Oaxaca: One Year Later

As in most of Oaxaca, things at El Catedral, where I've come for dinner, are "mas o menos," explains my waiter, Alberto. Translated literally, the phrase means "more or less." But Alberto's diplomatic shorthand, which I will hear often during a three-day visit, hints at the conflicted, contradictory state of an emotionally scarred city.

For adventurous travelers, "mas o menos" can also translate to opportunity. The decline in foreign visitors -- from 264,000 in 2005 to 190,000 this year through October -- means there are bargains to be had and no hordes to fight. Smith, for instance, negotiated half-price rates at the nearby beaches of Puerto Escondido.

As I finish an affordable glass of Spanish tempranillo, two groups arrive at El Catedral, adding a bit of life to the courtyard.

"It's certainly not like it was three years ago," declares Virginia O'Brien, a San Diegan who has returned to the city every year since her first Spanish language class in 1984. "This place would be packed; we'd be lucky to get a table."

Now in her 70s, with cropped red hair and kitschy-cool Mexican-silver skeletons dangling from her ears, O'Brien loves Oaxaca so much she even came during the riots. She and a travel agent friend "were going to bring a tour last year, but we canceled it, thank God," she says. This year's group backed out.

"People are taking their kids back to school; they're walking in the Zocalo [town square] again," says her dining companion, Javier Garc¿a Vigil, who is the director of the Symphony of Oaxaca.

O'Brien, who loves to scout for bargain-price hand-woven rugs, remains bullish on Oaxaca. But she is sad: "It hasn't staged a real comeback yet."

The New Normal

Oaxaca -- it's the name of both the capital city and the state -- is an hour's flight south of Mexico City. The city (population before the riots: 258,000) was laid out by Spaniards in the mid-1500s, and its streets are lined by mossy relics of that era. The surrounding region boasts phenomenal ruins, such as the sprawling hilltop Zapotec village of Monte Alb¿n, and what is believed to be one of the largest and best-preserved indigenous cultures in the Mesoamerican world.

Protest is as much a part of Oaxaca's tradition as its black clay pottery and hand-woven tapestries. So when the city's teachers announced their perennial strike in May 2006, it barely caused a stir. But unlike in previous years, the dispute escalated into a broader conflict over social justice.

Anti-government demonstrators stormed local radio stations and occupied Oaxaca's famed Zocalo. The city once known for picturesque cathedrals, graceful laurel trees and colorful marketplaces was coated in graffiti and strewn with the charred remains of vehicles.

Some 4,000 federal police descended, erecting barricades and military-style encampments. Masked protesters countered with guerrilla tactics, hurling burning tires and rocks collected from the cobblestone streets. Before order was restored in December, the riots claimed the lives of at least nine and as many as 20 people, including American activist/journalist Brad Will.

Today, mariachi music fills the Zocalo and fresh whitewash covers the walls. But marches in opposition to state Gov. Ulises Ruiz -- who sent riot police to battle demonstrators -- occur often, and residents say the underlying economic and political tensions remain.