The Rooftops of San Miguel

First of all, in Mexico, almost everyone has them: flat rooftops. They are reached by stairs or by wrought iron ladders attached to the side of the buildings or by tightly spiraled metal staircases. Many serve the purpose of a security system by serving as home for the family “roof dog.” These dogs, not as plentiful nor as vocal as in Oaxaca, nonetheless exist in San Miguel as well, where they  live their entire lifetimes on the roof. When people pass by on the street, they bark. When fireworks go off and other roof dogs bark, they bark back. Should anyone attempt to climb onto the roof to gain access to the house, they bark louder. 

Since we had rented by far the tallest house in the neighborhood, we got to look down on all of the other rooftops. We tended to go up on the roof at least once a day – usually to observe the sunset, or fireworks, or to just look at the incredible panorama of 360 degrees of blue sky dotted with white clotted clouds. These San Miguel skies astounded us. We had lived in the California redwoods for too long. We’d forgotten what it was like to see the horizon. 

Other people seemed to use their roofs for other things. On each and every one, there was a stack of old lumber, twisted wire and bricks. On many were piles of curved clay roof tiles. From the tops of the brick columns at each side of the house and at intervals along the walls extended the bumpy heavy wires of rebar. Like particularly tough bristles, they sprouted  from the tops of the houses in clusters, ready and waiting for the next story, to be added as the money appeared to build it. This was an ever-present activity in San Miguel. In no place where we’d stayed in the past weeks had we been freed from the sounds of construction. After men came home from work, they would go to the roof and add a few bricks. The pounding of their mallets to set the bricks extended far into the evening. 

The other purpose of roofs seemed to be to store pop bottles. On most of the roofs spread below us were case after case of Coke bottles. Why they hadn’t cashed these in, we had no idea, since a considerable amount of the price of each bottle of coke or beer covered the price of the bottle. For a liter bottle of Corona, a third of the price was the bottle deposit. Perhaps this was their bank – hoarded Coke bottles on the roof. Perhaps they were waiting for the price of Coke bottles to go up – like the peso. Or perhaps they were waiting to cash them in to buy drinks for their next fiesta.

Other rooftops displayed geraniums in clay pots. We never saw them being enjoyed or tended to. They were just there. For our pleasure, perhaps, since no one else ever went to the rooftops except to shovel roof dog poop. One night, as we stood watching the sunset, we saw two women climb the stairs up to their own rooftop. So people did watch the sunset here, too, I thought, but for the half hour they were on the roof, they sat on chairs talking, their backs to the setting sun.

Aside from Coke bottles, geraniums and construction materials, rooftops were proper storage places for: old bicycles, extra flowerpots, broken and sound, shovels, pickup bed covers, folding chairs, half-used buckets of paint, old bed springs, rain barrels, extra tires and purloined shopping carts from Gigante which were upended and appeared to be used as some sort of kennel, although we never saw any animal inside. It was well into our second week in the house when I thought to go up on the roof during the day. It was then that I saw activity, for women had stung clotheslines in the bright late morning sun and were hanging clothes. From rooftop after rooftop, the bright flags of socks, undershorts, pants and shirts hung like fiesta decorations across half the rooftops within vision.