El origen prehispánico del "ay sí ay sí"

En la Ciudad de Oaxaca, descubrí el origen prehispánico del fenómeno del "Ay sí, ay sí"...

It's Dangerous Over There

Before I left San Diego, California for Tijuana, Mexico, a San Diegan friend warned me: "Be careful, David. It's dangerous in Mexico."
I smiled at him.
"No, I'm serious, David. Be careful. Mexico isn't safe. Trust me, I know."
This is a friend who has spent a total of one weekend of his life in the Republic of Mexico, in a resort hotel in Puerto Vallarta.

* * * *

As I was on my way to the Tijuana International Airport, the taxi driver asked where I was headed. "Mexico City?" he said, incredulous. "Man, you better watch your back there. Mexico City is a dangerous place. Lots of crime."

* * * *

I had coffee with a friend in Mexico City. When she heard I was headed to Oaxaca, southern Mexico, she told me a few anecdotes from friends who ran into some trouble. "Don't travel at night, and be on your guard," she warned me. "Oaxaca isn't safe like Mexico City."

* * * *

Once I reached Chiapas, at the southern tip of Mexico, multiple locals warned me about crossing the border into Guatemala. "Things are really violent in Guatemala," they told me. "Don't go out at night, don't talk to anybody, stick to the tourist areas. And don't even think about going into Guatemala City, the capitol. That country is very dangerous."

* * * *

I'm leaving for Nicaragua tomorrow. The bus will cross through El Salvador. Some Guatemalan friends have told me, "El Salvador is dangerous. Be careful, David."

* * * *

I can only imagine that this pattern would continue, ad infinitum, if I were to continue traveling southward. Nicaraguans would warn me about Costa Rica, Costa Ricans would warn me about Panama, and so on and so forth, until I reached the tip of Patagonia, where the Chilean locals would warn me:

"Don't even think about crossing over into Antarctica. The penguins will rob you and stab you."

Mistaken Identity

Feodor was walking through the forest, when he was suddenly overcome with a terrible thirst. He searched the woods for some source of water, looking for some creek, mountain stream or well…

Suddenly, Feodor happened upon a small butterfly sitting on a rock.

“Well look at that,” he exclaimed. “A refreshing mountain spring! Why, I’ve been looking all over for a drink of water. What a refreshing, beautiful sight!”

The butterfly, pleased at the attention she was receiving, smiled and looked up at Feodor. “I know, right? I mean, look at my wings, they’re, like, the most beautiful wings ever!”

Diálogo en el Bosque

Iba Filiberto caminando por el bosque, y tenía mucha sed. Caminó por todos lados, buscando algún arroyo, pozo, río, alguna fuente de agua…

De repente encontró a una mariposa sentada sobre una piedra.

“¡Por fin, he encontrado un manantial! ¡Qué cosa más hermosa!” exclamó Filiberto.

La mariposa respondió con agrado. “Gracias, señor,” le dijo. “Ya sé, tengo unas alitas bien bonitas, ¿qué no? Son de pelos, ¿no crees?”

Escaping Christmas

I thought I would escape from the saccharine glee of gringo Christmas traditions by heading deep into Mexico for the holidays.

No such luck.

In the town of Tequila, Jalisco, birthplace of the intoxicating liquor, the hotel TV played non-stop Hollywood films about the joy of the season. With a Spanish overdub, Tim Allen’s soul is somehow redeemed because he learns to derive happiness from decorating his house with an eight foot tall snowman. While the actors who lend their voices to Tim Allen and Dan Akroyd in ¡Una Navidad de Locos! are Mexican, they lend no touch of Mexican realism to the gumdrop-and-sugar-cane film. It’s still dripping with amphetaminic cheer…just like every other U.S. made program that appears on the television this month.

Santa Claus haunts the markets of even the smallest towns of Central Mexico, threatening to overtake and swallow whole the manger scenes that sit in his obese shadow.

MÁS AVENTURAS LINGÜÍSTICAS

Estimados lectores, les regalo aún más conversaciones ambiguas y diálogos enigmáticos del pueblo de Coatzóspam:

Durante una plática sobre las religiones que han llegado a instalarse en San Juan Coatzóspam:

PEÑA: “Y luego están los, este…los…¿cómo se llaman?”

DAVID: “No sé.”

El señor Peña se me queda mirando.

PEÑA: “Híjole, pero ¿cómo se llaman?”

DAVID: “No tengo la menor idea.”

DON ADÁN: “¿De quién?”

PEÑA: “Los este…los taláyer…¿cómo se llaman?”

DAVID: “Te juro que no sé a qué te refieres. A un gringo que se apellida Tallager, tal vez.”

PEÑA: “No, pero son los Atalaya, algo así.”

DAVID: “Aaa, te refieres a los Testigos de Jehová.”

PEÑA: “No, ese taláyer.”

DAVID: “El Atalaya es la publicación de los Testigos de Jehová, una denominación religiosa.”

PEÑA: “No, este es otro.”

DON ADÁN: “Sí, es otro. Este trae otro. Trae Lucas, Marcos, este…trae otros, trae otros también. Mateo, Marcos…¿quién más?”

PEÑA: “Pero dicen que eso trae brujería, pues.”

Pero para no dejar a la equidad a un lado, también les presento la versión inversa de estas pláticas confusas: un muestreo de mis intentos (a menudo fallidos) de hablar tzotzil con los campesinos de Chiapas.

En una ocasión les preparé un caldo para mis anfitriones y uno de los señores de la comunidad me agradeció la comida. “Gracias” en tzotzil se traduce como “koalabal” y para decir “de nada” se responde con “muyuk vokol”, el cual literalmente se traduce como “no hay de que”. En dicha ocasión se me olvidó la palabra “vokol” y le contesté al señor “muyuk lobol”, lo cual se traduce al pie de la letra como “no hay plátano”. En un sentir más integral, significa “me falta el chilito”. Dejándonos con este hermoso diálogo:

SEÑOR CHIAPANECO: “Gracias por el caldo, Don David.”

DON DAVID: “¡No tengo pene!”

A Good Clean Mountain Hangover

I’m standing in front of Don Adán’s house overlooking a breathtaking view of the valleys below. The air is crisp and cool, tingling my nostrils and healing my gut as it enters me. I may still be nursing a moonshine hangover, but nothing could take the beauty away from this view, not even the liquid death I ingested at the moonshiner’s house yesterday.

A rooster struts in the gravel in front of me. He fluffs his feathers and mad dogs me with his right eye. I suspect this is the same rooster that has been waking me up every night at 2:30 am, perching in the middle of the tree right outside my door and crowing full blast. I stare back at him.