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.
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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.