Puppet Theater on Paniagua January 10, 2022
My delivery of firewood, 350 pesos, has been delayed indefinitely, or until my supplier gets his truck running again. The repair is expensive, no doubt, but that is not my problem. Not on nights dipping into the single centigrades. I need wood to burn.
The man by the river is sensitive to my plight and always meets me with a toothless smile. Every other day I stop by his flower stand to replenish my Ocote, that fragrant, wonderful, resin-oozing Montezuma pinewood, perfect for starting fires. Today he has assembled a bag just for me.
“Muy massivo,” I mutter. “No puedo llevar.” Even if I could pay for this load of Ocote firewood, I do not want to carry it home. The bag is as big as a microwave oven, but, at only 250 pesos, is a real deal. However, my backpack prefers smaller bundles. I grab a few 10-pesos bundles and pay the man, who returns my change with an extra bundle, because he is short of coins. As is true throughout Mexico, his lack of proper change is not his problem.
With a firewood scarcity on a chilly winter evening, movement is good, but dancing is better, just as song is better than mere sound. We wander over to LibreArte, where a music party is set to commence. Kevin is there with his little Jarana and big Jarocho voice. So is Juan Pablo, my new neighbor on Calle Pantaleon Dominquez, who provides a lively trombone to Cuban favorites like El Cuarto de Tula, by the Buena Vista Social Club. Everyone knows the words by heart. Feet in constant 3-step motion, spinning and gyrating, with or without a partner, they feel Cuban. The sing-along ascends into harmonic dissonance—Tere, Margarito, Jesse, Vane, Paulina, and some free-spirited German fellow, who has brought along his kids for the promised puppet show.
Children’s puppet theatre is, in fact, the scheduled event, but there is only a handful of age-appropriate spectators in the small audience. The rest are Pox-sloshing adults, here to support the performers, and perhaps take part. The electric afro-haired Costa Rican trombonist, Juan Pablo, nicknamed Jay-Pa, mesmerizes the children with his clownish antics. The extended attention of the youngest ones is especially impressive. Riveted, they participate in the story he has to tell, counting and rhyming, and he makes full use of his clown toolkit—sleight of hand, juggling, balancing, with the nimbleness of Gene Kelly. This charmer belongs in front of a classroom, as if that were even an option for a young idealist in Chiapas, a state so crazy that its teachers union is considered one of the most notorious gangs.
Juan Pablo’s performing partner is a scrawny dog, named Marimba because of her protruding rib cage, who sits and shakes and begs like a professional. She has only recently joined the act, having inexplicably jumped on a bus in Guatemala. The canine wanderer did not get off that bus until Juan Pablo, a complete stranger, reached his stop in San Cristobal. Now Juan Pablo has a dog.
His other partner, Paulina, is the lead puppeteer, and she too plays the teacher, but her lesson today is a bit too dark for the audience. Her presentation, whimsically titled “Postcards from Caracol,” calls grim attention to the missing women of Chiapas. “Donde Estan?” ask her puppet friends. Likely dead, I imagine Paulina thinks. Then, a friendly alien marionette named Caracol dances about the stage, while Jay-Pa turns up the sci-fi soundtrack. The kids cling to their moms. I feel a chill. My thoughts return to Ocote.