Tepoztlan/Ixcatepec, Morelos, Mexico
The landlord of my lovely casita apologized for the ruckus yesterday morning, when the gas delivery truck arrived with an early delivery. (He’s British; ruckus is such a good British word). I didn’t mind; I was ready for hot water and warm milk for my coffee. But to apologize for a ruckus in Mexico is to apologize for the country itself; if something has a sound, it is louder here, and if you are at risk of slipping into a brief reverie or indifference, someone with a loudspeaker will save you. This is a place where “social media” means calling out offers, things for sale, the next fiesta from the back of a truck, or face-to-face, shaking hands while you tell your truth.
I’m here, to write. Writing is not a loud art, although the truth in letters can be cacophonous. Still, the noise does not bother me because it is not necessary that I respond to it. I am outside of it and yet immersed in it. The fireworks that have been going off for days, and echoing off the mountains on each side of me, are no longer making me jump. As long as they are fireworks. The Feast of Kings is today, so if they don’t die down, then I’ll start to worry.
This morning, early mass was being broadcast on a loudspeaker from the church built in 1732. The gas delivery company passed by the house with its siren (yesterday they ended up coming three times, in error). The birds welcomed the morning in bright song. A bee protested once it landed in my coffee. The neighbouring horses made a few remarks.
The children kept saying Hola, hola, to a pet or a baby. The roosters persisted. Sunday morning, small-town /Mexico.
Now, in the evening, more fireworks. Crickets. The rumble of the odd car on the cobblestone road. Ranchero music blasting past from one of them. And hopefully, the clicking of these keys as I enter the day’s work. Hasta Luego. And Happy New Year, too.