A tightrope act worthy of kings

Every night on the zocalo, if you're not too distracted by the many musicians, soccer games, vendors and the yard-of-beer dispenser, you may see a world class tightrope act performed by Jose Esqueda Ochoa, who also sells souvenirs from a cart. Our last evening in Veracruz I asked his name and story, and this is what he told me.

Jose learned his trade 49 years ago from his father, with whom he said he worked in an Italian circus for years. Jose has also spent years harvesting crops in the south in the U.S. (He claims in some way to be related to the Flying Wallendas, though Tino Wallenda didn't know him; he says Esqueda is a common name in the circus.)

Whatever his lineage, I'll let Jose's work speak for itself. All I know is that Jose peformed religiously every night--once to a near-empty plaza during a rainstorm at 2 a.m.

Watch the video on YouTube here. After you see it, tell me what you think!

Life on the Zocalo

We stayed at the Hotels Colonial and Imperial right on the zocalo, a fantastic choice for exposure to local culture. Every day around noon or so, the square freshly swept and washed, the vendors begin laying out their wares on blankets and carts. Indians with blusas, wooden spoons, hand-painted bookmarks and other merchandise bound to their backs patrol the area.

In what was to become our regular practice, we stopped at the Grand Cafe del Portal for a lechero. The espresso comes in a tall glass, to which is added a healthy amount of steamed milk, poured from an impressive height by a skilled waiter. See the process here:
(I apologize for the quality; had the wrong setting! I have another video, but this was the best show.)

The zocalo is, well, intense. Several cafes line the square in front of each hotel. On any given evening, there may be four or five bands vying for attention. When fully employed (they only play when paid), the cacophany is at once exhiliarating and overwhelming and intoxicating. Something NOT to be missed.

By the end of our stay I had come to love the intimacy of the Indian children pressing on us at midnight trying to sell us a macrame bracelet. The first night, while we were still trying to be cool, "No, gracias" was our standard reply. But by night four I think we had purchased just about everything in their inventory.

Mindi did get one girl to crack up when she mimicked her pitiful plea. (These children are well fed and cared for by their parents, who work nearby and watch over them. ) So she sent over her little sister, who was determined not to break character:

One night around midnight, one girl persisted in her quest to get us to buy a bracelet. I didn't really want one, but I relented and slipped her a few small coins to get her to leave. "Shh!" I said, putting my finger to pursed lips, warning her not to tell anyone.

Three minutes later, four or five younger children descended on our table and serenaded us with their simple, childish song. "Copera, copera" (or something that sounded like that), they requested.

"No copera," I insisted. Their sister shouldn't have told, I reckoned. The youngsters soon evaporated into the night. I never saw those little ones again.

Heck, I should have given them something. They deserved it.

Avoiding gunplay and other noble vacation goals...

So, my dad invites me and Mindi to go to Veracruz with him and of course I say yes. I've learned not to get too freaked out by reports of violence, so hearing of beheadings and car bombings in the tourist area didn't dissuade me from hopping the midnight flight to Guadalajara.


I must say, we seemed to step into Mexico the instant we got in line to check in at the Sacramento "International" Airport. Everyone -- and I mean everyone except one other white lady -- was speaking Spanish. Lots and lots of babies on the flight.


Mexicana Airlines is a great company and the flight was uneventful. We retrieved our rental car and got some rudimentary directions into town and headed out. The instant we left the airport we confronted about six vehicles stuffed with armed soldiers. Vehicles were posted at the exit and entrance to the highway, and several guarded entry to the facility we were passing.
"Are we supposed to stop?" I asked Mindi. We slowed to a crawl, trying to get the attention of the soldiers standing on the side of the road. The officer posted on the road had his back to us and did not turn around.

It was quite intimidating, being from California and all, to see regular patrols of soldiers with their trigger fingers poised on their automatic rifles. I gulped mightily and stopped.

We looked pathetically at the group of soldiers and shot a questioning glance. They laughed and waved us on. Turns out that was the entrance to a military base, so not too unusual. (Except we didn't see another such show of force the rest of our trip.)


I do have to apologize for not having a photo of all this. It just seemed more prudent not to do anything questionable.


After taking the possibly more direct, but slower, route into town suggested by the rental car company, we finally got to the zocalo in the old city center of Veracruz. That I do have a picture of: