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Ajijic (Īah-hee-HEEKā), a beautiful, friendly little town of cobbled
streets and prettily painted
houses . . . is how it's described in the guidebooks. We come to this
charming, picturesque
pueblito, where strolling is the favored pastime, and notice Mexicans with
Į11-fitting huaraches or
worse yet high heels walking with friends, talking, often with children in
tow, and bundles on their
back. Not only do they not have a problem maneuvering the cobblestones, they
seem completely oblivious of them. This puts us at unawares. As foreigners we are
observant and take our cues from what we see others doing, and we assume there is no problem.
Of course the guidebook doesnāt advise us to wear our sturdiest walking shoes, or warn us
that even then, we can break our neck on those cobblestones. No, but itās something that any
North American who has been here for two weeks can tell you. Most of us have had a near turn of
the ankle and all know of someone who had a serious fall.
But why does this not happen to Mexicans? If it did, they would have paved
the streets long ago. Is it that theyāve been walking on cobblestones all their lives or is
it a genetic proclivity?
Probably a little of both, but the real reason is fairly simple: negative
reinforcement.
Years ago when the village I work in didnāt have electricity, hence no
telenovelas (soaps), to occupy our afternoons, the women would sit outside and sew while the
children played games in the street. One day a baby, just beginning to walk, was let loose. He would
walk a few steps and fall, just like children everywhere, but here, at each kapoooom, all the
women and children would laugh. Heād get up with a smile on his face and try again. And as it is with
babies, in just a few days he was walking here and there; hardly ever falling. Then one day, now
full of confidence, and the coordination to almost run, he tripped over one of those dastardly
cobblestones and took a very hard fall. As a mother myself, my immediate instinct was to run over
and pick him up, dust him off, and check to see if he was O.K. But just as I got up there was
peels of laughter.
Iturned around and again, everyone was laughing. No one went to the baby's
rescue. This time he wasn't laughing, but he wasnāt crying either. It was quite a shock to me.
How could these people be so cruel as to laugh at a baby who fell?
Before the water was piped to each house, one of the joys of pueblo life
was rainy season when the river was full.
All the women and smaller children would all go up and wash clothes and
bathe. We'd carry the big metal tubs on our heads filled with clothes and a
variety of special soaps to take out any possible stain. I was fortunate in that I just had a
family of three, so my load was fairly light.
Some women had to wash for a family of eight or nine.
We'd walk up the hillside in gullies trying to avoid the nopal, huisache, and all the other
stickery growth that seemed to reach out and grab you. My tub would wobble hack and forth as I'd
tip my head to keep an eye on where I was going. I noticed that the other women walked with
their heads held high. Being of a short, stocky build, they didn't appear to be particularly
graceful or agile, yet no one ever tripped or lost their footing.
As I walked along watching them, and trying to navigate the twists and
turns, I would wish that the women from my fabric store in Berkeley could see this. In my store,
I had one small step.
Even though it was outlined with day-glo tape, every day someone would
fall. I could never figure it out.
When we walked up the hill to the river, we would always be accompanied by
Doa Irene, the most respected matriarch of the village. She would lend her authority
and assurance to keep all members of the opposite sex at bay, and protect our standing as fine
young women. At 70+ years, she was still in good walking form. Then it happened. She fell! She
not only fell, but as she lost her footing she tumbled over and landed just short of the
needle-sharp spines of a prickly cactus. Horrified, I immediately dropped my tub ran up the hill to
help her. By the time I reached her, she had gotten up, to the shrieking and laughter of all the
other women.
She started laughing too. We were all hysterical. It was hard to tell if the tears
coming down were of pain or hilarity.
Back in the pueblo it was a great story to he acted out and it
kept everyone in stitches for days.
Well, I often thought that the next time someone fell down that step there
in Berkeley, I'm
going to laugh and see if that made a difference.
But I never could.
So just remember, as you walk through these quaint cobbled streets, to
watch your step. You
are at a distinct cultural disadvantage.
(Ed. Note: Ms. Davis, a member of the Ajijic Writersā Group, is one of our
areaās most
distinguished writers. Her book Mexican Voices, American Dream's was
published by Henry
Holt & Son, and recently went into its sixth printing.)
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