjuntos del Rio. But the stone is wet and perhaps a little slippery. And what about flying chunks of rock? I don't think this rig would meet OSHA regulations.
Credit for this excellent image: Paul (El Guapo) Latoures.
Now you know why he gets paid the big bucks.
Sculptors produce myriad works; some conventional, some not. Bas-relief carvings depicting Guadalupe are common. On the right, the naked, intertwined threesome might fire some imaginations. You can't see it in the photo, bout somehow, the female figure's left breast got lopped off and has been glued back in place. I don't think this one's gonna sell.
The cutaway man seems unique to me, perhaps inspired by a high school anatomy book. (Notice how the tibia articulates with the femur...) On the right, Paul and the sculptor discuss the symbolism of a hole in a statue's stomach. When I raised my camera, they broke off their conversation to pose, ruining a candid image. Paul should know better.
Escolástica is situated in the countryside where life remains simple and close to the land. Here a couple carry a load of machete-cut leña (firewood) back to their house. They'll use it for cooking, unable to afford gas. The husband asked me for a regalo (gift) for taking his picture. Cash must be hard to come by. Stone carvers are paid salaries. Campesinos are not.
The stone workers of Escolástica create beauty out of common stone with skill and artistry. Competition keeps prices (and wages) low, so Norteamericanos are often surprised how cheaply they can incorporate hand-carved stonework into their homes. The artisans seem content in their work and adequately compensated. Their lives appear to be pleasant and devoid of the pressures I experienced in Silicon Valley. But as Mexico inexorably moves into the first world, how will these people fare? Will they be able to maintain their small-scale businesses and the pleasure of shaping stone with their hands?