Teatro y Tarantula October 9, 2022
Perched on a rock, far above Lake Huayapam, and standing like a black-velvet sentinel at Buckingham Palace, this tarantula has been caught off guard by its remoteness. Our sudden presence freezes the spider, and it will not move even when touched, which a bare-foot hiker immediately does, confessing a desire to greet a fellow citizen of earth, with gentle stokes to the furry rump.
“Don’t do that! Leave him alone,” admonishes the environmentalist from Amherst. She says it in Spanish, too, for the benefit of all present. Good for her, I say, but her cultural sensitivities have no effect on the free-spirited Oaxaqueño, who places his hand in front of the tarantula, as if inviting it for a lift to the watering-hole ahead.
We have been walking above this ravine for an hour, under a low canopy of thorny Acacia trees, and this is the first sign of flowing water. The hard quartzite of the creek bed here has been eroded smooth, forming pockets that contain pools of tadpoles. Just below us, the hillside cornfields begin, above us the green summit; but here, immersed in dense riparian vegetation, is a hidden bath on a warm afternoon. The hikers agree that it could also be a hidden toilet, so no one sets foot in the pool. Not even the tadpoles, who do not quite have feet yet.
Bussing and walking back to the city, we find more wild animals, in Centro Historico. They seem to be fighting over territory. On Calle Guerrero, parallel parking is tight for tonight’s performance of Orquesta Sinfonica de Oaxaca, free to the public. So is the street parking, although tips are appreciated by the men in orange vests that that help guide precious cars into sharp squeezes.
The apparent problem is that this particular orange-attired attendant does not have permission to be working this section of Guerrero. Another vested man complains to him, while order is enforced by still another man, with hunched shoulders and clenched fists, wearing pleated black pants, pointed leather shoes, sleeveless undershirt—and a mean city face.
First, the trespasser is shoved away from his position in the intersection, then a punch is thrown to the nose, and the poor guy falls to the ground. All the while, clogged traffic on the corner of Fiallo and Guerrero honk at the graphic obstruction. A kick to the ribs brings the collapsed man curbside, and the cars continue along, but slowly, as a violent man stands by with his proven method of establishing order. Nevertheless, phones are raised as they drive by, bringing a cautionary tale into focus. I am only grateful I am not trying to park my car.