MUSICAL COUPLE MAKE HISTORY SING

Yo soy libre como el viento/ I am as free as the wind
Pero tengo dignidad/ but I have dignity
Adoro la libertad/ I adore freedom
Con todo mi corazón/ with all my heart
- from the 19th century song, La China Mexicana

In songs about patriotic señoritas and murdered revolutionary heroes, Consuelo Martinez and Lorenzo López make Mexico's history come alive. For many years the duo called Arena de Río has researched and performed traditional songs from Mexico's early 19th-century struggle for independence through the Revolution a hundred years later. What started as a passion for Mexico's old music has become a mission to help listeners restore their eroded links to the past.

Consuelo: "It's sad." Lorenzo: "We've forgotten our roots." The two are more than a musical duo; they're husband and wife. In conversation, one often completes the other's thoughts.

"With all the telenovelas, pop stars and soccer," Lorenzo continues, "sadly, people don't know their history, they don't know their music, don't know the old customs."

The duo's name, arena de río, means "river sand." They say there is pride in seeing themselves as "a grain of sand" in efforts to enrich Mexican culture.

Ironically, the search to recover Mexico's past was reinforced in Berkeley, California. While spending time at the university, Lorenzo and Consuelo discovered a gold mine of Mexican history and music. That started them on an exhaustive research project. They have sifted through documents and sheet music in Mexican universities, libraries and archives. And they've sought out songs passed down from one generation to the next.

"We listened to the music of old people," Lorenzo says.

"For example," says Consuelo, "a woman in her 80s, who learned the songs of her grandmother" -- songs going back to before the 1910 revolution.

You can learn about Mexico from Arena de Río's music. Or, you can just sit back and let the music flow over you -- Consuelo's beautiful, deep voice, Lorenzo's lilting guitar, their sweet harmonies. There are many love longs among their CDs.

¿Que haré lejos de tí, prenda del alma?/ What will I do far from you, part of my soul?
¿Sin verte, sin oirte y sin hablarte?/ Without seeing you, without
hearing you and without talking to you?
¿Como quitar la esencia de las flores?/ How to give up the essence of flowers?
¿Como quitarle al viento la armonia?/ How to give up the wind's harmony?
¿Como negar que te amo, vida mia?/ How to deny that I love you, my life?
¿Como borrar de mi alma esta pasion?/ How to erase this passion from my soul?
- from the romantic song, Prenda del Alma

"Which came first, music or love?" I ask. They laugh. Music and love are intertwined, they say. Consuelo: "Gracias a la música (thanks to the music), we got to know each other."

Together, they have performed and searched out traditional music for 25 years, living most of that time in La Paz. Lorenzo, 50, was born in Mexico City; Consuelo, four years younger, came from Guadalajara. They have two daughters, ages 18 and 10.

Their latest project combines music and theatre. Vamos a Cantar la Historia (let's sing the history) is a stage production that involves school children in a reenactment of events from the struggle for independence through the French intervention and the Mexican Revolution. Vamos a Cantar la Historia is also the title of a CD of spoken word and songs, a studio recording of their project.

This coming year will be busy for Lorenzo and Consuelo with the approach of the 2010 celebrations of both the 200th anniversary of Mexico's Independence and the 100th anniversary of the Revolution.

As they talk about the project and the history behind it, their faces light up. They explain that this latest CD is a distillation of so much research. The details, too many to include, have caused the historic personalities to come alive for them. "These heroes were people," Consuelo says. "They made mistakes, but they had convictions to improve life."

Y de orgullo el alma llena/ And with my soul filled with pride
Declaro de buena gana/ I gladly declare
Que soy pura mexicana/ That I am all Mexican
Nada tengo de español/ I have nothing of the Spanish in me
- La China Mexicana

You can hear samples of Arena de Río's music and learn more about the duo at their website at http://www.arenaderio.com/ and a second website at www.myspace.com/arenaderio. They have four CDs: Vamos a Cantar la Historia, Reflejos de Ayer (reflections of yesterday), Una Mañanita Azul (a blue morning) and Voy Llegando a mi Pueblito (I'm on my way to my village). You can purchase CDs directly from the artists. E-mail arenaderio@yahoo.com

LA PAZ: LOOKIN' GOOD AT AGE 474

The City of La Paz marks the 474th anniversary of its founding in May. This historic event was a long time coming. It actually took the Europeans five tries to found the settlement that became La Paz. Here's how it happened, as recounted in the city's celebration brochure.

The first Spaniard to arrive was Fortún Jiménez de Bertandoña, mutineer pilot of "La Concepción." He came in 1533, but he and his 22 sailors were killed by the native Guaycuras.

Two years later, on May 3, 1535, Hernán Cortés arrived and named the bay and harbor Santa Cruz. That day has become the official date of the founding anniversary. However, Cortés failed to establish a permanent colony. Sixty-one years later (in 1596), Sebastián Vizcaíno disembarked and named the port La Paz. But he didn't create a settlement, either.

There were two more attempts: one in 1683 by the admiral Isidro de Atondo y Antillón; another in 1720 by Jesuits Juan de Ugarte and Jaime Bravo, who established the mission of "Nuestra Señora del Pilar de La Paz." They abandoned the mission 15 years later.

It wasn't until 1811 that Governor Felipe de Goicoechea gave the area to Juan José Espinoza to start a settlement. That was the beginning of the permanent colony of La Paz.

SONG FROM HER HEART

My heart opens itself to your voice
Like the flowers open to the kisses of the dawn!

When soprano Loyda Vázquez sang these words from the French opera Samson et Dalila on stage in La Paz earlier this month, she was singing from her heart.

That's partly because she had been preparing for the concert for a year. And because she is passionate about bringing opera to life through voice and theatre. But what made the event especially heartfelt was that the pianist was her father, David Vázquez Cosío. He now lives in Mexico City. Because of this, father and daughter perform concerts together only once or twice a year.

"I don't even have to look at him for us to understand one another," Loyda tells me. She pauses to reflect for a moment, placing her hand on her heart. "He says, 'Your heart and mine are the same.' And so, it is a very special experience."

Loyda Vázquez Lizárraga has been playing music with her father since she was six years old. Now she's 38. Her dad is 73.

In Guadalajara, where Loyda grew up, there were always musicians in the family home. Singers, violinists, cellists and others came to play with her father. A concert pianist and professor of music at the University of Guadalajara, David Vázquez started by teaching his young daughter piano. But Loyda had other plans. "Being a pianist was not for me." Asked why, Loyda is emphatic: "¡No soy yo, No soy yo! " — she does not feel truly herself at the keyboard.

Even at the age of six, Loyda knew she wanted to be a singer. "When I sing, I feel as if I am flying." She stretches out her arms like a paloma and laughs. The laughter is musical. Her sentences have the cadence of a song. But the effect is not theatrical. Loyda's manner is natural. She simmers with warmth.

Loyda was 10 when she began voice lessons with her father. Singing is her passion: "I believe that when you sing, your soul is exposed." Perhaps that is why, for her, performances are not without angst.

"Always, I'm nervous before going on stage," she says. "But then, once I am on stage, I feel fine. For me, it's a privilege to sing. My voice is a gift, something to share."

Loyda came to La Paz on a family holiday and fell in love with the city — the Malecón, the beach, the tranquility. She moved here almost five years ago with her husband Gustavo and their son, who is now 11. In addition to performing, she teaches voice and choral work at the state music school.

Loyda's favourite language for singing is Italian, followed by German — she says that's because the words flow so freely. She enjoys singing in French, too: "It's very delicate." But what about her native language? "I don't like to sing in Spanish," she says, because some consonants are hard to sing in a way that's easily understood. "The diction is very difficult."

She is a performer who feels passionately that the voice reveals the person within. "I believe that when you sing, your soul is exposed," she says. "When I sing, I say, 'This is who I am. Listen to me. This is who I am.' "

On May 30 in La Paz, Loyda Vázquez and a second soprano will perform a series of duets and solos from Stabat Mater Dolorosa ("The sorrowful mother stood").

MAN BEHIND THE COUNTER

The wrought-iron signpost says Escritorio Público – Public Writing Desk. It stands in the small plaza Ignacio Cabezud across from the tourist dock in La Paz. Behind the sign, a weather-beaten stall is open for business. There’s a manual typewriter on the counter, along with pen, paper cutter and stapler. Inside, a photocopying machine pushes up against shelves that bulge with papers.

The man at the counter is Rogelio Askins Aguilar – accountant, bookkeeper and public writer. He has worked in this neighborhood for more than 30 years.

The job of public writer in Latin America is as old as the need to write a letter. Escritores públicos flourished in the days when many people were illiterate. You would find a public writing desk in the central plaza of town, at a table with ink, paper and a sign – maybe a drawing of a quill and scroll for clients who couldn’t read. The writer’s customers sought help with all kinds of paperwork: a note of apology for late payment of fees, an entreaty to an ex-wife to come home, forms to start a business, a letter to a brother gone searching for work.

There aren’t many public writing desks left like the one in the small plaza of La Paz. In an interview, I ask Rogelio about this (our conversation is in Spanish, which I have translated and summarized). Rogelio says his escritorio público could be among the last of its kind in the city. “I had a friend in another neighbourhood, but I don’t think his office is open anymore.”

Drawing on his skills as an accountant and bookkeeper, Rogelio is much more than a public writer. He helps clients with the paperwork of officialdom. This includes tax declarations, health records, immigration documents, agriculture forms, business dealings and the like. That’s the nitty gritty of his day. But after cataloguing the details of the job, he describes what he does in another way: “I do not permit the exploitation of one man by another.”

Rogelio’s office seems out of character in this gentrified plaza. On one side of his shed is the artist Wyland’s mural of wildlife in the Sea of Cortez (Mar del Cortés) . On the other side is a sales office for luxury condos. There are sculptures of sea turtles and a whimsical trio of musicians, seashells brought to life. If you take a closer look at Rogelio’s old wooden shed, you will see it is decorated with fish and figures akin to Baja’s cave paintings. He says he painted them himself, inspired by Wyland.

There is no computer in the escritorio. Rogelio has one at home, but says that here, a typewriter is more valuable. As he points out, it’s tough to use a computer to type in a missing number on a government form.

Rogelio is an old newspaper man. From somewhere beneath the counter he retrieves a pocket-sized brass plate – his press pass. He digs through piles of newsprint on the shelves behind him and emerges with a 25-year-old editorial page from the Mexico City newspaper Despertar de America (To awaken America). He is listed on the masthead as editor-in-chief.

I ask how Rogelio how old he is and get the answer, “Cinquenta” (fifty). He looks at least seventy, and my skepticism shows. He chuckles, then on a notepad he writes “50,” draws an X through it and laughs again. “Sin cuenta,” he says. Ah, a play on words. Sin means without. Cuenta means calculation or account. “¡No tengo (I don’t have) cuenta!”

And then he switches languages, using English for the first and only time during our conversation. As a former news man, he may be worried that I’ll get it wrong. “Seventy-three,” he says. “I am 73.”

Rogelio chuckles again when I ask if people still come to him for help in writing love letters. “Not so much anymore,” he says. However, he is ready for anyone who does arrive with that kind of request. “Ponemos picoretes al papel.” He smiles as he says this. I have trouble getting a definitive translation, despite asking several Spanish speakers. The best I can do: “We put little kisses –little nibbles? – to paper.”

Rogelio tells me he loves everything about his work. “I am my own boss. It’s very entertaining. Each of the people who arrives here comes with a different matter, and it must be resolved. So it’s never boring.”

When the plaza in which Rogelio works was renovated, other street stalls disappeared, making way for art work and concerts. But the government permitted Rogelio to stay, he says – “because this is a service to the community.”

OF DREAMS AND QUEENS

Queen Julia I at 2007 coronation and talking with me as her reign ends

Julia María Santa Ana Cervantes remembers the day she decided to become Queen of Carnavel. She was a chiquita aged five or six when her parents brought the family down to the Malecón to watch the carros alegóricos, the parade floats that are at the heart the festival. The little girl saw the queen, and she was hooked.

“Her dress had so many jewels, and colours, and a long cape, and feathers. And she wore such a big crown," the 20-year-old said as we talked during the final week of her reign as queen of Carnaval 2007. “It became my fondest dream to have a dress like that.”

In the race for the Carnaval crown, the candidate who brings in the most money wins. Julia raised $186,000 pesos in her 2007 bid and became Queen Julia I. A Carnaval queen doesn’t get prizes, but keeps her gowns. Indirectly, Julia paid for her own royal robes, since the money she raised went towards Carnaval’s bills for costumes and entertainment.

The custom-made coronation gown– she doesn’t give a price tag, just that it’s muy elevado (very high) – “is worth the pain,” she says. All of the clothes for the royal court are hand-stitched by dressmaker Lupita Cosio and her family.

Julia is a little sad that her year as queen is ending, but says she’s glad to know the younger girls in this year’s contest are continuing what she considers a valued tradition.

I ask to take her photo and Julia, obliging like the royalty she is, goes to the car to fetch her crown and sash. As for the dress, it’s at home. She says she may donate it to a museum. Or, she may keep it, a reminder of the childhood dream she made real.

THE OLD MAN AND HIS CREATOR

The old man looks out into the bay of La Paz. He is an amalgam of childish and old – leathery skin, big ears, a Spencer Tracy face. But he’s dressed in the sailor suit of a young boy. His hat is a folded-paper boat. And around his waist, improbably, he wears a second, jumbo-sized, paper boat. But what really pulls at me are the old man’s smile and the eyes. There is a story behind that face.

El Viejo. . .y el Mar? (The old Man. . .and the Sea?), is one of the most photographed sculptures on the Malecón, La Paz’s seaside promenade. The work’s creator is Guillermo Gómez Macías, an award-winning artist who also sculpted Caracoles Músicos (Seashell Musicians), a recent addition to the small plaza across from the main tourist dock.

I reached Gómez in Guadalajara, where he lives, and asked him about the old man. Here is the story, which I have translated and summarized.

“The sculpture has its origin in the story of a real person – a fisherman from the town of Bucerias in Nayarit. Don José had a small boat, a true work of art made from the trunk of a large tree. On more than one occasion, I offered to buy the boat, but he never wanted to sell it. He was very proud of his possession.

“During one trip to Bucerias, I was surprised to see the boat missing from its usual spot. Don José told me that it had been stolen. I told him how sorry I was. But he said that whoever had stolen the boat must have really appreciated its value. He said his own relationship with the boat had come to an end, and that he hoped whoever had it would treat it with the dignity it deserved.

“What surprised me was that he wasn’t saddened by his loss. Although he had been very fond of his boat and it had, in fact, become part of his identity, what really mattered were his work and his relationship with the sea. The significance of this story is that it makes me think that the means to achieving our goals, while important, are often perishable. Even though we enjoy them and use them while we can, we must not lose sight of the true purpose of our mission.”

I asked Gómez about the title of his sculpture: The Old Man . . .and the Sea?”: the apparent reference to Hemingway’s story of the fisherman Santiago and the sculptor’s use of a question mark.

“Certainly there’s a relationship with Hemingway’s work – the attributes of the characters and the nature of such a basic activity, but one that demands so much strength of character. The question mark is because, deep down, the piece is an allegory to hope.”

At the base of the sculpture there is a poem. It is written by Gómez:

I have a paper boat
It’s made from a page
On which I have written my dreams
It has neither anchors, nor mooring ropes
I want to sail in it
On the seven seas; in the eighth
Where I know I will run aground in the port of my desires
... Has someone ever seen the light shining from his lighthouse?

Guillermo Gómez Macías, 48, was born in Jalisco, the second of nine children in a traditional Mexican family. A show of his latest work opens Jan. 2 in Puerto Vallarta at Galleria Dante, where his art is on permanent exhbit.

If you cannot see the events calendar, go to home page: http://rozinlapaz.blogspot.com/. And if you like this site, please e-mail the link to your friends.

GETTING TO KNOW LA PAZ

Saturday night in La Paz. It’s a half-block walk downhill from my apartment on Calle Bravo to the skateboard park, tonight the site of an arts and crafts fair. Weave through carvings, jewelry, embroidery, pottery – and stare into the muzzle of a full-sized horse sculpted from metal and coconut palm.

Stroll north along the seaside promenade called the Malecón. In a small plaza across from the dock, the university concert has begun. A small boy dances, dangling tiptoe from his father’s grasp, to a duet of classical guitars.

Walk a few blocks farther. Rock music full-throttles from the bandstand. Teenaged girls jangle money cans for charity. Cars cruise along the seaside street of Obregon.

Now head uphill to the cathedral square for a game of Mexican bingo. The plaza swarms with Lotería players, listening for the call of ¡Bruja! (witch), ¡La Luna! (moon), whatever picture will make their card a winner.

Back along the Malecón. From the discos, waves of high volume wash up against each other; baby-boomer rock crashes into Norteño music. A block more and I’m home. At the corner, a flower seller makes me a gift of one white rose.

The beauty of being an English-speaking newcomer in La Paz is that everything is fresh. The challenge is that there is so much to learn. And that’s the purpose of this website: to list coming events and to share what I discover about music, art and life in the city. Keep me posted on what you know. Tell me what you want to see here. Join me in the fun of getting to know La Paz.

If you cannot see the events calendar, go to home page: http://rozinlapaz.blogspot.com/. And if you like this site, please e-mail the link to your friends.

To reach me, email rozinlapaz@yahoo.com