of the 43 students in the neighboring state of Guerrero, delivery trucks couldn’t
get through. So Sánchez López replaced Coke with Zega-Cola, a natural, less-
sweet alternative—it was a hit with customers.
Later that night, Omar Alonso, the Instagram-famous guide who puts
together custom tours for Oaxacking, meets me at the bar Archivo Maguey.
Over shots of earthy, house-brand Papalometl mezcal from the Mixteca region,
he tries to explain the duality of the moment here, which has been both ener-
gized and depleted by the attention from outsiders over the past several years.
“Since around 2008, there have been amazing collaborations between teach-
ers, designers, everyone imaginable,” Alonso says. But along with that came
big-city money, and fat cats from all over the world showed up with suitcases
full of cash, looking to start their own mezcal brands. Rumors of get-rich-quick
players earning fortunes on the backs of impoverished communities are ram-
pant, he says, and some people worry that the spirit will become too commercial
and lose the cultural heritage that makes it special.that lack authenticity
are greeted with skep-
ticism by the young
entrepreneurs behind spots like Archivo Maguey and El Tendajón Agavería
because they go against one of Oaxaca’s most cherished rituals: la guelaguetza.
Aside from being the name of a popular folk festival that takes place each July,
the term describes a Zapotec custom of reciprocated support. “Guelaguetza
means to give and receive,” Alonso says. “It means a lot to us, to share and not
expect anything directly in return.”
For example, you might ask a friend to provide drinks for your daughter’s
wedding reception, and at some point, perhaps years in the future, when some-
one else in the community needs something from you, it’s time to pay it forward,
Alonso explains. It’s a system of mutual cooperation, sustained over years oreven a lifetime, that nurtures trust and social unity.
I’m still pondering the idea when Archivo Maguey’s
owner, Jesús Ortiz, foists another thimble of mezcal into
my hand. The grandson of a mezcalero, Ortiz opened
Archivo Maguey to showcase distilled agave from the
Mixteca, the region in northwestern Oaxaca state where
he grew up. He keeps his sweet, smoky elixir in brand-
less glass carboys, some hand-labeled with a scrap of
duct tape. Ortiz fashioned the spare bar’s geometric
furniture himself, and the walls are plastered with earth
trucked in from his family’s pueblo. About a half dozen
of us, strangers until tonight, crowd around a table,
sharing a couple of tlayudas—delicious pizza-size tos-
tadas topped with herb-scented refried beans, quesillo,
guacamole, and sautéed cocopaches (beetles) and chapu-
lines (grasshoppers).
“Agave spirits are the only ones that make you con-
nect with other people, fall in love with other people,”
Ortiz says, looking around the table. “Whiskey makes
you sad, it pulls you into yourself. Mezcal is something
that’s shared.” Beyond that, he later asserts, it’s part of
Mexico’s identity.
Ortiz’s idealism is almost as intoxicating as the shots
that keep showing up, un-
bidden. I totter back to my
room sometime past mid-
night, tipsy yet undeni-
ably inspired by these
young Oaxacans’ ability
to innovate their own her-
itage and to prize connec-
tion over profit.“Guelaguetza means to
give and receive.
It means a lot to us,
to share and not expectanything in return.”
Below: Downtown
Oaxaca. Right: Art-
ist Daniela Ram at
Hoja Santa studio,
dedicated to works
by women and a
stop on the Turista
Gráfico tour.—Omar Alonso70 OCTOBER 2018 ❖ SUNSET