Artisan Day Trip

Layne wanted to find black pottery and she knew where they sell the stuff. The clay is really gray but a brushing technique invented in the 1950s by a mysterious Doña Rosa renders the pottery black after it is fired. True enough. 

Before all that excitement we drove an hour from our campground at El Rancho to a town called Ocotlán de Morelos where supposedly there was a market selling local crafts. It was closed on a Monday but we made the best of it. 

We found the municipal market and Layne spent a happy half hour shopping while I wandered with camera and with Rusty.

Ocotlán is not a Nahuatl name meaning “among the ocote trees” so the government added “de Morelos” for good measure naming the town after a catholic priest José Maria Morelos who became a leader of the war for independence from Spain. He was arrested, defrocked and executed in December 1815 at the age of 50. He was considered oddly enough one of the best generals of the war of independence. 

We wandered the church grounds for a bit and I was surprised how relaxed Rusty was. 

No money changers allowed on church grounds is the short version of the sign posted on the gates. 

Dogs apparently are okay. 

We did stir up a bit of a hornets nest waking up a handful of sleeping dogs. I bent down as if to pick up a stone and four of them held back but one snuck around a parked car trying to ambush Rusty.  I chased him off too but the damage was done; the rest of the walk was spoiled for him and he kept looking over his shoulder. 

Ocotlán is much than a tourist trap, it’s a colorful lively town of 14,000 people. 

It was about this for African Americans got themselves kidnapped in Matamoros when they were mistaken for members of a rival Haitian gang and two of them were murdered. Predictably the press got excited and we got messages warning us to be aware of the appalling danger. This from a country with 100 mass shooting incidents so far in 2023. Ocotlán was as peaceful as ever: 

It’s ironic the four black American citizens, three men and a mother seeking an inexpensive tummy tuck were mistaken for Haitian gangsters as Matamoros literally means “kill the moor,” and it couldn’t be a crueler irony. 

We were intent upon n trying the local foods including a quesadilla infused with cilantro in the tortilla. It was good and made a great breakfast from the market. 

Life continues as normal in a more-or-less masked Mexican town. We don’t wear masks outside but many people do. 

You know you are in southern Mexico, the poorer part when you are surrounded by Bajaj three wheeler taxis. They do about 35 miles per hour and are pretty unobtrusive whisking passengers around. 

They are based on Italian Ape (“ah-pay”) three wheelers which used to be produced in Italy by the sane people who build Vespas. They make quick, efficient and cheap taxi cabs around town in an economy where people can’t pay high fares for car taxis.   

We started back toward Oaxaca planning a stop at the Artisan Market in Santo Tomás Jalieza. 

Santo Tomas Jalieza which last word  means “under the church” in Zapotec and is known for its defrosted belts and weaving. Layne ended up getting a purse at the market. 

As it was a Monday the village of 3,000 people was pretty quiet. 

A lot of the artisan shops and restaurants are closed as they get almost all their trade on weekends when these places are packed with people. 

For us it was just a quiet sunny Mexican afternoon. 

Rusty monitoring the comings and going’s at city hall in the background. 

The 16th century church for which this town is famous, happened to be securely locked and there was no access to the gardens. 

With Rusty keeping an eye on things at the bandstand I took a walk around the streets behind the church. 

A motorcycle mechanic working on the back wheels of a Bajaj. 

And then we got back on the road toward Oaxaca before stopping at our final town called San Bartolo Coyotepec where Layne wanted  to find a small piece of black clay are to adorn Gannet2. 

We passed the enticing Marilyn Monroe Motel but somehow kept going. 

“Equality between men and women” and I don’t know where that idea sprang from. Mexico has among the worst rates of femicide, so there is decidedly work to be done.  

We found the zocalo, the central square where black pottery was supposed to be for sale, even on a Monday. 

This store was decidedly closed. 

Rusty was ready for a test and had a brief sit down strike. 

As we drive out of the square toward the highway we spotted the black pottery where Layne bought a medallion. 

I think I’ll have to take some pictures of the artwork with which we decorate our van home. 

And soon we were back home doing what comes naturally.