Monday, 29 April 2013

The Zocalo

Back in the Zocalo, the city square, I sit with thousands of others taking comfort beneath the green canopy of ancient Laurel trees. There is the sound of clarinets, the flash of pigeon wings, and soapy bubbles blown by the lips of an elderly woman drifting by. Ice cream and Americanos. Hair as black as Corvidae feathers. A marimba band doing a Pink Floyd cover as brown skinned children speak the language of Conquistadors into cell phones. The Zocalo-where indigenous Zapotecs gathered hundreds of years before (what did they call this place then?), and where they still gather today, selling chewing gum and lolly pops to tourists. With a kind of desperate indifference, they work us while they can, using whatever is available with Indio resourcefulness, until we finally go home.