Grace, power and beauty: a profile of Lila Downs.

• Author: Rodriguez, Luis J.

Moon, which the clay swings in the foam Of all the nights of my solitude I follow the steps you lead me to The place you came from And to the place where I will end I see my reflection in puddles of blood I feel a perpetual tranquility Of past times, of ancient men Oh voices, oh lights Leaving their sign And I believe in the mouth of my earth That from the root feeds my belly button The mouth of the dead that is found in my center My center, my temple of life My center, my temple of life. --from "Luna, del ombligo enterrado/Moon, from the buried umbilical cord," sung by Lila Downs Oaxaca: dry, indigenous, vibrant, bright, earthy, and incomparable. This southern state is one of Mexico's many wonders, many encantos, many magical terrains. Here Monte Alban, arguably the continent's most amazing pre-Columbian site, and modern reality live, compromise, clash, and thrive.

Here Mixteco and Zapoteco native people--among other tribes--maintain their languages, their customs, their dream-life, which, if you stay here long enough, is almost indistinguishable from the waking world.

I was not yet thirty when I first set foot here in 1983. I went on my own, as a freelance writer, to report on an uprising of the Zapoteco people in the city of Juchitan, with a population of around 120,000. A local coalition of natives, farmers, students, activists, and workers, known as the COCEI (Coalicion Obrera, Campesina y Estudiantil Del Istmo) bad led political battles and takeovers of government buildings and lands just prior to my visit.

The first day there I wandered the dusty streets to the middle of town, to the zocalo, where rows of stalls with steer heads for tacos and other delicacies greet you, and people stand or sit below a canopy of tree branches with thousands of zanate birds chattering in a way similar to the sing-song tongues of the people.

Iguanas, fruits, corn, handmade blouses, baskets, and their famous pottery were sold among countless other items in the marketplace next to the palacio municipal, or city hall. I saw one dark-skinned girl removing cornhusks in a T-shirt that read: "Juchitan--Capital of the World."

The city hall, an old crumbling colonial structure, had already been taken over by natives and peasants when I showed up.

I spent a few days among the defenders--many barefoot, armed only with sticks and stones even as the Mexican army, cradling automatic weapons, surrounded the building for the ruling Priista government.

It was election...