THE BUTCHER HOUSE, MEXICO CITY AIRPORT

I hadn’t noticed Jose’s new CoSM t-shirt until now. Knowing that Camella and Heather had recently visited Alex Grey’s Chapel of Sacred Mirrors in New York, I ask him if Heather had given it to him as a gift? “Yep”, he nods. “Well, she bought ME a CoSM coffee mug. Try drinking a cup of coffee out of that! (indicating his t-shirt).” “But you don’t drink coffee” he shoots back. “Yes, I do… (calling the waitress over)… I’d like a Kahlua and coffee please… (enjoying my Kahlua and coffee)… This would taste better in my CoSM mug that Heather gave ME, but try it, Camella… it’s really good…” (Camella takes a sip and hands it back to me with a puzzled look on her face). “It tastes just like plain black coffee. I think they forgot the Kahlua”, she explains to me while trying to suppress a smile. “You mean I’m just drinking coffee?”

AVIASCA FLIGHT TO OAXACA

Looking out the window, the distinctive shape of the volcano, Popocatepetl is silhouetted against orange city lights (or is that high volcanic peak, Iztaccihuatl?). As I’m thinking about how Crowley climbed them both in 1900 (setting records at the time), the flight attendant hands me an ice cold can of Modelo and a small turquoise-colored bag that says “Fritos Corn Chips” on it. A turquoise bag of Fritos? We’re only half way to Oaxaca, and already things are becoming psychedelic. Not being hungry, I stuff it into my backpack, just in case there are any beshroomed banditos around.

OAXACA, HOTEL FRANCIA

Having just checked in to my room in the colonial-looking Hotel Francia, the first thing I notice is the high ceiling fan. For some reason it makes me think of mosquito netting. I then warn Jose that this place has velvety tarantulas under the bed and between the covers written all over it. It’s now pretty late, but within minutes the phone rings. Camella has calculated that there’s enough time to make last call at the Oaxacan version of the zocalo (which is actually a series of cafes fronting the main plaza) if we leave in a few minutes. I look under the bed and between the covers and then go meet the girls down in the lobby. Although at this hour the cobbled streets are pretty deserted, it’s quite evident by all the decorations in the shop fronts that the town is getting ready for its Dia de los Muertos festivities. Within minutes we find a home away from the hotel and order a couple of rounds of Sol with shots of Reposado. The Mexican waitress wearing a colorful fiesta dress sets a bowl of spicy peanuts on the table along with complimentary glasses of mescal, the smoky, somewhat dirty tasting cousin of tequila. I think I’m going to like this place… if I can just get past the tarantula under the bed.

Morning comes early, even without the of tolling church bells and pounding Nahuatl drums. As a wedge of sunlight filters through the window on the pastel green wall, I know that a phone call is only… (ring ring ring).

STREETS OF OAXACA, 31 DE OCTUBRE

After attempting to exchange some currency we, like every other tourist that has stepped foot here, wander into a shop that sells bottles of mescal. While checking out the various flavors, a couple of sales girls begin pouring shots into little plastic cups for us to sample. Hmmm. We all like the first one which is labeled passionfruit mescal… and the second one calling itself coconut flavored isn’t too bad either. After downing shots of all eight flavors, we are eager to purchase several bottles as gifts, along with some Oaxacan chocolate, and I think Camella bought a dusty bag of dried chapulinas (grasshoppers) as well. Which reminds me, it’s almost time for breakfast. “Aye-yii-yii-yiii…”

The group leader kicks ass! Picturesque, bohemian Oaxaca (Wah-HAH-kah) is everything Camella said it would be – the perfect backdrop for a bottle of Sol. Slightly buzzed from all the mescal samples, we set out to explore the place, strolling past colonial-era architecture with sienna, saffron, green, peach and sky-blue facades and marigold-festooned wrought-iron balconies from which dangle papier-mâché skeletons. From the town square we head towards the artisan quarter with its craft-markets, stalls, shops and boutiques filled with ceramics, weavings, paintings and woodcarvings, much of which is now Dia de los Muertos-themed. In one crowded boutique, we admire the numerous multicolored wooden animals called alebrijes that represent guardian spirits (nahuals). In travel guides these abstract colorful pieces are usually described as “fantasy” carvings, but, in that Oaxaca is synonymous with both folk art and with Indian magic (psilocybine) mushroom cults (ever since the ethnomycologists flocked to the neighboring mountain villages in the 1950s), it would appear to me, at least, that much of the stuff for sale here are aesthetic expressions of visionary journeys into nonordinary realities. Upon examining one such painted wooden lizard, I’m pretty sure that these are teo-nanactl-inspired colors. Yep, it’s a safe bet that more than a few of these village artisans are trippin’ their brains off on a certain dung fungus. “I’ll take it, even though I’ve never seen one like it in the pages of National Geographic.”

Shopping for winged purple giraffes can be exhausting. At a shady sidewalk café in the zocalo, we sit down for lunch. Camella promptly orders the chapulines that she liked the last time she was here. This is an Oaxacan culinary delicacy consisting of fried grasshoppers mixed with onions, garlic, chili powder and lime. When it arrives, the woman with the blonde and pink mane takes a spoonful of the chipped-beef looking stuff, spreads it thickly on a warm flour tortilla and devours it like you and I would a soft taco or a burrito. After the rest of us take a bite, we order some of the other regional dishes. There’s fried tacos-con-pollo piled high with white raw milk cheese (sin queso!), salads, bean paste and plenty of dark mole (the ubiquitous mole oaxaqueno). As I dip a roll into some cocoa-flavored salsa, a small jeweled spider scuttles across the wooden table. Man, this place is a trip! Hell, looking down, even the ants come in every color of the rainbow. Just as long as I don’t see blood oozing from the cornstalks, everything will be alright.

After lunch it’s more shopping, which means more Dia de los Muertos shrines, those marigold arches that now adorn nearly every shop front, hotel lobby and house porch. Bestrewn with goodies and illumined with votive candles, one finds chocolate skulls, candy skeletons (calaveritas), shot glasses of mescal, cigarettes, negro mole, corn jello, cacao, sweet apples, maize in brilliant hues and coins in black pottery, all treats for the spirits of the deceased who are expected to return to their families tonight. And inside the shops… more colorful artesania: Skeletons drinking Coronas, skeletons giving birth to baby skeletons, skeletons drinking Coronas while giving birth to baby skeletons, etc.

“Happy Halloween you guys!” Camella raises a bottle of Corona as we’re once again seated in a sidewalk café next to the main square. In the gathering dusk, a parades of small brass bands march down the streets of colonial Oaxaca, followed by local children dressed as monsters clutching shiny metallic balloons as their mothers accompany them in long colorfully-embroidered skirts. Complimentary glasses of mescal arrive at our table, along with bowls of spicy peanuts and the drinks that we ordered as runny-nosed specters holding plastic pumpkin-bowls approach us, clamoring for coins after posing for photographs. And they keep coming, bizarre grimacing apparitions… terrifying devils and adorable witches… macabre, grotesque masks, one after the other until our pockets have been emptied of all their pesos, (which is bad news for the hawkers making their rounds with dangling paper skeletons and handcrafted silver jewelry). A quick trip to the House of Thrones with a fanfare of trombones, and it’s time to meet with our guide so that he can take us to the various cemeteries. The little angels (Los Angelitas) are calling.

On the way to the municipal cemetery, our guide hands us a bottle of mescal and several painted wooden shot-glasses, urging us to drink up as we’ve got a long night ahead of us and we’re just getting started (drinking, presumably). “Alright”, I tell him, “As long as we don’t wake up in a bathtub filled with ice one kidney short of a dynamic duo.” To be polite, we do a shot, almost gagging on the nasty stuff. God, at least ours is flavored. What he doesn’t know is that these chug-a-lug Donnas I’m traveling with have got cans of Modelo and miniature bottles of tequila stuffed in every purse and jacket pocket.

PANTEON SAN MIGUEL

Our faces glow shadowy orange as we slowly pass by luminous niches and tombs of the (mostly) unknown dead. After a brief detour to check out some sand tapestries and elaborate shrines, we’re off to the next raucous celebration.

XOXOCOTLAN

Another gold star for Camella. This place is happening! Inside the cemetery we walk on a carpet of tzempaxuchital flowers into what appears to be a galaxy of candles. For reunions with the dear departed, hundreds of locals have gathered at the decorated graves, keeping an all-night vigil. There’s certainly nothing morbid about this throw back to the old Zapotec and Mixtec cult of the dead (of course, now tainted by the ‘finer’ elements of Roman Catholicism); in fact it’s more of a carnival atmosphere.
Still, this visitant feels like an intruder as he wanders amid the crowd, glancing at lavishly embellished gravesites in the sea of candles’ flickering amber effulgence. On the marigold-strewn burial mounds there are photos and memorabilia, grinning sugar skulls and Pepsi, fire-crackers and mescal, incense and rosary beads (but what about breath mints for those returning from beyond the mortal horizon?). People are getting drunk and playing cards while others weep. A time of rowdy partying for some, a time of reflection for others. Irreverent piebald jesters next to those in sackcloth and ashes. As I’m about to place a bouquet of dead flowers on a mound that seems less than grandiose (we were each given tufts of dried marigolds to embellish the graves of those who might not have any family), Adele stops me. “This guy’s fancy” she says, gesturing to a few flowers, a cheroot, some trinkets, and a melted white candle. “Fancy? Well maybe compared to that freakin’ miniature cathedral over there” I reply, pointing to a grave that’s magnificently ornamented. “What, do they give out prizes for the most elaborate decorations?” (I later found out that they do!). I place the flowers on the unmarked grave and force a lit white candle into the mound of hard dirt. “Now where’s that turquoise bag of Fritos?”

Outside the gates of the cemetery there actually is a carnival, complete with motorized rides, cotton candy, and… a spook house (incredibly enough!). The perfect place in which to feed a mangy dog a tamale. As people laugh and scream. I suspect that many of the spirits of the dear departed have skipped the pumpkin preserve offerings of their relatives for rainbow snow cones and a thrilling ride on the rusty Tilt-A-Whirl.

Next, we visit an older cemetery, although while wandering through it’s dreamlike opaline brilliancy, it’s suddenly lights! Cameras! Action! We’d been told that Jack Black is in town filming a new movie about Mexican wrestling or something. Could this be part of it? Am I to understand that on Dia de los Muertos, at the heart of the celebrations, a large section of the cemetery is closed to shoot a Hollywood film? Now, that’s irreverent! Ghostly phantoms turn out to be just the coiled smoke of Parliament Lights. Our guide offers another bottle of mescal and tells us that we’re going back to his home for the best chicken tamales with mole in Oaxaca along with cups of traditional hot chocolate. “But, Kat’s a vegetarian…

OAXACA, 1 NOVEMBRE

Today I’m searching for Huichol nierikas (yarn art). Camella can’t remember where she saw these colorful peyote visions on squares of plywood the last time she was here, but she has a feeling that we’re close. As I continue my quest for vistas of plant hallucinogens, the girls walk across the street to a boutique called “Maria Sabina”, no doubt named after the famous Mazatec priestess and curandero who has long been a Oaxaca celebrity. They’re shopping for senorita dresses, they tell me. Clothes? I expected the boutique to contain shimmering grassy meadows, flaming flowers, and multicolored dripping stars. Still unable to locate the visions of a disembodied eye, Jose and I duck into a Burger King with a spectral green skeleton from Mictlan propped jauntily in the window. It looks like it could use a Double Whopper and fries. I know Jose sure could. All those choco-skulls and candied squash on the family altars have made him hungry.

I really like Kat’s purple senorita dress, as well as Heather and Adele’s embroidery, and, of course, Camella’s flamboyant orange cowboy hat (still, I hope she’s not a Denver Bronco’s fan… not in this Raider Nation). Finally, I think we’re through shopping. If I see one more purple giraffe with wings…

For dinner I have a jack-o-lantern lollypop and Pepsi in a real glass bottle. I’m only kidding. Actually, I have a Sol on tap, tacos-con-pollo (sin queso, sin crema!), tossing out the complimentary glass of mescal. We’re over this fermented sap. Crowley warned about this stuff in his “Confessions.” And speaking of Maria Sabina (where the girls bought their dresses), never mind Stropharia cubensis. With colors of startling richness and judging by the expression on her face, the ice cream sundae Adele ordered appears to be an ecstatic experience in itself. The other girls all want a spoonful. When we’re finished eating our bean and pumpkin-flower mole (if that’s what it was), pizza and margaritas, mariachis serenade the girls with requests from their mariachi spectrum.

Leaving a pile of peso notes on the table, we go and purchase supplies for tonight’s trip to the valley of Etla, considered by many to be the best place to watch the Dia de los Muertos parade. We buy Cuban cigars and 12-year-old Cuban rum. Heather even finds a flask. Better late than never, I always say. With a stroke of genius, we pour a bag of ice cubes into Jose’s backpack (lined with plastic bags) and stick twelve Modelos in it. It’s no silver Coleman, but it should do the trick. We’ve now everything we need to make the parade more enjoyable except for toad glitter and black jaguar’s ear. A few packs of Parliament lights, and we’re good to go.

ETLA

A noisy, boisterous affair. Ebullient horns and costumed dancers. Everyone guzzling mescal while dancing to the freaky music. The store bought costumes are okay, but many of the hand made ones are amazing. I especially like the dreadful mask of a misshapen harelipped (oops, sorry)… There’s even someone dressed as a hawker selling Aztec obsidian figurines. “Almost free!” D’oh. In a claustrophobic swarm, we follow macabre stiltwalkers along the parade route. Diego Rivera’s pick-pocketers would have a field day. I’d almost prefer the Mexico City taxi rides (authorized or not!) with the windows rolled down so to hear the organ-grinder’s cat fight. But look!.. The spirits of the dead are returning. I think I see Frita Kahlo with her bushy unibrow (more so now than ever). Oops, sorry… but there’s Elvis (it’s good to know that there are plenty of peanut butter and bacon sandwiches on the other side)… and a beautiful young blonde teen that kind of looks like that girl who went missing in Aruba. Hey, there’s John Entwistle from The Who… “Kat, are you concerned that I accidentally poked you in the eye with a lit cigar?” “I am” she says in her soft Aussie accent and then… grimaces in agonizing pain while trying to keep up with the crush of people. “Do you want some ice from the backpack cooler?” “I think it’s all melted”, she replies. “Well, I said it wasn’t the silver Coleman.” Our driver/guide is obliterated from shots of mescal and the better part of our aged Cuban rum. Damn, I hope he’s not going to be one of the spirits returning to guzzle mescal next year (if you know what I mean). Wow, there’s the entire 2005 Oakland Raiders team!

MONTE ALBAN, 2 NOVEMBRE

“Don’t lean over” Kat jokes as the vintage bus winds steeply up an access road, at times coming awfully close to the edge of a sheer drop off where nobody thought to put a guard rail. The harrowing ride of hairpin bends takes us to a high plateau of grayish-green hills overlooking the Oaxacan valley where, perched on the flattened crest, are the ancient ruins of the great Zapotec capital of Monte Alban. Laid out with geometrical precision, these long abandoned ruins include terraced pyramids, palaces, temples, a ball court, ceremonial plazas and a peculiar arrow-shaped structure believed to have once been an astronomical observatory. There are also elaborate reliefs and engraved stelae.

Although there are several things that I want to examine at this exceedingly ancient site, the first are the highly decorative funerary urns in the museum, those that perhaps attest to the ancient Zapotec’s preoccupation with death. These pots (lachrymatories?), adorned with heads wearing ornamental headdresses were placed on shelves in tombs that, according to scholars, once held offerings for the dead. But, conversely, might they have once contained offerings FROM the dead? Many might find this idea to be strange to say the least, but with regards to their peculiar religious cult, the ancient inhabitants of the area have left clues as to their ritual activities. One of these clues is their veneration of a monstrous bat-deity called Zotziha or Zotzilha-Camazotz, which doesn’t really mean bat-god, but translates as “house of bats.” A bat house is a cave or cavern, but here it doesn’t refer to cave worship in the ordinary sense. Here, the house of bats (with the animal being associated with night, death and sacrifice) represents a Nightside realm or hidden dimension of consciousness that is accessible if one obtains the keys to unlocking it. Bats awaken in darkness, which symbolically represents enlightenment. In ancient Mesoamerican ‘mythology’, the anthropomorphic bat creature (“death bat” or “snatch bat”) who decapitates the heroes of the tales, I would suggest, was actually a priest garbed in a peculiar mask who performed the various rituals of the Zapotec’s ecstatic cult. Besides being the “house of bats”, Zotziha was described as a “dark region in the earth’s interior”, which reminds us of the notariqon (of the alchemical motto) V.I.T.R.I.O.L., the Universal Solvent and where one is to seek out the hidden stone (Lapis Philosophorum).

Another interesting feature of Monte Alban are the famous “danzantes” (dancers) who are incised in bas-relief on stone slabs. Although the message of these intricately carved personages remains a mystery, most orthodox academics identify them as the “slain prisoners captured in battle” by the Zapotec Indians. However, in his book “Fingerprints of the Gods”, author Graham Hancock reminds us that, much like other ancient sculptured “old world” figures he’s examined in Mexico, these depictions of large, somewhat distorted human beings that would appear to be negro and Caucasian ethnic types have an “aristocratic demeanor” about them. For this reason, he calls them “remarkable strangers” and “masterful men.” Perhaps the still undecipherable hieroglyphics (the oldest script in Mexico), at Monte Alban holds the answer as to who these enigmatic figures were, and why they are depicted in such a strange manner.

Which brings us to the oddly-shaped structure labeled as building J, it being the only intentionally ‘skewed’ building on the site, with all the other structures being oriented to cardinal points. Archaeoastronomers have concluded that the orientation point of building J is the bright star Capella, whose rising announces the zenith passage of the sun. In ancient star lore, Capella was both “the heavenly goat” and a “glorious crown.”
But things get a bit more esoteric when we discover that it was also the goat’s head BROKEN OFF, making it the cornu copiae (cornucopia) or painted Horn of Plenty which was said to be an unlimited food-bearer, linking it with none other than the Holy Grail. Perhaps it is in this light that we should take a closer look at those so-called slain prisoners, the “remarkable strangers” with their “aristocratic demeanor. “ When one puts all the pieces together, a rather strange picture begins to emerge at Monte Alban, one with many parallels with another ancient civilization that was said to be preoccupied (nay obsessed) with death – the Egyptians. (NOTE: In the Egyptian Denderah zodiac, Capella was an important star to the god Ptah, the Opener).

OAXACA

Arriving back in Oaxaca after nightfall, we decide to do it up one final time before our early morning flight back to Mexico City. This means dinner in the zocalo, followed by margaritas and mariachis. How the night ended is a bit of a blur (a colorful blur, though) but I remember talking to Kat on the phone in my hotel room before going to sleep. Things must have been a bit of a blur to her as well, because she left the phone off the hook, meaning that we missed our all-important wake up call (from the front desk). Fortunately, however, at precisely the right time, Jose throws off his blankets and jumps out of bed, screaming that there was something crawling on him. “Was it a spider?” I ask, startled by his panicked shouts. “Was it a velvety tarantula?” Examining the sheets and covers, we don’t find anything. Whether this was a nightmare, the tarantula I earlier suspected taking up residence under the bed, or an actual paranormal visitation, I do not know, but if it was a wake up call of sorts from one of the returning Dia de los Muertos spirits, then I’d just like to say mucho gracias! That and that I left a half-full bottle of flavored mescal on the dresser.