Nueva Babel May 7, 2023
“It’s party time for the guys at the Tower of Babel,
Sodom meet Gomorrah, Cain meet Abel,
Have a ball y’all, see the lechers crawl with the call girls under the table,
Watch ‘em dig their graves, ‘cause Jesus don’t save
The guys at the Tower of Babel.”
Elton John, Bernie Taupin
In the Babylonian story of the Tower of Babel, the workers are simply unable to communicate with each other. The Oaxaca Civil Registry exemplifies the chaos that ensues. We return again in pursuit of a marriage certificate, this time with all of the proper paperwork in order—birth certificates, divorce decrees, each accompanied with a certified Apostille from various Secretaries of State. All that remains is a translation certified by a registered civil agent.
“No, you do not need the divorce decrees in order to be married.”
“Really? The man we spoke with here three months ago said…”
“He’s not here.”
“No, you’re here.”
“Yes. Birth certificates are sufficient and can be translated for 500 pesos. It will take 8 days. You would only need divorce decrees if you wanted your marriage to be recognized outside of Oaxaca.”
“But we do!”
“Ah, then, this would require you to stand before a judge.”
“A judge of what?” Tempers are fraying.
The language spoken one day at the Civil Registry is not understood the next. Each day, the agent overseeing your destiny is different, sometimes encouraging, other times hopeless. It is the Man-at-the-Door parable often told in Mexico, in which each of us is powerless against the great forces, but only to claim just one sovereign domain, standing at a door—who gets in, who stays out. I experienced it intensely once at a Guatemala border crossing, with one exasperated Mexican border guard, but the same scenario plays out everyday in different forms.
The agent of the state finally relents. “OK, let me check with my superior.” No doubt that person is beyond the next door. Given the line of people waiting outside in the sun, praying for relief, perhaps he is in Heaven. Vanessa notes that today, on the full moon of May, is when the Buddha reaches full enlightenment. Yes, that’s it.
Tuesday at 10pm is designated as open-mike poetry at Nueva Babel, on the corner of Calles Porfirio Diaz and Matamoros, but no one is sure who is in charge. The regulars are present. Sometime after an hour, a young man takes the stage and sings latin ballads with a practiced, doleful baritone, which get howls of approval from the bar. He is not bad, but the women with notebooks in the small anteroom are not sure this qualifies as poetry. The player invites people to interrupt him but no one steps forward, at least until one young drunkard takes the guitar and plays Am-G-F-E, over and over, with a rhythm only he is able to hear. Even the howlers are lost. Disappointed, the ladies gradually take their leave. I finally steal the tiny stage at Nueva Babel and play “The Wind” and “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”—to an audience of precisely one poet, who happens to be my favorite.