Archives for posts with tag: mariachi

When I told Edson I’d gone to Guanajuato, he immediately had a story: Frida Kahlo once asked Diego Rivera if her paintings were good enough to sell. He replied, “Who cares if they sell? What matters is that you love painting, that you have a passion for it.” But Frida would not be put off–and, as legend would have it, that was part of Rivera’s attraction to her. “No,” she said. “I want to know if you think they will sell.” Rivera thought for less than a second: “Yes.”

The rest is art history. No one has the crazy, colorful creativity of Frida–and no one paints like Diego.

Detail from Diego Rivera's murals at the Palacio Nacional in Mexico City.

Detail from Diego Rivera’s murals at the Palacio Nacional in Mexico City.

The house where Diego Rivera was born is worth a trip, if not to the city, well, heck, to Mexico.  It is a vertical house, like most of Guanajuato, all bright, new white stucco and shiny railings in the stairwell, but polished and dark 19th century  on the first floor, then up and up, to the fabulous sketches and paintings of Diego Rivera. The last room at the top of the house is dim. At eye level are black-and-white photos of Rivera, from his toddler days in a white lace dress (He was born in 1886), then all around the room in small pieces of his life: the dignitaries (Trotsky was a friend), the Revolution, the generals, the painters and writers, and Frida, standing in a long full skirt, a shawl wrapped around her and a flower in her hair, leaning on Diego. Although he married four times (twice to Frida, the second time on his birthday, December 8), Frida Kahlo remained his passion. You see her in his paintings, and you see the passion and color of Mexico they shared together in all their work. I wonder what Frida would think, if she cruised by the shops today and saw her likeness as a mermaid and a punk rocker. She’d laugh. One photo in the Rivera gallery shows her painting in bed, a brush in her mouth, the canvas propped on her lap, a pack of cigarettes on the night table. Nothing stopped her, not the bus accident that damaged her spine and caused her excruciating pain the rest of her life, not the critics, nor Rivera’s straying. Nothing stopped her.

Guanajuato--cubist, colorful built on a maze of silver mines and tunnels.

Guanajuato–cubist, colorful built on a maze of silver mines and tunnels.

Guanajuato reflects the work of Rivera, a cubist city built on hills with colorful boxy houses. The streets do not follow convention, disappearing up stairways and between houses so close a person could share a kiss out the window–without crossing the street. Of course, there’s another story about one of those very streets, the Street of Kisses. It happened many years ago when a young Mexican girl fell in love with a man her father did not approve of. One thing led to another,  the lovers defying Dad, and one night, Dad went after him–only he stabbed his daughter by mistake. The romance of Guanajuato’s streets has many twists and turns….

Not so romantic was my trip up four flights of stairs to El  Zopilote Mojado–the wet vulture–lugging my suitcase. The taxi couldn’t enter  the narrow street, which ended abruptly and turned into stairs. El Zopilote is a hotel of sorts spread out over three buildings on the quiet Mexiamora Plaza. It has high ratings, a low rate ($70 a night), and it’s near the center of town–these are all prerequisites.  Pablo at the desk (he speaking English, me practicing Spanish) said, “You’ll like it.” Who wouldn’t? I had a whole house to myself, except for the two girls on the top floor who left early and came in late.  A roof terrace, a complete kitchen, dining room for eight, and a living room with a lion’s head over the fireplace and a small library.  My large room was a bright corner, quiet, except for the occasional barking and crowing. The first night I heard laughing until nearly the morning, but I don’t mind that; it’s the fighting I hate, and I haven’t heard any of that in the time I’ve been here. The laughter simply became part of my dreams, part of the story I will carry.

El Zopilote Mojado--the wet vulture, a comfortable place to stay on the quiet Plaza Mexiamora

El Zopilote Mojado–the wet vulture, a comfortable place to stay on the quiet Plaza Mexiamora

But then, the morning. I wandered to the small center, actually a garden where mariachi continues day into night. I walked to the market and browsed through the two tiers, stopping for a shrimp coctel (cocktail)–which was a unique experience–loads (too much? how can that  be?) of shrimp, in a sweet tomato sauce with chunks of avocado floating in it and a sprig of cilantro on top. For $4. I bought some leather and pottery (how am I going to get all this stuff home?).  For a grand view of the city, the cable car goes up to the monument to  Pipila (a hero of the independence from Spain). The outdoor restaurants offer people watching and music. All I could do was drink my Sol. Yes, wouldn’t it be great if the whole world had beer that was named Sol, or Sun, and tasted so good?

Music at the cafe en el jardin, the central plaza

Music at the cafe en el jardin, the central plaza

At the end of the day, after walking for hours, I was looking for a drink, specifically a martini. Somewhere in this large city there had to be such a bar for a Stoli straight up. Yes, there was, and, of course, I found it (my sisters are chuckling). The ONE hotel on the main plaza, modern, inviting, roof terrace, so I went up. The hostess was warm, as they are here, and she asked me if I was coming to the “event.” I almost laughed. Yes, everything is an event, but that is not what she meant. “No,” I said. That didn’t matter.  “Come right in,” she said. It was the start of a wedding party, Kiera and Topher, but certainly their Mexican dopplegangers, she in a short white silk shift with panels of lace, he in a gingham Polo shirt, and a parade of well-dressed gorgeous Mexicans! I’d walked into the other side of Mexico, for sure. “Bienvenido,”  they said. But, what the hell was I doing there, hardly dressed for the occasion? I drank my 85 peso martini and left. Now I know how the other half lives, and they are all thin.

In the exact opposite direction, I went to the Mummy Museum before I left. I wish I hadn’t. If someone wants to make a horror movie, the cast of characters is right there. All you have to do is wake them up. Room after room, in glass cases, the mud-colored dried remains of Mexicans stand in horror, their mouths agape, their clothes dried to their bodies. These mummies are not that old–most of them dug up from graves that are no longer supported by families, their bodies dried up from the salt, lead and minerals in the soil around Guanajuato–one of the richest silver mine deposits in the world. I quickly walked through the exhibits:  One man wears a sorry suit, another glass case shows the dead who were probably buried alive. A mother of 40 with her tiny baby, “the smallest mummy in the world,” is propped next to her, heartbreaking. Why don’t they put it in her arms? Mothers take pictures on their smartphones of these mummies next to their beautiful, glorious children.

It was a short trip, a memorable trip–a sad trip. I’ll be leaving Mexico soon. I’ll remember the wrinkled face of the old mariachi guitar player, happy I wanted to take his picture; the woman who ran after me when I forgot my jacket (again); the man in the shop who laughed when I wanted to buy an old dusty framed photo of the movie star Tony Aguilar, downing a bottle of tequila; the children, so shy and smiling at me, wondering at this crazy old lady with the white skin and blue eyes who speaks really weird Spanish. Yes, I will miss you, Guanajuato, that place in the middle of Mexico where the sun  shines. Right there in your Mexican middle, a colorful painting come to life.

Play us a tune, Senor Guitar Man

Play us a tune, Senor Guitar Man

The views expressed herein are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the Peace Corps.–Nancy Nau Sullivan, University English Specialist, Mexico

ImageOn the outside, Pegueros looks like a used car lot.  But after you pull in, and go inside, you find a whole lot of mariachi going on. We weren’t seated 30 seconds when the waiter plopped a single red tortilla with carne (shredded meat) in front of us (delicious), offered us shots of tequila (we declined) and took our order for drinks (cervezas all around).

Later the waiter served us Azteca soup to which we added chopped avocado, pork rinds, lime juice, shredded cheese, small pieces of fried tortilla, chopped onion, and chiles. That’s about all I can remember, except for the main ingredient, the fun of “making” my own soup.

We sat at a table near the stage where eight mariachi musicians were blasting away on trumpets, strumming the guitarron and the guitarras, playing the violins.  (Some mariachi bands include the harp, accordion, and flute.)  And always there is the singer, who is the center of attention, singing his heart out, and in this case, sweating, even though the temperature in the large, open restaurant had to be in the 50’s.  He was singing a story, and like all good songs, it was moving.  You wanted to find out how it ended, but, like a lot of good stories, you didn’t want it to end.

“A little like your country songs,” said Connie, a Mexican staff member at the agency where I teach.

“With a lot of complaining and disaster–and love,” I added.

One of the trumpeters walked slowly off the stage and, playing as he strolled, went to the far end of the room and down a corridor.  We could still hear him, answering the trumpet on stage. Pretty soon the whole band broke into a rendition that sounded like the track on a silent film….ah, as if someone was running around, searching for someone.  The song is “The Lost Child.”  The trumpet on stage is the mother;  the far trumpet is the plaintive note of the lost child, and the music in between is the fast and frantic search for the child. Finally, this song ends, thankfully, with the reunion of mother and child.

Connie and I laughed.  We’d been there, and only now, a long time later was it funny.

The themes of mariachi cover: the sea and the sky; love, life and death; women and children, lost and found; the tuna (a cactus, not a fish); journeys; the laurel trees all over Mexico; the cross; the moon, the sun, the stars and the last sip. That pretty much says it all–but there’s always more. The beat, depending on the region, takes many forms, from cumbia and salsa to the waltz and polka.

Mariachi bands play all over the world.  The last day I was in Spain a year ago, the mariachi played in the Puerta del Sol in Madrid.  But Mexico claims mariachi.  One story goes (there is always a story, to everything) that when the French arrived in the 1860’s, a group of soldiers came upon a Mexican band of musicians playing at a festive celebration.  The host told the French soldier:  “C’est un mariage,” which in French means, “It is a marriage.” Mariachi derived from this announcement.  The music itself may have gotten its name then, but the source of the Mexican music genre goes back much further in Mexico. The other theory is that the name came from the indigenous Nahuatl interpretation of Maria, the Virgen. The origins of mariachi are celebrated annually, the last weekend of August in Guadalajarra, Mexico’s second largest city after Mexico City.

Back in Queretaro, the owner of Pegueros sat in the back of the room and directed the selection of songs.  The mariachi singer was the star, but occasionally, the owner introduced others from the audience who went up on the stage.  One man with a huge voice sang about wanting to make sure that the woman he was walking with was not promised to another.  He directed his lyrics to a young blond woman who sat near the stage and ignored him.  The rumor was that she was from Arkansas and her group was celebrating her departure.  One other singer lamented old age:  the son singing to his father that he has his blood, and soon they will be parted, but he is in his mind and heart, forever.

The music was so loud we could hardly talk.  But who wants to talk when you can listen to this?  I felt like it was a musical history lesson about Mexico.

The last singer we heard was a young woman in a slinky green dress and platform heels who could not sing worth a toot, but she was beautiful, with blond streaks, huge eyes and creamy dark skin. We all loved her “valor,” that she got up there and told the story, something about the dirty rat who did her wrong. What fun.

And in case you’ve been wondering all day:  that Mexican hat dance?  It goes with mariachi.  Called “jarabe tapatio,” it translates to something, literally, like stepping on your Arab uncle.  There’s a story behind everything.

The views expressed in this article do not reflect the views of the Peace Corps.–Nancy Nau Sullivan

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