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Mezcal in Oaxaca
November 1st, 2010 | 
Author: Alvin Starkman M.A., LL.B.
Think of mezcal (also known as mescal) as you would a single malt scotch, or better yet when comparing red wines of different vintages from the regions of France. Or perhaps grape varietals from the diversity of valleys and coastal areas in Australia. Forget about the worm for the time being, and forever the reputation with the college crowd of mezcal’s better known sister, tequila.
INTRODUCTION
Mezcal is made from the agave plant, often referred to as maguey. Its production, according to some sources, may actually pre-date the Spanish Conquest, although the product would have been very different from what we encounter today. Many modern-day facilities use the same age-old technique, although some of the tools of the trade have been changed, for example from the use of clay pots for manufacture and storage, to copper serpentine for distillation, and oak and glass for aging and transporting.
It is estimated that there are about 5,000 production facilities in the State of Oaxaca (where most mezcal is produced), less than 200 of which are members of the regulated association. Most are tiny mom and pop operations serving a local community and its hinterland, some produce the spirit for distribution in primarily the City of Oaxaca, and there are a handful catering to the export market. However, in all three instances there is a broad range of quality in terms of smoothness, flavor nuances and smokiness. In fact the well-entrenched tradition of Oaxacans discerning personal palate-worthiness of different mezcals, manifests not through sampling store-bought designer bottles with smart labels, but rather from acquiring multi-liter receptacles from towns and villages in different regions of the state.
Product diversity exists for three primary reasons. Firstly, as is the case with grape varieties in wine production there is a range of agave suitable for mezcal production. Secondly, we find micro-climates yielding plants with subtle differences based on for example soil composition and length and quality of growing season, again similar to what we find regarding vineyards. Finally there is significant variation in the means of production as determined by the mezcalero, or brewmaster if you will. Each decision is crucial in determining the quality of the finished product, beginning with choosing the precise time when the plant is ready for harvest.
PRODUCTION
In Oaxaca there are well over 50 varieties of maguey, roughly 18 of which are used in the production of mezcal. However, about 90% of mezcal is made with the espadÃn agave, perhaps 5% uses tobalá, and the remaining types, found predominantly in the wild, comprise the balance. EspadÃn is similar to the blue agave traditionally used in the production of tequila. However, since blue agave grows in different climates than does espadÃn, the geographical distinction alone is enough to create a differentiation in taste. But the main difference between mezcal and tequila is that the latter is produced using stone ovens or stainless steel tanks for cooking, while the former in most instances still employs the centuries old method of baking the agave in an in-ground oven over firewood and rocks.
The investment of time required to produce a bottle of mezcal begins with 8 years, being how long one must usually wait between transplanting a tiny agave plant produced from runner or cut from its tall stock, and harvest. Towards the end of the growth period, the stock shoots up, signifying the initial stage of readiness. The stock is cut down, and for several months thereafter nutrients gather in the base of the plant known as the piña because of its appearance once the leaves are removed. It is this central core of the agave which is transported by truck or on the backs of donkeys to market (the factory), and not the spiny succulent leaves which in most cases are discarded once cut from the piña, the spherical form of which is only then revealed. It takes approximately 7 tons of raw piña to produce 1,000 liters of mezcal, depending on the type of mezcal being produced.
A pit dug into the earth and measuring about 8′ deep by 12′ in diameter is preheated for a couple of days with thick smoldering logs, on top of which are then placed river rocks. After the rocks have become red-hot, a thin layer of discarded fibrous material from another stage of the process is often placed atop, serving to insulate the rocks from the piñas which are piled on top of the heated rocks, forming a mound, perhaps 4′ – 5′ above ground level. Traditionally the small hill would then be covered with a woven palm leaf mat known as a petate, but now a sheet of synthetic product such as plastic or grain sack material is used, sometimes in conjunction with the petate. Then all is covered with earth so as to ensure the contents of the mound remains airtight. Finally and for good measure a few logs are placed on top of the heap of earth.
The agave bakes for a few days, absorbing the characteristics of the earth, any clay brick used to line the pit, charred wood and smoke. (It’s important to keep in mind the particulars of each step during which distinct flavor and smokiness may be imparted.) Carbohydrates or starches are converted into fermentable sugars. With its now carmel-like sweetness, the piñas are ready to be removed, then cut into small pieces with a machete, and thereafter crushed by a horse or donkey dragging a multi-ton circular concrete wheel over a round, low-walled area in which the charred piña pieces have been placed.
The pulverized cooked agave together with any extracted juices is then pitched into large pine vats where it is left to ferment for between 5 and 15 days depending on the prevailing climactic conditions. Only a bit of water is added to the wooden receptacles which are either covered with plastic or left exposed to the air. No chemicals or other substances or agents, either man-made or natural, are added.
The fermented by-product at about 6% alcohol content is then placed in a brick still, heated with firewood. The vapor rises into copper piping which leads to a companion vat filled with water and the continuation of the copper piping, serpentine in shape entering the tank of water. The water cools the vapor in the tubing. A small spigot at the bottom allows a liquid, mezcal, to slowly drip out into a provisional receptacle. It is normally distilled for a second time, often with the addition of further fermented agave, using a recipe determined by the master mezcalero, to bring the finished product to the desired alcohol content, usually about 40% alcohol by volume. Mezcal is now in its purest form, known as blanco, before aging or being infused with herbs, fruit or the worm.
THE GUSANO
The gusano worm is in fact not a worm, but rather a caterpillar, an infestation to which the agave plant is susceptible. However, in the production and sale of mezcal it has served three primary functions over the years. Firstly, prior to there being any labeling or regulation of mezcal, a gusanito was inserted into a bottle of mezcal as proof to the purchaser that the liquor had a sufficiently high alcohol content. The worm’s preservation in the mezcal, without any decomposition, signified that the alcohol content ought to be acceptable to the purchaser. Secondly, today the worm is a valuable marketing tool. Often the one to finish the bottle is expected to ingest the gusano remaining at the bottom. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, it adds a distinct and appealing flavor to the mezcal as well as smoothness, particularly crucial if the mezcal is otherwise not particularly suave or has not been aged in wood.
The gusano has been a staple in Oaxacan cookery for generations, often purchased live in the marketplace, or dried, sometimes with 100 strung up into a necklace. Some of the finest prepared salsas are made with ground gusano. And of course there is sal de gusano, a combination of salt, chili and worm, used not only in the ritual of imbibing, but also to bring out and add flavor to fruit, to rim glasses used to serve other alcoholic beverages, and more.
TASTING NOTES
The three main types of traditional mezcal one encounters are blanco or joven (young), reposado and añejo. The first represents mezcal which has come directly from the still without any aging whatsoever, except while in glass or plastic receptacles awaiting bottling or sale. It can be quite sharp or strong, but is also encountered in a smooth state depending on the skill level of the mezcalero, percentage alcohol, number of distillations, and so on.
Reposado literally means lying down, resting, or reposing, so when one finds mezcal reposado it’s been aged, in theory in oak barrels anywhere from 2 to 18 months or so, but frequently simply allowed to sit for a period of time with fruit in it which imparts flavor and smoothness. Añejo, by contrast, signifies mezcal which is mature or aged, having been kept for generally 2 or more years in French or American oak barrels sometimes previously used for wine or brandy, or perhaps charred inside to produce a distinct taste. A good añejo which has been carefully distilled and aged has a fine, smoky essence and is extremely smooth.
One can encounter either joven or reposado, with gusano, but virtually never an añejo with the worm because the latter has already had a great deal of time and effort expended in producing a product of fine quality. Notwithstanding that industry controls are by and large lacking apart from controls over those producers which are members of the association, it’s rare that one finds a small operation which even purports to produce añejo. However they may have other varieties in addition to the foregoing three or four staples.
In Spanish “pechuga” means breast. Within the context of mezcal manufacture, true mezcal pechuga has been made by hanging a raw chicken breast in the still during production, imparting in the spirit a subtle flavor nuance and a bit of body created by the minute percentage of fat which has been allowed to vaporize. One should exercise caution in purchasing what is purported to be true mezcal pechuga, once again because of the matter of lack of industry control. In some rural operations one sometimes encounters pechuga which is dark in color. The mezcalero may state that indeed it has been made with chicken breast, the color having been derived from aging with fruit. Whether chicken has actually been used in production is not certain unless you witness the process. That is not to state that the mezcal should be avoided since we’ve sampled some excellent rural pechuga….only to warn that with what the mezcal has been made might be debatable.
The balance of mezcals one is apt to taste fall into two broad categories. The first is a spirit similar to the above-noted selections, with no additives except a particular herb or fruit zest. Regarding the latter, one well-known producer, Mezcal del Amigo, has a citrus mezcal. Similar to the citrus mezcal is cedrón, a local herb producing a pleasant lime-like aroma. Then comes the more herbaceous products such as poleo, often also used to make a tea to cure stomach ailments. The sweet mezcals, referred to as cremas are made with a range of exotic fruits, but almost always contain a sweetening agent, most often honey, sugar or cane alcohol. The percentage mezcal used in such production is frequently quite small, and in fact there is currently controversy in the industry regarding whether or not the word mezcal ought to be used in labeling the beverage. Some cremas are made with cream or milk, while others are not, but can nevertheless be mixed with either, perhaps on the rocks, or in making desserts, for example poured over vanilla ice cream. Those who reside in Oaxaca have the opportunity to purchase bulk blanco mezcal and experiment with their own private recipes such as peach-honey, raisin-apple, guava, rosemary, and innumerable others.
Regardless of any preconceived notions you might have about mezcal, have a taste, whenever the opportunity arises, and of whatever is being offered, if only enough to discern differences and develop a palate for one or more types you prefer from the broad array of flavors, agings and degrees of smokiness.
Originally published here.
Alvin Starkman received his Masters in Social Anthropology in 1978. After teaching for a few years he attended Osgoode Hall Law School in Toronto, thereafter embarking upon a career as a litigator until 2004. Alvin now resides in Oaxaca, where he writes, leads small group tours to the villages, markets, ruins and other sites, is a consultant to film production companies, and operates Casa Machaya Oaxaca Bed & Breakfast. ( http://www.oaxacadream.com ) .
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Women Potters Of San Marcos Tlapazola, Oaxaca
Alvin Starkman M.A., LL.B.
Every Sunday Gloria awakens at 3 am, and begins preparing tejate, a frothy, tasty corn and cacao based drink, which she will offer for sale in the Tlacolula market. A couple of hours later her sister-in-law MarÃa and Maria’s daughter Luci follow suit, but in preparation for their own day of vending pre-Hispanic-style figures and masks, comals, and an assortment of other fired clay bowls, cups, plates and containers. Sundays, the women laugh, is their day of rest, when they don’t have to worry about scrounging for firewood, tending fields, lugging raw material for kneading into clay — the lifeblood of their economic existence — and in the case of MarÃa, looking after preparing breakfast for Luci and her older brother and getting them off to school.
The family of four lives in a modest yet fair sized dirt-floor compound in San Marcos Tlapazola, a Zapotec village about an hour outside of Oaxaca. Nearby Tlacolula is known by tourists and native Oaxacans alike for the pageantry of its Sunday marketplace, its bakeries’ wonderful chocolate-filled buns, the church, proximity to fields of agave and mezcal factories, and products offered for sale by the women of San Marcos.
Gloria, MarÃa and Luci are 40, 38 and 12 years old respectively. While in the market, their traditional dress, consisting of brightly colored and embroidered taffeta dresses and head-dresses, easily sets them and others from nearby villages apart from the rest. Luci confesses that she also likes wearing regular clothing.
In her lifetime, only once has Gloria been to Oaxaca. The mere thought of venturing into the big city intimidates her.
Clumps of hard earth are soaked. On a concrete floor in an almost barren dark room, MarÃa kneads the then softened mud with water and a bit of sand, while kneeling and working her magic, until a buttery smooth clay is ready to be fashioned into a vase. With her hands raised to just about head level, she molds a cone, pounds out the inside to create a funnel, then places it on a small hard piece of plastic atop a flat stone, with a bit of sand as a buffer. The sand enables her to spin the form into a sphere. She uses rolls of clay to build up it up. A piece of corn cob is used to make the outside surface even, and another piece of plastic to cast the inside. A small round segment of hardened gourd assists in producing the desired, final exterior shape. A strip of soft leather facilitates the creation of a smooth finish. Then onto the next one.
Gloria is sitting a few feet away, beginning to burnish a small bowl she has removed from under a cloth covering several others. She’s using one of two almost golf ball sized highly polished river stones given to her by her grandmother. She has already coated the series of bowls with a mixture of a different, much redder clay, and water, so as to create a terra cotta colored paint tone. Once hard and dry, all that Gloria and MarÃa have produced over the course of days, is ready for baking.
Some alfareros in the town of Atzompa use above-ground brick and cement ovens. Others in San Bartolo Coyotepec and Ocotlán use below-ground brick-lined pits. Manuel Reyes in Yanhuitlán constructed his own twin kilns out of clay brick, lengths of re-enforced steel, and mud. But the women of San Marcos, each and every time they want to bake their clay pieces, build a makeshift enclosure at ground level, made variously of discarded bed spring, pieces of rusted through wheel barrow, bent bicycle tire rim, old sections of otherwise unusable laminated metal, and broken pieces of pottery which have not survived a prior firing.
A cousin sometimes comes by in a truck to sell Gloria and MarÃa a load of twigs, branches and rotted out logs, for anywhere between 400 and 1200 pesos, depending on the load size. Sometimes he brings by dried agave leaves, stock, and pieces from the heart or piña which have for some reason not been harvested for mezcal production. The women themselves often gather up similar pieces of potential fuel while in the course of walking the hills outside of their village, and tie them up to both sides of their mule before heading back home.
A day of baking can usually proceed smoothly if there is no rain, and any earlier precipitation has not left the wood wet; if it’s not too windy; and of course if there is a sufficient supply of burnable product on hand, and not too much of the scrap metal has been rendered unusable through the beginning stages of decomposition / disintegration.
Typically, MarÃa is in charge of process, while Luci assists, and Gloria divides her time between doing other household chores such as cooking tortillas and being called upon when MarÃa tires or has been affected by the intense heat, or a stage in production is time-sensitive.
All the pottery to be baked is assembled outside, in close proximity to the area where the “oven” will be built: a series of rustic clay pots — an order for a client who makes and sells piñatas; three comals which were not sufficiently fired on a previous occasion; numeral clay figures of different sizes and forms, for the Tlacolula tourist trade; and an assortment of functional pots, bowls and plates, as well as a few small spoons and tiny colanders.
A circular base approximately two meters in diameter is created, using preferably bed spring placed atop a couple of staggered layers of brick, since such a foundation provides for aeration. Broken pots, old metal receptacles, roofing tile, and whatever else is close at hand creates a confining perimeter. Small twigs and pieces of agave heart are placed underneath. MarÃa cuts agave leaves with a machete. With the aid of an extremely heavy, meter-and-a-half long crow bar known as a barreta, Gloria pitches in by splitting log pieces and lengths of dried agave stock. MarÃa and Luci build a flammable base atop the spring. With gingerly proficiency, MarÃa both directs and assists in placement of the pieces. From her years of experience she knows how to best achieve even firing and avoid breakage.
More of each class of burnable, as well as dried tumbleweed, is carefully placed on top of the clay pieces. Hot ash from making tortillas is shoveled into crevices to facilitate incineration, while a couple of matches set to a few special added twigs, a natural kindling, assures a quick light. A fairly strong wind fuels an initially fledgling fire, and within seconds the blaze is raging and smoke is billowing. More branches and died agave parts are tossed on, with the upmost care since multi-directional wind tunnels have been created. Gloria must fully cover her head to ensure that spark does not ignite her hair. Each takes a turn extricating herself from the swirling, seemingly out-of-control flames. Finally, sheets of rusted metal are strategically placed alongside, and atop, to control the entry of air being drawn to the inner portions of the enclosure.
The morning’s work completed, flames are left to dissipate, while Gloria, MarÃa and Luci sit, have a drink of fresh fruit juice, and rest. After about 45 minutes baking will have been completed. The area will be left to cool, while Gloria and MarÃa return to their simple work room, add a bit of water to their drying clay, and begin kneading before once again beginning production of another diverse lot. Later in the day the oven will be disassembled, pottery removed with hopefully a minimal amount of breakage, ash dusted off. The women of San Marcos Tlapazola will then wrap and box their merchandise in preparation for their next trip to market.
Most Sundays MarÃa can be found sitting on the ground with Luci, with an array of rustic clay figures and masks, as well as a selection of traditional Zapotec cooking and serving utensils displayed in front of them, on one side of an outside aisle in the Tlacolula marketplace. Gloria will be directly across from them, pouring cups of tejate to thirsty passersby.
Originally published here.
Alvin Starkman has a Masters in anthropology and a law degree. Now a resident of Oaxaca, Alvin writes, tours travelers to the sights — including excursions to visit San Marcos Tlapazola — and owns Casa Machaya Oaxaca Bed & Breakfast ( http://www.oaxacadream.com ), a unique Oaxaca bed and breakfast experience providing Oaxaca accommodations which combine the comfort and service of Oaxaca hotels with the personal touch of quaint country inn style lodging.
What They Have
WHAT THEY HAVE
A Personal Essay by Boyd Lemon
I stumbled out of my tent at our lakeside campground in Malawi, Africa and headed for the black iron gate. Several monkeys followed me. I waited at the gate, greeting my 12 fellow tour group members as they arrived in groups of two or three. Shouting and laughter of young male Africans reverberated from outside the gate. I wondered aloud if they would swarm around us to try to sell their crafts, art or trinkets, an experience tourists in Africa commonly encounter.
The gate opened, and we braced ourselves. A young man stepped in and closed the gate behind him. He said hello, shook the guard’s hand and waived at us. He shouted his long African name above the din, but I didn’t get it and forgot to ask him. I’ll call him Kea, the name of a Tanzanian man I met later in Zanzibar.
“I will be your tour guide,” Kea said, as the voices outside quieted. “The name of the village we will visit is Mbamba.” (The “M” is silent.) Kea collected $5.00 each for the tour, then opened the gate and asked us to follow him. In a flash the men crowded around, then disbursed among us as we walked. Two of them walked on either side of me. One, a tall, chunky man with short hair introduced himself as Cisco and asked me my name. I told him, and we shook hands. The other said he was Bush Bebe (phonetically spelled)—unlikely, I thought, as I shook his outstretched hand. “Glad to meet you,” he said. His head was shaven, and compared to Cisco he looked about four feet tall. Cisco said he lived in the village with his grandmother.
“I live in the village too,” said Bush Bebe. I noticed that two young men flanked each of the other tour members. Everyone chatted as we walked.
Neither Cisco, nor Bush Bebe, mentioned selling anything, but I was certain they would. At the end of the tour my prediction came true. I bought a t-shirt that we designed together. As we stood outside the campsite gate, we agreed that on the back it would have a map of the five east African countries we planned to visit and pictures of a fisherman and women grinding cassava into flour. The village name, Mbamba, would be on the left front. I chose a black shirt and said it was up to them to choose colors for the graphics. They said it would be ready outside the camp gate at 6:00 o’clock. Obviously, their sales technique was effective. I probably wouldn’t have bought anything, certainly not a $35 t-shirt, before we became “friends.” I handed Cisco the money with only a fleeting thought that I might never see them again. About five hours later, at two minutes to six, the guard walked over to our camp and told me Cisco was waiting for me. The shirt is beautiful.
We walked along the dusty path—it hadn’t rained in a few days–toward the village, surrounded by the lush foliage and red and yellow flowers sprinkled about the jungle-like terrain. I recognized mango trees, cassava and groves of banana plants. Cisco said he was 19, had gone to secondary school and hoped to go to the university. His English was clearer and more grammatical than most of the Africans I had talked to. He said the villagers usually spoke Swahili among themselves. Bush Bebe said he was in secondary school. They both said they had lived in the village their entire lives and intended to stay.
We began to see thatched roof huts near the path. In about a mile we reached a small outdoor market and a water pump surrounded by thirty or so huts—the village center. Small wooden tables and brightly colored cloths draped on the ground were covered with fruits and vegetables—tomatoes, corn, potatoes, avocados, beans, bananas, fruit I didn’t recognize; and arts and crafts–paintings on animal skins of traditional dancers, animals, warriors; and wooden carvings of the wild animals of Africa–elephants, zebras, wildebeests, giraffes, monkeys, lions and leopards. There were handmade drums and local woodwind and string instruments of various shapes and sizes, and CD’s of African music. I doubt if anyone in the village had a CD player.
A line of women waited at the water pump chatting with each other and their children. As a child worked the pump handle, a woman filled a plastic tub. When it was full, she hoisted it up to her head, took the child’s hand and walked down a path with the heavy tub balanced on her head.
Kea asked us to gather around. The scene at the water pump continued. Kea said that most people in the village were subsistence farmers, growing cassava, tomatoes, beans, corn, rice, bananas and mangos. Some kept chickens. A few earned a living from tourism. There was no other work for the villagers. He told us that the well and pump had been provided by a charitable foundation, that it was the only source of potable water for the village. People who lived on the outskirts had to walk miles for water. He led us over to the outdoor market and said what we saw was the surplus produce that the villagers grew and arts and crafts the villagers made. He didn’t mention the CD’s. Nor did anyone try to sell us anything. He said there were no mangos or cassava flour at the market, because everyone grew cassava and mangos.
Kea said he would take us to visit the village school and the hospital, and then we would come back to the village center for lunch. He asked us if we would like to visit his home. We all said, “Yes.” Our individual guides left us. Cisco said they would rejoin us when we came back to the village.
We followed Kea for 50 yards or so. He gestured toward a hut made of mud bricks and a thatched roof. ”That’s my home.” He said matter of factly that the thatched roof leaked. “I wake up with water dripping on me. Needs lots of maintenance.” He laughed.
The 13 of us couldn’t fit in the small home–a living room with a smoldering fire on the dirt floor, about eight feet square and two other tiny rooms with openings in the interior mud walls. We took turns, entering in two compact groups. He said they cooked over the fire. He pointed at a small table and two chairs. “This is where we eat,” he said, as he pushed them to the side to make more room. It was the only furniture; the house had no plumbing or appliances.
“Two bedrooms,” he said, pointing again, “mine and my grandmother’s.” The bedrooms were just large enough for a single bed sized pad on the dirt floor—nothing else.
He said one in five people in the village was infected with HIV, more women than men. He didn’t say, but it occurred to me that was why he and Cisco lived with their grandmothers. Probably, their mothers had died of AIDS. In answer to a question, he said that the average age for girls to marry was 15. Men, women and older children all worked on the farms.
As we left Kea’s home and headed up the dirt path for the school, 25 to 30 children appeared from somewhere. They looked as young as 3 or 4 and probably as old as 10. A boy on my left and a girl on my right grabbed my hands. They chattered away, always smiling. I couldn’t understand a lot of what they were saying, but they asked where I was from. They smiled broadly and shook their heads up and down when I said the United States. The girl, about 10, wore a dirty beige dress that was too big for her. The skirt almost touched the ground. The top was torn and top buttons were missing, exposing most of her chest. Many of the children were dressed in near rags, likely hand me downs from long ago. Only a few had newer, brightly colored clothes. Most of the girls wore dresses. The boy who held my hand, about 7 or 8, dressed in red shorts and an oversized yellow t-shirt, had a mango partly in his mouth, covering most of his lips. His hand was sticky. Several of the children picked up ripe mangos that had fallen from the trees, split them open with their hands and shoved them in their mouths.
As we walked, although it was just past 9:00, the humid heat closed in. Sweat covered foreheads and dripped from noses. We passed cassava fields and mango and banana groves. Each hut had crops growing behind or beside it. Those working on their small plots of ground were either cultivating with hoes or planting by hand. Kea said that they harvested by hand. We walked by dozens of people working, and many walking, usually carrying something on their heads—no vehicles or animals, except chickens. A girl, probably no more than 16, bathed a protesting baby in a plastic tub. I commented that babies the world over disliked baths. Cisco smiled and nodded.
In our travels in east Africa, except in the cities, we saw few vehicles or animals. Occasionally, people cultivated with a hand plough. Only once did I see an ox pulling a plough. There was no irrigation. Usually, there was enough rain, I assumed.
As we continued to walk behind Kea, I wondered how far the school was, but I didn’t ask. The children sang, first together, then by themselves. Sometimes they skipped in the sweltering heat. They were almost always smiling, chattering or laughing when they weren’t singing. The older children looked after the youngest. No adults came along, except Kea.
The two children holding my hands pulled me up to the front next to Kea. He smiled and asked me where I was from. “United States,” I said. He smiled broadly. “Obama,” he shouted, raising his hand in a fist. I smiled back, nodding.
“Yes,” I said. I voted for him. “Good. He’s a good man,” said Kea.
I asked if the people of the village had enough to eat. “Yes, usually,” he said. “We take care of each other. If a family is in need, we help out. We look after each other.” I asked about crime in the village. “Crime? No, none,” he said. We kept walking. Most adults and children near the path waived at us with big smiles as we passed. A man standing in front of a hut walked up, patted me on the shoulder and said “Welcome.”
After walking more than a mile from the village center, we finally arrived at the school. It was made of the same mud bricks as the houses, but with a sheet metal roof. I counted ten classrooms. It was a Sunday, so school was not in session. We followed Kea into a classroom. The children stayed outside, laughing, playing, shouting, much like a group of American kids would have done. The classroom floor was concrete.
One of the teachers started his presentation. Kea shushed the children outside without much effect. The teacher told us there were eight grades and ten teachers. They taught math, English, Swahili, art and music, he said. I thought of our schools in the United States that were eliminating art and music from the elementary school curriculum. Music and art flourished all over east Africa. Are art and music more important to the poor?
The teacher told us there were about 1,500 hundred students in the school. For most it was all the education they would get. Some went to secondary school in a larger village that required them to leave their parents. A few went to the university. He said that the school was built by charitable donations and it survived because of charity. He pointed to a plain wooden box with a slit in the top and asked us to donate. Most of us did.
After the teacher’s presentation, we looked around the classroom. The books on shelves in the back, except for math and English, seemed almost random, donations, I assumed, including many novels, some classic—Ivanhoe—some not so classic—Danielle Steele—for children? I saw no children’s books. The children’s art hung on the walls, much like an elementary school in the United States. They depicted mostly village and family scenes.
I asked the teacher if the school had a computer. He said they would like to have one, but they didn’t. After I got home, I read an article in the New York Times about an organization that was dedicated to providing computers for all African children by 2012.
When I trudged out the classroom door, sweating, I thought of the children that would be sitting in the sweltering classroom on Monday. Our child companions rejoined us, shouting, “Hi,” laughing and holding our hands again.
We walked about a half-mile down another path to the hospital, a brick building, smaller than the school. It had a main room with a concrete floor, where we congregated—again the children stayed outside—and two other rooms in the back that we didn’t enter. I didn’t see any x-ray machines or other medical equipment that you would expect in a hospital. Maybe equipment was in the back, but then where were the patient rooms?
The hospital administrator, a tall, thin, young man, who spoke excellent English, told us that care at the hospital was free. Like the school teacher, he asked us for donations. Nobody asked any specific questions about the care that was given. I can’t imagine that it was much beyond first aid, but I don’t know. Nevertheless, the man spoke to us with a sense of importance and an urgency and pride in what he was doing.
By the time we went outside to join the children, it was even hotter. They still laughed, skipped and chattered as we took the long walk back to the village center. Different children held my hands this time and asked me questions—where was I from, was it hot there, did I like living in Boston, how many people lived in Boston? Sometimes I couldn’t understand what they asked. Kea had told us that English is their second language. A couple of times they skipped off for a moment, and then came back and grabbed my hands.
When we got back to the village, our individual guides rejoined us. At the village center near the water pump, a large blanket was spread out on the dirt. About 20 yards back a fire under a grill flared and smoked. Kea asked us to sit. Men and women set down large bowls of food and brought plates, spoons and forks. Others handed us bowls of soup–sweet potato, Kea said. The women dished chicken, beans and rice from the steaming bowls onto our plates. The food was spicy, similar to the spices in Indian food. We were served bread made from cassava flour. It all tasted good. The portions were huge. I feared embarrassment from wasting food I couldn’t finish.
The children stood behind us talking and laughing. Someone asked why the children were not eating. Kea told us they would be given what we did not eat. They were excited, he said, because they didn’t get chicken very often. We all left a lot on our plates, especially chicken. When we finished eating, adults handed the children our plates. They gobbled the food quickly.
I gave a few children coins. They grabbed at them with gusto. Others gave them pens and paper. Children in towns and villages we had passed through begged for pens and paper when we stopped. That was usually their first request.
The children who had pens and paper sat down in the dirt and started drawing immediately, but Kea interrupted them, put away their pens and paper and organized them into a line. Drummers appeared and started playing. The children danced and sang and invited us to join them. They tried to teach several of our women how to do the traditional African dance. The village men laughed and beat their drums. Whether they were dancing, singing or just talking, they reverberated a vibrant energy. The joy was contagious. We danced with them.
It was easy to focus on what the people of Mbamba don’t have. They don’t have vehicles of any kind, either personal or for work; washing machines, dryers, refrigerators or any other appliance; electronic entertainment, such as radio, TV, Walkman, IPod or computers; showers, bath tubs or toilets; animals or machinery to help farm; diapers; modern toys; telephones; air conditioning or heating; make-up; deodorant; tissues; glasses; dental care; flooring; curtains; electric lights or any means of irrigating their crops. Instead of lawn mowers, they use machetes to “mow” during the wet season when the grass grows high. As best I could tell, they had no underwear. At least, the children didn’t. The list of what they did not have seems endless.
What they have is less obvious and concrete, but defines their lives: joy in their everyday lives; a sense of community; the pleasure of helping someone in need; the gaiety of lives filled with music and dance; the fulfillment of creating music and art; the satisfaction of eating what they planted, grew and nurtured with their own hands; the natural peace of connection with the land; living surrounded by the natural beauty of the landscape and wild creatures of Africa; the love of an extended family and clan; small, simple pleasures; the accomplishment of making with their hands things they need to live; the time to enjoy the company and comradery of each other and their children; real human communication with those they care for; respect for and from each other; the incomparable enjoyment of watching and nurturing children; knowledge of what is really necessary; I suspect, the joyfulness of sex without it being promoted endlessly by media; the ability to distinguish the important from the unimportant; acceptance of life; acceptance of death; thankfulness for what they have. These people, desperately poor by our standards, lacking every comfort, convenience and entertainment that we deem necessary, are alive in the most human sense of the word.
In every village, town and city we visited or passed through in east Africa, most people we came within hearing distance of waived, smiled and said hello. Many said, “Welcome,” asked where we were from. Some tried to sell us something, and some did not. Everyone, selling or not, was unabashedly friendly. Never before in any other place have I had so many conversations with strangers. They were curious, as well as extroverted. They asked questions. They wanted to know about us. They were interested in other human beings, and they took the time to show that interest, and to try to relate to all of us.
When they found out I was from the United States, they often invoked the name, “Obama.” Many asked if I had voted for him. A few asked if I knew him. Most said something positive about him. Pride showed on their faces, not just in Kenya, but in Mbamba and everywhere between.
I remember a similar openness, friendliness and zest for life when I was growing up in a small town in California in the 1940’s and 50’s. It no longer exists in the America I know today.
It has been said that all other things being the same, it is better to be rich than to be poor. I suppose that if you isolate those two conditions, that is true. But life is more complex than that. It cannot be isolated into rich or poor. Life involves a complex set of conditions, relative wealth being only one. The villagers of Mbamba taught me that wealth is not the most meaningful condition and may even distract one from real human fulfillment, as it has many Americans. Of course, if you do not have enough to eat to quell hunger or to maintain health, or are sick with no means to obtain medical care, or have no shelter, life cannot be fulfilling.
I don’t mean to imply that the people of Mbamba do not suffer or to minimize the hardships they endure. If I thought their lives were nirvana, I would give away all my assets and move to Mbamba to be a farmer. But many Americans could learn something valuable from the way they live with what they have.
The people of Mbamba taught me that if you have those necessities, you don’t need anything else. You don’t need what Americans strive for, so desperately that if we don’t have enough of what we seek—and we never seem to have enough—we numb the effects of our perceived failure with pills and alcohol; we don’t experience either the pain or the joy that life brings. Many of us never realize what we have done to ourselves.
When the singing and dancing in Mbamba concluded, the children who had accompanied me on our tour ran over, said good-bye and hugged me. I hugged them and turned my head away so they couldn’t see my tears. My tears were not for them.
Originally published here.
Boyd Lemon is a writer and retired attorney living in Paris, France after a lifetime in southern California. He has completed a memoir, Digging Deep: A Writer Uncovers His Marriages. It will be published in 2011.