this tour is much more than murals

Interpretation Two: Maris Jones

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I forgot how much anxiety bubbles up inside me when facing “The Field” for the first time. As an outgoing introvert, pursuing fieldwork is much like walking into a crowded room and not knowing anyone. It is living with the knowledge that the only way it will get better is by being vulnerable and open to the people and potential around you. This time was somewhat different though, I was not entering alone. With me were Daniel and Ana, a friend from college of Puerto Rican descent who has lived in Philadelphia for the last three years. Together we rode in Ana’s car to North Philly for Taller Puertoriqueño’s 34th annual Feria del Barrio.

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It was cold and drizzly as we walked toward El Centro de Oro; I was glad to have my sweater and raincoat, but clearly had made a poor choice by wearing Converse. Damp Puerto Rican flags decorated some of the houses and flapped in the wind. As we get closer to the police cars blocking off 5th Street, Daniel and I both stopped to take pictures of the murals covering the a the side of a building. Ana laughed and teased us for being “typical anthropologists,” which I found ironic since she and I had taken two ethnomusicology classes together in our first year at Brown University.

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A man passed by and music from a speaker zipped tightly inside a man’s backpack burst through the sound of Ana’s laughter. As we passed the police car, the street was fairly empty except for the individuals managing the tents lining both sides of the road. It seemed the rain had kept people away. People in ponchos and umbrellas huddled around the entrance of Taller Puertoriqueño, trying to stay as dry as possible under the building’s awning. As we continued down 5th Street, I spotted the Instituto Puertorriqueño de Música. (Puerto Rican Institute of Music) and Centro Musical, a music store, that could be potential leads. I also noticed that most of the tents and tables were healthcare oriented and there were very few artisans. Ana mentioned that many of these organizations regularly tabled at festivals in Philly and conjectured that many of the artisans probably didn’t think it was worth it to come out in the rain.

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At the intersection of 5th Street and West Lehigh Avenue, five performers (a woman playing the guitar, another woman playing a guiro, a man singing and a another man playing the quatro) were on stage playing jíbaro music, a genre the finds its origins in the mountain regions of Puerto Rico. A small group of people were gathered in front of the stage with umbrellas and Telemundo ponchos, while others were further away lining the sidewalk. After listening for a while we continued walking down 5th Street to see what else there was. The sensual and soothing sound of metal rhythmically scraping against metal emerged. Amidst the last few health care booths, a man was jamming under his tent cover, playing his metal güira scraper over a bachata track to promote his $5.00 CDs. On our way back toward the main stage, we stopped at the only food truck. Daniel ordered a fried snack called alcapurrias, a fritter stuffed with ground beef, and offered to share them with me; Ana is a vegetarian. With the wet air misting around us, we ate them under the gas station overhang, greasy goodness dripping from our fingers. It was my first time and he had had better.

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We passed the stage and walked back towards Taller, investigating booths as we went along. Nancy, a representative for Congreso Health Center told us about the different services they offered to the community, including getting families health insurance, workshops for first time home buyers, and working with folks who had come to Philadelphia from Puerto Rico after Hurricane Maria. Back outside of the entrance to Taller, a staff person offered us cups of juice; there were three flavors tamarindo (tamarind), which I got; parcha (passion fruit), which Daniel got; and guanabana (soursop), which prompted a group discussion about fruits in translation. All of these fruits reminded me of being in the Bahamas with my grandmother. Afterwards, we went up the front steps to the membership table and ended up talking to Ellie and Kathy, Taller board members. Ana and I were also briefly introduced to Carmen, the executive director of the center who made their new building possible.

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After checking out the building inside, Ana, Daniel, and I decided to go get lunch at one of the neighborhood restaurants. On our way, we once again paused in the intersection to listen to the music being performed on stage. The crowd had filled in a bit, but it was still pretty sparse. A police officer stood to stage left with seemingly little interest in policing as he filmed the performance on his cell phone like other audience members. One of the male singers sang the first first few songs. Then in a great power move, the female guiro player told Raul, the singer, to take her guiro. She stepped the mike and started to sing a more up tempo song. As she finished we continued our walk to the restaurant only to hear her declare through the rain: “El jibarito se levanta con amor y esperanza” (Jíbaro lifts one up with love and hope).

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Starving, we sat down at El Bohio at a table next to a lush window garden, glad to be inside, warm, and dry. Curious about the name, a quick Google search told us a bohio was a round cabin made of stalks or palm fronds that used to be common in Puerto Rico. The rooster painting decorating the wall next to another rooster statuete and the food smells wafting from the kitchen window finished. After a brief perusal of the menu, we ordered with our various levels of Spanish: Ana, abicheulas con arroz y maduros (beans and rice and fried plantain); Daniel, mofongo (a flavorful mashed plantain dish paired with a red sauce); and me, sopa de pollo (chicken soup). We continued chatting and a few minutes later our food arrived. Daniel’s order had gotten mixed up. Instead of mofongo, he had a bowl of mondongo (tripe soup) placed in front of him--the only Puerto Rican food he absolutely hates. After talking with me at length about soup, it seemed the waitress had misheard Daniel’s order, but in the end he got his mofongo. Filled with warm comfort food we made our way back through the Feria to the car.