Mexico
El Macho
04/14/07 08:22 AM | Permalink
One stereotype of Mexico is that of a patriarchal society dominated by alpha males, by the church, the aristocracy and the government; a country where meek, submissive women live at the whims of their men. Travel magazines offer advice to single women: never date a Mexican by yourself; always bring a friend along. Men are advised to stay out of cantinas to avoid fights with knife-wielding drunks bent on proving their manhood. Mexicans are supposedly manly men, a danger to those they covet and those who cross them.
I've never seen it.
I saw more fights growing up in Boonton, NJ than in Mexico. I heard domineering, sexist remarks from my SIlicon Valley colleagues that I doubt any self-respecting Mexican would make.
I think the notion of the macho Mexican comes from travelers' cursory first impressions, based on observations of a sort of cultural playacting. The romantic image of the bullfighter laughing in the face of death is one.
Bullfighters don't want to get hurt. Like professional wrestlers, they know how to create the appearance of danger and injury, but they're not about to jeopardize their careers through disability if they can help it.
I've never seen it.
I saw more fights growing up in Boonton, NJ than in Mexico. I heard domineering, sexist remarks from my SIlicon Valley colleagues that I doubt any self-respecting Mexican would make.
I think the notion of the macho Mexican comes from travelers' cursory first impressions, based on observations of a sort of cultural playacting. The romantic image of the bullfighter laughing in the face of death is one.
Bullfighters don't want to get hurt. Like professional wrestlers, they know how to create the appearance of danger and injury, but they're not about to jeopardize their careers through disability if they can help it.
A bullfighter puts his masculinity on the line.
Mexican men are courtly and polite, generous and romantic. They comport themselves with transparent pride. They are shown respect by their women. But they do not necessarily wear the pants in the family.
Young couples who can't afford their own homes (and there are many such) often live with the wife's mother. Young husbands wind up being answerable to their mothers- and fathers-in-law. I know guys in this situation: there's nothing macho about them. Some of them actually whine. Girly men.
The women I saw in the villages of the Yucatan, Campeche, the Huasteca, submitted to no one. Many were heads of their households, the family decision-makers, ellas que cortan el bacalao (she who cuts the cod).
There's a childlike pretense about the swagger of Mexican men—of those who try to look macho, anyway.
Struttin' for the ladies.
They don't quite seem to bring it off.
At first glance, you see a lot of hyper-masculinity. Men appear to be fully in charge. But it's all just bad acting, wishful thinking, a fantasy.
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Attack of the Pod People
04/13/07 07:37 AM | Permalink
A few years ago, Jean and I bought our newly-restored colonial home in San Miguel de Allende. Although many Americans transplanted to Mexico like to take on home restoration, we knew that, given our particular personalities, our marriage wouldn't survive a major construction project. So when we found this place, we moved in without hesitation.
We were fortunate in that the buyer of our ranch in Glen Ellen, California, made a good offer on our furniture, so all we moved to Mexico was our books, art, and clothes. But this also meant that we were now owners of a house without a stick of furniture in it.
I wanted to put something of mine in the house to establish some sort of presence, but furniture is not my department. Luckily, the Candelaria Plant Sale was in session, just around the corner in Parqué Juaréz. I decided to buy a plant for our new home.
While wandering among the plant vendors, I fell into the clutches of an evil cactus dealer. He sized me up, computed the probable maximum amount of money in my wallet, and showed me a large pachypodium intended to suck all of that money up.
I was doomed. Here was a specimen plant worthy of my new home. I had to have it, cost be damned. Transaction quickly completed, the cactus man sent three burly men to carry the plant to my house and buck it up the stairs to my patio.
Here, Rose evaluates my newly-arrived pachypodium.
Pachypodiums (pachypodia?) are so named because they have thick stems. Pachy=thick (as in the latin for elephant: pachyderm=thick skin), and podium=foot. Thick foot. They are native to Madagascar. You can buy one this size for somewhere north of $1,000 in Austin. Mine cost a fraction of that, although it was still a lot for a plant. But then, it came with a couple of opportunistic barrel cacti growing in the same pot. What a deal, no?
Mine is a white-flowered Pachypodium lamerii. Here it is, transplanted into a nice pot and blooming for the first time.
The frowsy clump of leaves reminds me of Sideshow Bob, the Simpsons character. It's the reason I bought it.
Over the next couple of years, the plant grew angular branches, losing its cute mop-top look.
Maybe I fed it too much, or overwatered it. Most likely though, the arms are just part of its habit.
On a trip to San Francisco, I visited the recently restored Conservatory of Flowers in Golden Gate Park. I was extremely gratified to see that my specimen was bigger, bushier and had more flowers than theirs.
This year, something ominous has happened.
My pachypodium is producing pods. Look like something out of a horror movie. It's reproducing. What is going to emerge?
This is when the theremin music swells, and the doughty bespectacled scientist, preparing to eradicate the alien menace, says, "There are evil things in the dark places of this world—things better left undisturbed."
We were fortunate in that the buyer of our ranch in Glen Ellen, California, made a good offer on our furniture, so all we moved to Mexico was our books, art, and clothes. But this also meant that we were now owners of a house without a stick of furniture in it.
I wanted to put something of mine in the house to establish some sort of presence, but furniture is not my department. Luckily, the Candelaria Plant Sale was in session, just around the corner in Parqué Juaréz. I decided to buy a plant for our new home.
While wandering among the plant vendors, I fell into the clutches of an evil cactus dealer. He sized me up, computed the probable maximum amount of money in my wallet, and showed me a large pachypodium intended to suck all of that money up.
I was doomed. Here was a specimen plant worthy of my new home. I had to have it, cost be damned. Transaction quickly completed, the cactus man sent three burly men to carry the plant to my house and buck it up the stairs to my patio.
Here, Rose evaluates my newly-arrived pachypodium.
Pachypodiums (pachypodia?) are so named because they have thick stems. Pachy=thick (as in the latin for elephant: pachyderm=thick skin), and podium=foot. Thick foot. They are native to Madagascar. You can buy one this size for somewhere north of $1,000 in Austin. Mine cost a fraction of that, although it was still a lot for a plant. But then, it came with a couple of opportunistic barrel cacti growing in the same pot. What a deal, no?
Mine is a white-flowered Pachypodium lamerii. Here it is, transplanted into a nice pot and blooming for the first time.
The frowsy clump of leaves reminds me of Sideshow Bob, the Simpsons character. It's the reason I bought it.
Over the next couple of years, the plant grew angular branches, losing its cute mop-top look.
Maybe I fed it too much, or overwatered it. Most likely though, the arms are just part of its habit.
On a trip to San Francisco, I visited the recently restored Conservatory of Flowers in Golden Gate Park. I was extremely gratified to see that my specimen was bigger, bushier and had more flowers than theirs.
This year, something ominous has happened.
My pachypodium is producing pods. Look like something out of a horror movie. It's reproducing. What is going to emerge?
This is when the theremin music swells, and the doughty bespectacled scientist, preparing to eradicate the alien menace, says, "There are evil things in the dark places of this world—things better left undisturbed."
The Paleta Man
04/12/07 07:49 AM | Permalink
The robust form, the broad, noble brow, and majestic looks...
Walter Scott, The Talisman
—§—
Every child in San Miguel knows this man.
He sells paletas—popsicles.
I don't know about you, but at first glance, his mobile establishment doesn't look too promising. The exterior of his icebox looks pretty grimy. It's cracking and chipping, little crevices for harboring germs. The Bacardi box isn't helping his chldren's-treat-vendor image. What's the water jug for?
And that nose wheel! A restauranteur that doesn't maintain his facilities, what does that say about the quality of his offerings?
But we have learned that in Mexico, things are not always what they seem. After all, we're not looking at some cookie-cutter franchise outlet operated by a bored teenager. Here we have a business owner who directly serves his customers. His personal reputation is at stake. Besides, as we know, many Mexican vehicle owners seem to hold appearances as unimportant, putting money only into essentials. In this case, essentials would be paletas.
Paletas are to American popsicles as Chuck Berry is to Pat Boone. Paletas contain no preservatives, no artificial colors nor flavorings like their northern cousins. This man's paletas are not even mass-produced. His family takes ripe fruit, whirls it in a blender with a little water, adds some sugar and freezes the resulting liquid in rectangular pallets with a single stick thrust into the middle of each. Usually, chopped fruit is added to the mix at the last minute, so you get tasty little chunks as you eat your treat.
The flavors are great, too, and way more varied than the supermarket selection: lime, cantaloupe, strawberry, papaya, watermelon, pineapple, and coconut. Milk-based paletas include piña colada, pecan and guava. If you've tried all these and your are looking for something really different, try arroz, frozen from a sweetened liquid made with cooked rice to which are added cinnamon and raisins. Avoiding sugar? There's pepino con chile: cucumber with lime juice and chile powder. It's extraordinarily refreshing and thirst-quenching.
The photograph above was taken some time ago. The paleta man has since cleaned and repainted his icebox and replaced the front wheel. His enterprise looks much more inviting now. He's been selling cold treats for decades and must therefore depend on repeat business, so I'm certain that his wares are wholesome. So certain in fact that I occasionally treat myself to one.
The Gordo Lady
04/11/07 07:23 AM | Permalink
For many years now, early in the morning, someone sets out buckets and a brazier on Canal Street underneath the Quebrada Bridge. They do this so no cars will park in that location.
Sometime after midmorning, a woman arrives and starts a charcoal fire in the brazier. When the pan is hot, she cooks gordos and sells them to passers-by.
Gordos are sort of thick tortillas with a savory filling inside She pats balls of masa (cornmeal dough) into disks, places some carnitas or other filling on one of them, puts another disk on top and smooshes the whole thing together. Then she fries it in oil.
They're really yummy. They're great for when you want a snack. They're bad for when you're trying to preserve your waistline.
Sometime after midmorning, a woman arrives and starts a charcoal fire in the brazier. When the pan is hot, she cooks gordos and sells them to passers-by.
Gordos are sort of thick tortillas with a savory filling inside She pats balls of masa (cornmeal dough) into disks, places some carnitas or other filling on one of them, puts another disk on top and smooshes the whole thing together. Then she fries it in oil.
They're really yummy. They're great for when you want a snack. They're bad for when you're trying to preserve your waistline.
A Quiet Easter Sunday
04/10/07 07:18 AM | Permalink
San Miguel de Allende has been a zoo this Semana Santa. I've never seen so many visitors outside of the Sanmiguelada weekend. Vacationers have come to town to observe all of the rituals, processions and celebrations. The police diverted traffic away from the center of town, which only pushed the traffic jam out in to the surrounding neighborhoods. Frustrated drivers reacted angrily. Prince of Peace, my foot.
I was apprehensive about Easter Sunday. Would even more people crowd into town? Would there be even more partying? More noise?
Sister Suzie, Jean and I ventured out Sunday afternoon, looking for a restaurant that tourists wouldn't know about. We walked down to the corner of Terreplen and Jesús, where a window with a figure of Christ, a year-round fixture in our neighborhood, had been dressed up for the holiday.
He managed to look both serene and festive at the same time, with purple and white decorations and surrounded by Easter lilies.
Over on Reloj, one of the Judas figures awaited his fate.
You can see a pinwheel that circles his waist. This guy is going to spin! Inside his body, exploding firecrackers will blow him to bits.
When we crossed the Jardín, I wondered where everybody was. I expected huge crowds, but the scene looked like any other Sunday. People sat on benches, passing the time.
Behind this group, you can see a band in the gazebo...
... the San Rafael Music Band. Listen to their sound:
They have a quasi-german oompah sound, overlain with a latin beat. Two clarinets harmonize in thirds, joined eventually by brass, the tuning slides of which remain undiscovered by the musicians. This gives their performance a sort of sour, atonal quality. Don't get me wrong. I love this sound.
No mobs, no processions, no hordes of photographers. Just a warm afternoon in the park, everyone out relaxing, having a good time.
Some people lined up for a treat from the horse-drawn ice cream wagon.
Inside the gates of the Parroquoia, a ladies' auxiliary was selling gordos.
Half the people sitting on benches were eating something.
Toy vendors tempted the children; dried flower sellers angled for adults.
Street musicians looked for a gig, but the tourists were mostly gone. No takers.
The few tourists remaining, those who didn't have to make the long trek back to Mexico City by nightfall, did what tourists always do: Take pictures.
It was a good afternoon to get a shoe shine.
This customer's yellow and purple boots didn't seem to be a challenge for the shoeshine man.
It was a blessedly quiet day, a respite from the intensity of Semana Santa.
I think people were glad just to slow down, hang out in the park, relax in the warm weather. Like the Chivas fan in her red-and-white striped shirt, sitting in the shade, content to watch everyone else taking it easy too.
I was apprehensive about Easter Sunday. Would even more people crowd into town? Would there be even more partying? More noise?
Sister Suzie, Jean and I ventured out Sunday afternoon, looking for a restaurant that tourists wouldn't know about. We walked down to the corner of Terreplen and Jesús, where a window with a figure of Christ, a year-round fixture in our neighborhood, had been dressed up for the holiday.
He managed to look both serene and festive at the same time, with purple and white decorations and surrounded by Easter lilies.
Over on Reloj, one of the Judas figures awaited his fate.
You can see a pinwheel that circles his waist. This guy is going to spin! Inside his body, exploding firecrackers will blow him to bits.
When we crossed the Jardín, I wondered where everybody was. I expected huge crowds, but the scene looked like any other Sunday. People sat on benches, passing the time.
Behind this group, you can see a band in the gazebo...
... the San Rafael Music Band. Listen to their sound:
They have a quasi-german oompah sound, overlain with a latin beat. Two clarinets harmonize in thirds, joined eventually by brass, the tuning slides of which remain undiscovered by the musicians. This gives their performance a sort of sour, atonal quality. Don't get me wrong. I love this sound.
No mobs, no processions, no hordes of photographers. Just a warm afternoon in the park, everyone out relaxing, having a good time.
Some people lined up for a treat from the horse-drawn ice cream wagon.
Inside the gates of the Parroquoia, a ladies' auxiliary was selling gordos.
Half the people sitting on benches were eating something.
Toy vendors tempted the children; dried flower sellers angled for adults.
Street musicians looked for a gig, but the tourists were mostly gone. No takers.
The few tourists remaining, those who didn't have to make the long trek back to Mexico City by nightfall, did what tourists always do: Take pictures.
It was a good afternoon to get a shoe shine.
This customer's yellow and purple boots didn't seem to be a challenge for the shoeshine man.
It was a blessedly quiet day, a respite from the intensity of Semana Santa.
I think people were glad just to slow down, hang out in the park, relax in the warm weather. Like the Chivas fan in her red-and-white striped shirt, sitting in the shade, content to watch everyone else taking it easy too.
Pardon Me Boy...
04/09/07 08:08 AM | Permalink
In restaurants, Mexicans and old Mexico hands signal for the waiter by shouting, "¡Joven!" Means "Boy!"
In my admittedly limited experience, I've only heard Norteamericano visitors and newbies call out "¡Señor!" I've never heard anyone say "¡Mesero!" (Waiter!) My friend Paul Latoures, looming menacingly, growls, "¡Oy Joven!" A trembling waiter scuttles over to our table, tugging his forelock. I badly want to emulate Paul. But I don't want to come off as an arrogant American.
(Not that Paul is one, mind you.)
As I thought about political correctness, I remembered the old song, "Chattanooga Choo-Choo". I'd always visualized a nice couple on the platform, she with a veil and he in a fedora, asking a tow-headed ten-year-old, "Pardon me boy..." Now it dawns on me that Mack Gordon and Harry Warren were probably imagining an elderly negro porter, not a youth. That kind of talk was acceptable for the times. Many people probably didn't even see it as disrespectful.
Today of course, virtually no American would refer to a black person of any age as "boy". It's demeaning, insulting.
Expressions that would seem rude or insensitive in the USA aren't taken that way in Mexico. It's common to nickname someone Gordo (Fatty) or Calvo (Baldy). In fact, a mesero, keeping track of separate checks at our table, wrote at the top of mine, "Calvo". Humph. That's no way to earn a good tip, Joven.
I've inured myself to the use of Joven. The other day, Jean and I were lunching with two other couples. I signaled for the waiter. ¡Joven! Someone commented on my increasingly free use of the term, triggering a discussion along the lines of this post, about political correctness, about the "Chattanooga Choo-Choo".
At that point, my friend Will, in a fine tenor, burst into:
Perdoneme joven,
¿Está el tren de la Chihuahua?
In my admittedly limited experience, I've only heard Norteamericano visitors and newbies call out "¡Señor!" I've never heard anyone say "¡Mesero!" (Waiter!) My friend Paul Latoures, looming menacingly, growls, "¡Oy Joven!" A trembling waiter scuttles over to our table, tugging his forelock. I badly want to emulate Paul. But I don't want to come off as an arrogant American.
(Not that Paul is one, mind you.)
As I thought about political correctness, I remembered the old song, "Chattanooga Choo-Choo". I'd always visualized a nice couple on the platform, she with a veil and he in a fedora, asking a tow-headed ten-year-old, "Pardon me boy..." Now it dawns on me that Mack Gordon and Harry Warren were probably imagining an elderly negro porter, not a youth. That kind of talk was acceptable for the times. Many people probably didn't even see it as disrespectful.
Today of course, virtually no American would refer to a black person of any age as "boy". It's demeaning, insulting.
Expressions that would seem rude or insensitive in the USA aren't taken that way in Mexico. It's common to nickname someone Gordo (Fatty) or Calvo (Baldy). In fact, a mesero, keeping track of separate checks at our table, wrote at the top of mine, "Calvo". Humph. That's no way to earn a good tip, Joven.
I've inured myself to the use of Joven. The other day, Jean and I were lunching with two other couples. I signaled for the waiter. ¡Joven! Someone commented on my increasingly free use of the term, triggering a discussion along the lines of this post, about political correctness, about the "Chattanooga Choo-Choo".
At that point, my friend Will, in a fine tenor, burst into:
Perdoneme joven,
¿Está el tren de la Chihuahua?
Good Friday in Atotonilco
04/08/07 08:25 AM | Permalink
My sister Suzie, visiting from Capitola, CA, and I went to Atotonilco on Good Friday, unaware that, and unprepared for, a major reenactment of the events of that day two thousand years ago. We joined a huge crowd, thousands of spectators, and spent several hours in the hot sun photographing the event until thirst and hunger forced us to give up somewhere around the Fifth Station of the Cross. I apologize for not being able to hang in there through the Crucifixion, but the experience and images we did capture were moving (and disturbing).
[WARNING: Some images show torture and injuries.]
The crowd gathered around Pilate's court. Little children almost vibrated with anticipation and excitement.
Pontius Pilate and a Pharisee met on a high platform before the multitudes to conduct the trial.
He and the Pharisee wore clunky hands-free microphones so that the crowd could follow what they were saying.
Jesus, convicted and tied to a post, was scourged by Roman soldiers.
At this point, I realized I was watching something remarkable. These soldiers were not pretending to beat Christ; they were delivering a real beating.
As the scourging began, scores of terrified children began to wail. This somewhat older girl reacts to the cruelty.
A roman soldier taunts Jesus. He roars to the crowd, "Aquí está su rey. ¡Jajajajaja!" (Here is your king. Hahahahaha!)
He really liked saying that line. He must have repeated it forty times.
Scourging over, crown of thorns placed on Jesus' head (real thorns) Barabbas is presented to the crowd. Who to spare? Barabbas or Jesus? The citizens of Jerusalem decide.
Barabbas celebrates his freedom: "¡Libertad, libertad!"
The Roman soldier to Barabbas' left is winding up to deliver a blow with his lash.
How could such sweet little girls have condemned a man to torture and death?
A soldier reads Jesus' sentence to the crowd.
The crowd prepares to accompany Christ down the Vía Dolorosa. Custodians wearing their own crowns of thorns clear the way.
Hanging from this custodian's belt is a rope scourge. Many people carried whips like his, as it is a custom in Atotonilco to mortify the flesh. They are readily available in roadside booths. You can get yours in designer colors: day-glo purple with glitter. I kid you not.
He is also carrying a baggie of water, as were all the other custodians. ¿Porque? Two possibilities: for rehydration during their long trek, or, to keep flies away. You figure it out.
Jesus drags the heavy cross down the Vía Dolorosa, from time to time receiving lashes from the soldiers.
Not visible in the photo, Jesus' lips are caked with dried saliva. This man is truly suffering.
You can see welts on the back of one of the condemned thieves accompanying Christ to Golgotha.
He, too, is suffering real pain. A man playing a soldier holds a lime to the thief's mouth to help cut his thirst. He couldn't offer him a drink; it would break the verisimilitude.
Suzie and I sped up, leaving the procession behind. We were thirsty and hungry. My energy was gone. My arms ached from holding the heavy Nikon and its long lens over my head. On our way, we came upon Judas, waiting for the crowd to arrive before hanging himself. Apparently the people of Atotonilco follow the account in Matthew, not the version in Acts where he died after falling.
Here, Judas is enjoying a cigarette and a joke with his buddies before the action starts.
At the left of the photo stands a man with a roll of toilet paper hanging from his belt. Now there's a custodian who understands all of the crowd's needs.
People wait at Golgotha. The procession will reach them in an hour or so. I wish we could have stayed for the climax.
Ever practical as Mexicans can be, refreshment vendors surrounded the crucifixion site.
A cup of pineapple and watermelon chunks, sprinkled with lime and chile, really hits the spot when you're attending a crucifixion. I imagine it was much the same in biblical times.
A toddler tries to make sense of it all.
I would not choose to subject my babies to portrayals of cruelty, much less actual inflicting of pain. But I grew up in a different culture, and it's not my place to judge this one. To wonder at it maybe, but not to judge.
[WARNING: Some images show torture and injuries.]
The crowd gathered around Pilate's court. Little children almost vibrated with anticipation and excitement.
Pontius Pilate and a Pharisee met on a high platform before the multitudes to conduct the trial.
He and the Pharisee wore clunky hands-free microphones so that the crowd could follow what they were saying.
Jesus, convicted and tied to a post, was scourged by Roman soldiers.
At this point, I realized I was watching something remarkable. These soldiers were not pretending to beat Christ; they were delivering a real beating.
As the scourging began, scores of terrified children began to wail. This somewhat older girl reacts to the cruelty.
A roman soldier taunts Jesus. He roars to the crowd, "Aquí está su rey. ¡Jajajajaja!" (Here is your king. Hahahahaha!)
He really liked saying that line. He must have repeated it forty times.
Scourging over, crown of thorns placed on Jesus' head (real thorns) Barabbas is presented to the crowd. Who to spare? Barabbas or Jesus? The citizens of Jerusalem decide.
Barabbas celebrates his freedom: "¡Libertad, libertad!"
The Roman soldier to Barabbas' left is winding up to deliver a blow with his lash.
How could such sweet little girls have condemned a man to torture and death?
A soldier reads Jesus' sentence to the crowd.
The crowd prepares to accompany Christ down the Vía Dolorosa. Custodians wearing their own crowns of thorns clear the way.
Hanging from this custodian's belt is a rope scourge. Many people carried whips like his, as it is a custom in Atotonilco to mortify the flesh. They are readily available in roadside booths. You can get yours in designer colors: day-glo purple with glitter. I kid you not.
He is also carrying a baggie of water, as were all the other custodians. ¿Porque? Two possibilities: for rehydration during their long trek, or, to keep flies away. You figure it out.
Jesus drags the heavy cross down the Vía Dolorosa, from time to time receiving lashes from the soldiers.
Not visible in the photo, Jesus' lips are caked with dried saliva. This man is truly suffering.
You can see welts on the back of one of the condemned thieves accompanying Christ to Golgotha.
He, too, is suffering real pain. A man playing a soldier holds a lime to the thief's mouth to help cut his thirst. He couldn't offer him a drink; it would break the verisimilitude.
Suzie and I sped up, leaving the procession behind. We were thirsty and hungry. My energy was gone. My arms ached from holding the heavy Nikon and its long lens over my head. On our way, we came upon Judas, waiting for the crowd to arrive before hanging himself. Apparently the people of Atotonilco follow the account in Matthew, not the version in Acts where he died after falling.
Here, Judas is enjoying a cigarette and a joke with his buddies before the action starts.
At the left of the photo stands a man with a roll of toilet paper hanging from his belt. Now there's a custodian who understands all of the crowd's needs.
People wait at Golgotha. The procession will reach them in an hour or so. I wish we could have stayed for the climax.
Ever practical as Mexicans can be, refreshment vendors surrounded the crucifixion site.
A cup of pineapple and watermelon chunks, sprinkled with lime and chile, really hits the spot when you're attending a crucifixion. I imagine it was much the same in biblical times.
A toddler tries to make sense of it all.
I would not choose to subject my babies to portrayals of cruelty, much less actual inflicting of pain. But I grew up in a different culture, and it's not my place to judge this one. To wonder at it maybe, but not to judge.
Prendimiento de Nuestro Señor
04/07/07 07:42 AM | Permalink
Holy Week—Semana Santa—is in full swing here in San Miguel de Allende. Every event leading up to the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ is remembered in some sort of ceremony. On Wednesday night, it was a procession commemorating El Prendimiento de Nuestro Señor—the betrayal and arrest of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane.
The procession started as people left La Iglesia de San Rafael after attending services. Four burly men carried a statue of Jesus. Not visible in the image is the rope that binds his hands, the end of which is held, I think, by the Roman soldier. The choir in cassocks and cottas sang hymns as they marched.
Gone was the celebratory spirit of Viernes de Dolores. I saw no smiles on the faces of the participants.
Costuming was elaborate. Considerable effort and expense had gone into preparing for this event.
As the Roman soldier marched toward me, I found myself faced with a dilemma. I wanted photographs. The participants wanted a reenactment of a hallowed moment. My flash might intrude.
I was positioned at the edge of a crowd (many of whom were taking pictures as well) such that I was crowding the soldier's path. He came on toward me, apparently intending to brush me aside if I didn't move. If my hands had been folded in prayer, he might have moved around me. But with a camera in front of my face, I clearly wasn't a part of the memorial, and he rightly treated me as such.
I backed out of his way and snapped the photo.
Pharisees followed, looking grim. In case you couldn't identify them as such, one wore a Star of David on his breast. Did this symbol exist in biblical times?
The figure of Judas was arresting. He jangled his bag with thirty pieces of silver. He carried a lamp that was not lit. My sister Suzie says that it symbolizes that he has lost the light of the spirit. To me, his expression looked agonized. The man played his difficult role beautifully.
Photos don't begin to capture the sad flavor of this event. This short clip may convey a sense of the dirge-like quality of the procession.
The choir's sad refrain, the sonorous playing of the brass, underscored the solemnity of the moment. This little girl's face echos the feeling perfectly.
Even we photographers and bloggers, scrambling for positions, were moved.
The procession started as people left La Iglesia de San Rafael after attending services. Four burly men carried a statue of Jesus. Not visible in the image is the rope that binds his hands, the end of which is held, I think, by the Roman soldier. The choir in cassocks and cottas sang hymns as they marched.
Gone was the celebratory spirit of Viernes de Dolores. I saw no smiles on the faces of the participants.
Costuming was elaborate. Considerable effort and expense had gone into preparing for this event.
As the Roman soldier marched toward me, I found myself faced with a dilemma. I wanted photographs. The participants wanted a reenactment of a hallowed moment. My flash might intrude.
I was positioned at the edge of a crowd (many of whom were taking pictures as well) such that I was crowding the soldier's path. He came on toward me, apparently intending to brush me aside if I didn't move. If my hands had been folded in prayer, he might have moved around me. But with a camera in front of my face, I clearly wasn't a part of the memorial, and he rightly treated me as such.
I backed out of his way and snapped the photo.
Pharisees followed, looking grim. In case you couldn't identify them as such, one wore a Star of David on his breast. Did this symbol exist in biblical times?
The figure of Judas was arresting. He jangled his bag with thirty pieces of silver. He carried a lamp that was not lit. My sister Suzie says that it symbolizes that he has lost the light of the spirit. To me, his expression looked agonized. The man played his difficult role beautifully.
Photos don't begin to capture the sad flavor of this event. This short clip may convey a sense of the dirge-like quality of the procession.
The choir's sad refrain, the sonorous playing of the brass, underscored the solemnity of the moment. This little girl's face echos the feeling perfectly.
Even we photographers and bloggers, scrambling for positions, were moved.
Birds—1, Homeowner—0
04/06/07 07:03 AM | Permalink
The homeowner whose window this is doesn't want birds perching or nesting on the ledge. So he's constructed several defenses.
He's got chicken wire covering the bars. He's got broken glass imbedded in the ledge.
And—remember how I've been telling you about all the uses Mexicans find for plastic soft drink bottles? Well, here's one hanging from a string over the window ledge. It blows back and forth in the wind, presumably discouraging birds from making homes there.
No, birds are really not welcome here.
Somebody ought to tell it to that pigeon.
He's got chicken wire covering the bars. He's got broken glass imbedded in the ledge.
And—remember how I've been telling you about all the uses Mexicans find for plastic soft drink bottles? Well, here's one hanging from a string over the window ledge. It blows back and forth in the wind, presumably discouraging birds from making homes there.
No, birds are really not welcome here.
Somebody ought to tell it to that pigeon.
A Juddering Heap
04/05/07 07:29 AM | Permalink
Sometimes I think I've seen the ultimate in keeping an old car running. Then I run across another even more extreme.
This car looks like a disaster. It was delivering vegetables to the San Juan de Dios Mercado. It's a commercial vehicle, a business asset.
Chunks are missing. Body rot has advanced to where the integrity of the chassis is seriously weakened—it looks like it's about to break in two.
It's really, really ugly.
That's a stick holding up the trunk lid. That's a home-made hasp welded to the lid, to which a chain, hanging from a welded-on box member, is attached to secure the (no doubt) valuable freight carried inside. There appears to be no actual lenses in the left tail light assembly.
Against all odds, the interior is even worse.
No door panels, no horn button, NO DASHBOARD. Hence, no speedometer, no gages, no headlight switch. I think the driver twists some of those loose wires together when he wants lights. Or maybe when he just wants to start it.
There are a couple of small speakers perched where the speedometer used to be. Gotta have tunes, man. And a good gear shift knob.
It's a running wreck. Probably unreliable as hell. Or is it?
Look at the quality of that tire! Best-looking thing on the whole car. There's probably good money in everything that's really needed to make that car work right. Work right when there's daylight and it's not raining, that is.
I feel good about this vehicle. It reminds me of cars I owned as a teenager that I kept running with chewing gum and spit. It has been run for so long and so far that its per-mile ecological footprint is negligible.
Jean and I drive a 2002 Ford Explorer. I feel prodigally wasteful when I fire it up. Somebody sideswiped it and sheared off the side view mirror. We replaced it. $300. The heap of rust we've been discussing hasn't had side view mirrors for years. Replacing them would be a needless expenditure. All you have to do is slow down and look over your shoulder. There's a lesson in there somewhere.
Our Explorer has been scraped on all four sides, now. Someone sprayed gold graffiti on it. Someone else stole the radio antenna. Cobblestones and potholes have loosened up a lot of stuff: it rattles and squeaks. But none of the stuff that's wrong with the Explorer actually needs fixing. Better to save the money for really good tires.
This car looks like a disaster. It was delivering vegetables to the San Juan de Dios Mercado. It's a commercial vehicle, a business asset.
Chunks are missing. Body rot has advanced to where the integrity of the chassis is seriously weakened—it looks like it's about to break in two.
It's really, really ugly.
That's a stick holding up the trunk lid. That's a home-made hasp welded to the lid, to which a chain, hanging from a welded-on box member, is attached to secure the (no doubt) valuable freight carried inside. There appears to be no actual lenses in the left tail light assembly.
Against all odds, the interior is even worse.
No door panels, no horn button, NO DASHBOARD. Hence, no speedometer, no gages, no headlight switch. I think the driver twists some of those loose wires together when he wants lights. Or maybe when he just wants to start it.
There are a couple of small speakers perched where the speedometer used to be. Gotta have tunes, man. And a good gear shift knob.
It's a running wreck. Probably unreliable as hell. Or is it?
Look at the quality of that tire! Best-looking thing on the whole car. There's probably good money in everything that's really needed to make that car work right. Work right when there's daylight and it's not raining, that is.
I feel good about this vehicle. It reminds me of cars I owned as a teenager that I kept running with chewing gum and spit. It has been run for so long and so far that its per-mile ecological footprint is negligible.
Jean and I drive a 2002 Ford Explorer. I feel prodigally wasteful when I fire it up. Somebody sideswiped it and sheared off the side view mirror. We replaced it. $300. The heap of rust we've been discussing hasn't had side view mirrors for years. Replacing them would be a needless expenditure. All you have to do is slow down and look over your shoulder. There's a lesson in there somewhere.
Our Explorer has been scraped on all four sides, now. Someone sprayed gold graffiti on it. Someone else stole the radio antenna. Cobblestones and potholes have loosened up a lot of stuff: it rattles and squeaks. But none of the stuff that's wrong with the Explorer actually needs fixing. Better to save the money for really good tires.
Colorful Mexico
04/04/07 07:13 AM | Permalink
I like to write about the Mexico that people don't always see. That's why I've made so many posts about police and street vendors, and so few about cathedrals. That's why I've held off from posting about the colors you see in Mexico. It's been done. Often. Maybe too often. How many coffee table books have you seen with photos of bougainvillea crawling up a painted wall?
You can see why so many people do pieces on Mexican color. The images are arresting. They call to photographers the way crack cocaine calls to junkies. I shoot a couple of scenes, and before I realize I'm hooked, I have hundreds of them. Like these first two images captured in Jalpan.
So sooner or later, I knew I'd have to do a post on color. But by the time I succumbed to the urge, it was too late. Too many images; too little time.
I think that we Norteamericanos are a little afraid of color. Earth tones, pastels, muted tones go on our buildings.
In Mexico, exuberance is the watchword. The owner of this building in Xilitla woke up one morning and said, "I see green."
Why not? The saying here is "It's only paint."
Xilitla is not a particularly attractive town. Most of its buildings are drab. But a few brave souls want to make statements, and they do.
Tequisquapan and the towns stretching eastward into the Querétaro Semi-Desert favor an orange and yellow theme, especially on public buildings.
Use of a common color scheme provides a soothing sense of unity, compared with the chaos on the other side of the Sierra Gorda.
In Aquismón, contrast is the watchword.
Even so, a kind of unity exists here, owing to the common roof line in this block. The drugstore below coordinated with the shoe store next door: colors that are as different as possible, but lines carried from building to building.
Campeche bucks the trend toward strong colors, requiring pastels on buildings in the centro histórico.
You can see why so many people do pieces on Mexican color. The images are arresting. They call to photographers the way crack cocaine calls to junkies. I shoot a couple of scenes, and before I realize I'm hooked, I have hundreds of them. Like these first two images captured in Jalpan.
So sooner or later, I knew I'd have to do a post on color. But by the time I succumbed to the urge, it was too late. Too many images; too little time.
I think that we Norteamericanos are a little afraid of color. Earth tones, pastels, muted tones go on our buildings.
In Mexico, exuberance is the watchword. The owner of this building in Xilitla woke up one morning and said, "I see green."
Why not? The saying here is "It's only paint."
Xilitla is not a particularly attractive town. Most of its buildings are drab. But a few brave souls want to make statements, and they do.
Tequisquapan and the towns stretching eastward into the Querétaro Semi-Desert favor an orange and yellow theme, especially on public buildings.
Use of a common color scheme provides a soothing sense of unity, compared with the chaos on the other side of the Sierra Gorda.
In Aquismón, contrast is the watchword.
Even so, a kind of unity exists here, owing to the common roof line in this block. The drugstore below coordinated with the shoe store next door: colors that are as different as possible, but lines carried from building to building.
Campeche bucks the trend toward strong colors, requiring pastels on buildings in the centro histórico.
Photo credit: Jean Wood
But it's still every man for himself when it comes to which pastel to use. Somehow, it all seems harmonious, though.
San Miguel regulates color choices in its centro histórico too. The rule here is earth tones: browns, terra cottas, mustards. The house below has complied, although they've taken some liberties with their door.
These colors define San Miguel and meet approval by visitors. The architectural board insists the city center look authentically colonial. The only problem with their interpretation is that in colonial times, the city was white.
Outside the colonial portion of the city, the gloves come off.
You can paint in whatever way you're inspired.
That's any way you're inspired.
Nearby Delores Hidalgo allows any colors you want, Red is nice.
Photo credit: Paul Latoures
Unlike suburbia, there's color everywhere you look in Mexico.
It's a country where hot pink is a neutral.
Customer Consciousness
04/03/07 07:05 AM | Permalink
Here we have what appears to be a small shop: Gusanito.
Means "little worm." Intriguing, no?" I wonder what they sell?
The place isn't open, so we can't look. Let's read the small signs taped to the door.
The left one says, "Please check your purchases. No refunds or exchanges."
Humph. I thought an important rule of merchandising was to invite your customers into your store. I'm not sure I'd ever want to go into Gusanito considering they hit me with the legal notices before I even know what they're selling.
We'll check the right one: "If you need something from the store, please ring next door." Gee. It seems to me, you gotta want what they sell really badly to shop there.
Means "little worm." Intriguing, no?" I wonder what they sell?
The place isn't open, so we can't look. Let's read the small signs taped to the door.
The left one says, "Please check your purchases. No refunds or exchanges."
Humph. I thought an important rule of merchandising was to invite your customers into your store. I'm not sure I'd ever want to go into Gusanito considering they hit me with the legal notices before I even know what they're selling.
We'll check the right one: "If you need something from the store, please ring next door." Gee. It seems to me, you gotta want what they sell really badly to shop there.
The Gringos Are Coming
04/02/07 08:29 PM | Permalink
Norteamericanos are relocating to Mexico in droves, changing Mexico's culture, driving up prices and happily leaving the hassles of El Norte behind. This migration is bigger than you think. An excellent article: Gringolandia—The U. S. Migrant Boom Hits Mexico will put you in the picture. Check it out here.
Police Cadets Graduating
04/02/07 10:15 AM | Permalink
Last Friday morning ceremonies were held to honor graduates from San Miguel's Police Academy. The occasion also served to show off a bunch of new police gear recently purchased by the city.
The graduating cadets are destined to become members of our Preventative Police. You can tell who the Preventative Police are because they're the ones with the guns. The other group present was the traficantes—traffic cops. Their holsters contain screwdrivers—for removing license plates from illegally parked cars.
Festivities got off to the usual slow start, everyone waiting—and waiting—for the brass to show up. This traficante, long experienced in delays of this kind, used the downtime to attend to a couple of personal hygiene issues.
OK. I know that's a cheap shot. But look, in these days of cellphone cameras, everyone is doing it, and besides, our traficante is much more circumspect than this Russian cop:
Oh, Jeez, Boris. Get your hand out of there! (Let this be a lesson to you: Be careful who you shake hands with.)
The graduating cadets, less inured to delays, found other ways to amuse themselves.
Bored myself, I asked these young officers to smile. In response, Cadet Deciderio made faces. The cop on the left lost it just after I snapped the photo.
Finally the Mayor arrived and ceremonies got underway. We were all looking forward to a timely finish when one of the Mayor's constituents insinuated herself into the picture with some complaints.
The cameraman and a bystander are cracking up. The guy on the right is taking notes: "Yes, Ma'am. Of course, Ma'am. No, we won't forget, Ma'am."
You can tell she's not buying it. The mayor might run for the Senate in another couple of years. He's gonna have to work hard for her vote. My advice to him: It wouldn't hurt to lose the cigarette-hiding-behind-the-back trick. It sure isn't fooling her.
After the abuela let the Mayor go, everybody lined up to get this thing over with. The high and mighty in the Police department came to attention, more or less.
The Generalissimo there on the left is the Chief of Police. He is so exalted he doesn't even need to shine his shoes. The officer with the radical cuffs is Director of the Police Academy. He looks like a can-do guy to me. Confidence-inspiring.
The cadets wiped the silly expressions off their faces, formed up and came to attention as well.
A few new Robocops, resplendent in body armor, proudly bearing their white "training" batons, with their pink plastic "training" pistols properly holstered, joined the ranks.
I'm guessing we're deploying them in case things get out of hand at San Miguel's running of the bulls this year. Let's see, 50,000 drunk teenagers, a handful of Robocops. I think I'd call in sick that day.
The cadets were becoming restive, standing at attention, so the Academy Director made them run around the block.
This new generation of police takes itself seriously.
The graduating cadets are destined to become members of our Preventative Police. You can tell who the Preventative Police are because they're the ones with the guns. The other group present was the traficantes—traffic cops. Their holsters contain screwdrivers—for removing license plates from illegally parked cars.
Festivities got off to the usual slow start, everyone waiting—and waiting—for the brass to show up. This traficante, long experienced in delays of this kind, used the downtime to attend to a couple of personal hygiene issues.
OK. I know that's a cheap shot. But look, in these days of cellphone cameras, everyone is doing it, and besides, our traficante is much more circumspect than this Russian cop:
Oh, Jeez, Boris. Get your hand out of there! (Let this be a lesson to you: Be careful who you shake hands with.)
The graduating cadets, less inured to delays, found other ways to amuse themselves.
Bored myself, I asked these young officers to smile. In response, Cadet Deciderio made faces. The cop on the left lost it just after I snapped the photo.
Finally the Mayor arrived and ceremonies got underway. We were all looking forward to a timely finish when one of the Mayor's constituents insinuated herself into the picture with some complaints.
The cameraman and a bystander are cracking up. The guy on the right is taking notes: "Yes, Ma'am. Of course, Ma'am. No, we won't forget, Ma'am."
You can tell she's not buying it. The mayor might run for the Senate in another couple of years. He's gonna have to work hard for her vote. My advice to him: It wouldn't hurt to lose the cigarette-hiding-behind-the-back trick. It sure isn't fooling her.
After the abuela let the Mayor go, everybody lined up to get this thing over with. The high and mighty in the Police department came to attention, more or less.
The Generalissimo there on the left is the Chief of Police. He is so exalted he doesn't even need to shine his shoes. The officer with the radical cuffs is Director of the Police Academy. He looks like a can-do guy to me. Confidence-inspiring.
The cadets wiped the silly expressions off their faces, formed up and came to attention as well.
A few new Robocops, resplendent in body armor, proudly bearing their white "training" batons, with their pink plastic "training" pistols properly holstered, joined the ranks.
I'm guessing we're deploying them in case things get out of hand at San Miguel's running of the bulls this year. Let's see, 50,000 drunk teenagers, a handful of Robocops. I think I'd call in sick that day.
The cadets were becoming restive, standing at attention, so the Academy Director made them run around the block.
This new generation of police takes itself seriously.
Officer Tovar, in her "one-size fits-most" hat.
As the Mayor pointed out in his address to those assembled, our cops by and large are free of corruption. Times have changed. Today we have a professional police department bent on serving the public; not a band of government-sanctioned extortionists.
The cadets exude determination to be good cops. They haven't become disillusioned and I hope they don't.
Everytime I become jaded about our police, I run across a picture of some Eastern European cop, and I'm reminded to be grateful for the ones we have.
—§—
The city seems to have good funding this year. Nor did the outgoing administration steal everything that wasn't nailed down, so there was money for all kinds of police goodies. We got some new pickup trucks, a couple of new motorcycles and a couple of new patrol cars.
"Hand up... to request your right of way." I think this is intended to assist pedestrians, who presently are treated as fare game (Oops. That's fair game) by many drivers. Could this be a little police humor?
We got lots of new walkie-talkies, without which no traficante can properly function.
We got spiffy new bicycles, important in our congested streets.
But do you think they'd let those enthusiastic young officers ride them away? Nooo. They might scratch them or something. Better to load them up in one of the new pickups and take them back to HQ. With an officer in the bed to keep them from rattling around. Safety first.
Traficantes can be serious, too. More women are joining the police, and their presence seems to temper all of the officers. I'm finding both men and women to be more competent and helpful, and I read that experience shows they are pretty much immune to the lure of corruption, and serve as examples to the men.
Finally the celebration was over. Time to go back to work.
OK. Refreshments first. Then back to work.
Cola
04/01/07 07:50 AM | Permalink
Remember Jolt Cola?
The hacker's choice. "All the sugar and twice the caffeine." A minor brand, but a memorable one.
Jolt Cola doesn't appear to have much of a presence in Mexico. Too bad for Wet Planet Beverages, the parent company, because Mexico is a great cola market. In fact, it's tied for #1 in the world with the U. S. for per-capita consumption.
Of course, Coca-Cola is the biggie. Vicente Fox ran Coca-Cola Mexico before being elected the first non-PRI President of the country. But as in the U. S., small brands compete here too.
The U. S. has Jolt Cola; Mexico has Goat Cola.
Chiva means goat. The choice of name will leave you scratching your head unless you follow Mexican soccer. Chivas are the professional team of the City of Guadalajara and current national champions. They are the most popular team in Mexico with a huge following. The co-branding is ferocious: cola is one of a large number of products leveraging the team's popularity.
For example, there's water:
The hacker's choice. "All the sugar and twice the caffeine." A minor brand, but a memorable one.
Jolt Cola doesn't appear to have much of a presence in Mexico. Too bad for Wet Planet Beverages, the parent company, because Mexico is a great cola market. In fact, it's tied for #1 in the world with the U. S. for per-capita consumption.
Of course, Coca-Cola is the biggie. Vicente Fox ran Coca-Cola Mexico before being elected the first non-PRI President of the country. But as in the U. S., small brands compete here too.
The U. S. has Jolt Cola; Mexico has Goat Cola.
Chiva means goat. The choice of name will leave you scratching your head unless you follow Mexican soccer. Chivas are the professional team of the City of Guadalajara and current national champions. They are the most popular team in Mexico with a huge following. The co-branding is ferocious: cola is one of a large number of products leveraging the team's popularity.
For example, there's water:
If that's too tame, there's tequila:
That covers the drinks. There's much, much more. You got your toothbrushes, deodorant, dog collars, rice, watches, chewing gum, and diapers. It goes on and on. You could stock your entire house with Chivas stuff. And I'm sure there's fans who do.
I tried the Chivas Cola. It tasted like—Jolt.
Viernes de Delores
03/31/07 04:08 PM | Permalink
On my walk yesterday morning, I ran across people selling purple and white decorations for an upcoming holiday.
Others were selling wheat sprouts.
(Note that some of the plants are growing in cut off soft drink bottles, the default container in these parts. If you've got nothing else, use a plastic coke bottle.)
This woman is selling bitter oranges and herbs. All of this stuff: purple and white paper and ribbon, oranges, herbs, and wheat sprouts, has symbolic meanings.
These materials are being used to build altars for Viernes de Delores (the Friday of Our Lady of Sorrows); altars like this decorated fountain.
The holiday commemorates the Virgin Mary's sorrow at the torture and killing of Jesus—a difficult notion for me to comprehend. In San Miguel, a sculpture known as El Señor de la Columna is central to the Samana Santa events. It is one of the most horrifying images imaginable.
Altars constructed for this day often include agonized figures like this one, and grieving images of Mary.
Some memorials are very elaborate. This one, built against the wall of the Biblioteca Pública, includes a brass band playing dirges.
Families build beautiful displays and offer refreshments to those who come to view their work. This one includes a figure of Christ, jailed and guarded by two centurions.
Some altars are simply exquisite. This is a famous one, built by the family of Rubén Pérez. It is located just a few houses away from mine on Aldama. It includes precious antique figurines.
Visitors stand in front of each altar for many minutes, perhaps in prayer, perhaps meditating, or maybe just drinking in all the beauty. This one is built on the Aldama fountain, one of San Miguel's landmarks.
In general, the mood of visitors was incongruously festive. Except for a few moments in reflection followed by crossing themselves, people spent most of the time chatting with neighbors, eating paletas (popsicles) offered by their hosts while their kids ran around shouting and squealing, like kids will do on major holidays when school's out.
The altars I've shown so far are all located in wealthy neighborhoods. I felt more at home in working-class areas, where displays were more modest and welcomes were warmer.
A party rental business seems a good a place as any for an altar.
Viewings and visits went on until early the next morning.
By the end of it all, this family was dead on its feet. But they offered me a glass of orange juice with a smile.
Viernes de Delores is not really about mourning. It's a demonstration of perfect democracy, when wealthy and poor alike host one another and participate in common religious acts. It is a night when people greet one another, renew old friendships, make new ones, and revel in a powerful sense of community.
Others were selling wheat sprouts.
(Note that some of the plants are growing in cut off soft drink bottles, the default container in these parts. If you've got nothing else, use a plastic coke bottle.)
This woman is selling bitter oranges and herbs. All of this stuff: purple and white paper and ribbon, oranges, herbs, and wheat sprouts, has symbolic meanings.
These materials are being used to build altars for Viernes de Delores (the Friday of Our Lady of Sorrows); altars like this decorated fountain.
The holiday commemorates the Virgin Mary's sorrow at the torture and killing of Jesus—a difficult notion for me to comprehend. In San Miguel, a sculpture known as El Señor de la Columna is central to the Samana Santa events. It is one of the most horrifying images imaginable.
Altars constructed for this day often include agonized figures like this one, and grieving images of Mary.
Some memorials are very elaborate. This one, built against the wall of the Biblioteca Pública, includes a brass band playing dirges.
Families build beautiful displays and offer refreshments to those who come to view their work. This one includes a figure of Christ, jailed and guarded by two centurions.
Some altars are simply exquisite. This is a famous one, built by the family of Rubén Pérez. It is located just a few houses away from mine on Aldama. It includes precious antique figurines.
Visitors stand in front of each altar for many minutes, perhaps in prayer, perhaps meditating, or maybe just drinking in all the beauty. This one is built on the Aldama fountain, one of San Miguel's landmarks.
In general, the mood of visitors was incongruously festive. Except for a few moments in reflection followed by crossing themselves, people spent most of the time chatting with neighbors, eating paletas (popsicles) offered by their hosts while their kids ran around shouting and squealing, like kids will do on major holidays when school's out.
The altars I've shown so far are all located in wealthy neighborhoods. I felt more at home in working-class areas, where displays were more modest and welcomes were warmer.
A party rental business seems a good a place as any for an altar.
Viewings and visits went on until early the next morning.
By the end of it all, this family was dead on its feet. But they offered me a glass of orange juice with a smile.
Viernes de Delores is not really about mourning. It's a demonstration of perfect democracy, when wealthy and poor alike host one another and participate in common religious acts. It is a night when people greet one another, renew old friendships, make new ones, and revel in a powerful sense of community.
More About Handicapped Parking
03/30/07 07:29 AM | Permalink
In Mexico, we have reserved parking spaces for the handicapped. We're not some uncivilized third-world country like some of y'all think. In fact, we have an easier, friendlier approach. Consider these spaces in front of the new Mega supermarket:
One of the signs looks a little different, doesn't it? Let's read the lettering.
Yes, in Mexico we respect our expecting mothers. For many people, Mexico is about having children, raising families. The Catholic Church, huge here, encourages procreation. The government is ambivalent. Families are good for the country. Children are good. Just not too many, please. But there's one absolute in this patriarchal society: a pregnant woman is a good woman, and should be given every consideration. Like her own parking spot.
In addition to disabled and pregnant people, you're allowed to use these spaces if you are a "person of the third age"; that is to say, old. I wonder, do I qualify? I get discount fares on the San Francisco Muni and reduced-price tickets at the movies. I belong to the AARP. But I don't feel old. For now, it's not an issue. I saw these reserved spaces after walking to Mega from my home—more than a mile. It's easier than driving in our horrible congestion and it's good for me, so I won't be parking there anytime soon.
This photo shows a couple of handicapped spots in an underground lot in Querétaro.
Look pretty much like those in the States, with the universal blue-and-white symbols and all. The yellow roll-away barriers are unfamiliar, though. They're there because parking enforcement is more difficult here than up north. Without computer tracking, Mexican police have to remove license plates to get violators to pay their fines.
The barriers discourage illegal parking, making the number of violations more manageable. Fewer plates to unscrew.
But, you ask, how does it help the handicapped if they have to struggle out of their cars and move a heavy steel barrier? Well, all Mexican parking lots have one or more attendants who collect fees, guide you in and out of parking spaces, sometimes even wash your car. When someone pulls up to a handicapped parking place, an attendant comes over and moves the barrier.
Back in San Francisco, I noticed signs encouraging drivers to obey the law. Signs like:
One of the signs looks a little different, doesn't it? Let's read the lettering.
Yes, in Mexico we respect our expecting mothers. For many people, Mexico is about having children, raising families. The Catholic Church, huge here, encourages procreation. The government is ambivalent. Families are good for the country. Children are good. Just not too many, please. But there's one absolute in this patriarchal society: a pregnant woman is a good woman, and should be given every consideration. Like her own parking spot.
In addition to disabled and pregnant people, you're allowed to use these spaces if you are a "person of the third age"; that is to say, old. I wonder, do I qualify? I get discount fares on the San Francisco Muni and reduced-price tickets at the movies. I belong to the AARP. But I don't feel old. For now, it's not an issue. I saw these reserved spaces after walking to Mega from my home—more than a mile. It's easier than driving in our horrible congestion and it's good for me, so I won't be parking there anytime soon.
This photo shows a couple of handicapped spots in an underground lot in Querétaro.
Look pretty much like those in the States, with the universal blue-and-white symbols and all. The yellow roll-away barriers are unfamiliar, though. They're there because parking enforcement is more difficult here than up north. Without computer tracking, Mexican police have to remove license plates to get violators to pay their fines.
The barriers discourage illegal parking, making the number of violations more manageable. Fewer plates to unscrew.
But, you ask, how does it help the handicapped if they have to struggle out of their cars and move a heavy steel barrier? Well, all Mexican parking lots have one or more attendants who collect fees, guide you in and out of parking spaces, sometimes even wash your car. When someone pulls up to a handicapped parking place, an attendant comes over and moves the barrier.
Back in San Francisco, I noticed signs encouraging drivers to obey the law. Signs like:
Encouragement by threatening, that's one way.
Here's another—the Mexican way:
"We respect these spaces;
Today for those guys,
Tomorrow for ourselves."
Sweet. Friendly. Fatalistic. Quintessentially Mexican.
Waterbags
03/29/07 08:43 AM | Permalink
My friend Paul Gross and I had just finished a couple of plates of Korean barbecued ribs at the new Asian restaurant in San Miguel. We were walking out when Paul said, "I always know when fly season starts because the water bags come out."
I said, "What?" (I'm well-known for my witty ripostes.)
Paul said, "Water bags. See? They're to keep the flies away."
I said, "What?" (I'm well-known for my witty ripostes.)
Paul said, "Water bags. See? They're to keep the flies away."
Paul, stylish in sandals with socks, points out water bags.
I said, "Yeah. Right."
"No. Really. You fill plastic bags with water and hang them around the house. Then you don't get flies."
I looked more closely.
Insect repellant?
Yep. Looked like ordinary plastic bags filled with water. Not believing Paul, I asked the restaurant owner: "Are you using water bags to keep flies away?"
He said, "Yeah. See? No fly."
Hmm.
Now, what bothered me about all this is not that people believe that hanging bags full of water repels flies. We are, after all, living in San Miguel de Allende, haven of the science-impaired. No. My issue is that here we apparently have a widespread, highly visible practice of which I am totally unaware. In nearly five years, I've never noticed water bags hanging around.
I'm still not sure I believe it. Maybe Paul cooked up something with the restaurant owner. I wouldn't put it past him.
So help me out. Have any of you heard of this practice? Do people up north do it or is it just a Mexican thing? And most important, does it work?
Namedropping with the Stars
03/28/07 09:20 AM | Permalink
The last stop on our California trip is to hook up with Matthew, Jean's nephew, in Los Angeles. Matt is a musician, a member of the Hollywood anointed. He hangs out with the stars, intimidates headwaiters. He managed to score a coveted table at exclusive Studio City restaurant Nozawa Sushi.
Smug Matt, with the world on a string, entertains his Auntie Jean.
You could tell we were in star country. I parked my rented Taurus between the Escalades, Hummers and Nissan Armadas, mindful that their owners, at the last Academy Awards, had just given a special award to Al Gore for environmentalism.
When we entered, I craned my neck, asking in a loud voice, "Is that somebody? Matt! Is that somebody?"
The glitterati jostle for tables at Nozawa Sushi. The night we were there, Patricia Arquette and her retinue (a child and a nanny) held court, dazzling the trendy supper club's sparkling clientele.
It's a place where trend-setters go for abuse. Master chef Nozawa-san, called "the Sushi Nazi" behind his back, decides what you'll eat, in what sequence, and at what speed. Don't for God's sake order a California roll or anything with cream cheese in it. You'll be ejected with a warning not to return, ever. Nor may you use your cell phone. He's been said to throw rice balls at patrons who do.
Jean: Do you believe what that guy's eating.
This is a real sushi restaurant. No frills. No dynamite rolls. What you get is fish on rice. Period. You want avocado on that, go down the street to Fishy Sushi. The hard-core aficionado behind Jean is drinking a mysterious olive-colored drink and is eating—I'm not kidding—salted fish guts.
Since we had stopped shoving sushi into our mouths, Nozawa-san hustled us out of his place. His motto: Eat! No talk! So we lit out for a late-night joint called Pinkberry. This incredibly popular place is... wait for it... a Korean yogurt shop.
Don't ask me. All I can tell you is the place was jammed, the yogurt was the best I've ever tasted, and even Kirstie Alley waited in line with a bunch of kids for a medium green tea flavor topped with blackberries, mango and Cap'n Crunch.
OK, I know that's a lot of name dropping. Jean made me do it. When you grow up in Rensselaer, Indiana, you're easily star-struck.
Life in Tambaque
03/26/07 06:59 AM | Permalink
I guess that around half of all Mexicans still live in pueblos—small villages. Undeniably, migration to the great cities—Mexico, Monterrey, Guadalajara—is taking place. And millions have emigrated to the United States. But the heart of Mexico is still rural. I'm drawn to the tiny settlements, more than the great cultural centers.
Tambaque is one such place. This is its main square.
Tough to find Tambaque on a map; it's northeast of Xilitla, if that helps.
Even a place this small has enough civic pride to erect the de rigueur monument in the square.
When you have money enough for only one monument, your choice of historical figures is limited to two. Just as you'd probably go with a statue of George Washington or Abraham Lincoln in the U. S., in Mexico it's Miguel Hidalgo or Benito Juaréz. This battered bust is of the former.
Most houses are modest. In a barter economy, there's not a lot of hard cash for manufactured building supplies.
This home doesn't have electricity, but you can see a pipe that supplies running water, a step up from the places farther from the road.
A nearby restaurant has a similar look.
The proprietor didn't fritter money away on extras like signs. It's the only restaurant for miles, so what do you need a sign for? Cooking gas is supplied from the gray bottle on the right. The place seems to have electricity, but it isn't wasted on lights. That's a galvanized washtub on the roof, keeping out the rain in the one spot that's difficult to seal with thatch.
No matter how poor a place is, children go to school. They may not be very good schools, but every child gets a more or less free education through fifth or sixth grade.
It's a little startling, amidst all that poverty, to see schoolchildren in clean, neatly pressed uniforms. Probably some of these girls' parents are illiterate. But in the new generation, literacy is essentially 100%. That bodes well for a lower birth rate, economic growth and the advance of a free, equitable society.
As in the United States sixty years ago, Mexico is becoming more urban. The pueblos are dying out.
"Welcome to San Pedro" the sign says. San Pedro is the next town down the road from Tambaque. The sign gives the population as 1500 in 1996. Someone lettered over it in 1998: 700 inhabitants. I doubt there's that many today. I wonder, do Mexicans get nostalgic for small town living?
Tambaque is one such place. This is its main square.
Tough to find Tambaque on a map; it's northeast of Xilitla, if that helps.
Even a place this small has enough civic pride to erect the de rigueur monument in the square.
When you have money enough for only one monument, your choice of historical figures is limited to two. Just as you'd probably go with a statue of George Washington or Abraham Lincoln in the U. S., in Mexico it's Miguel Hidalgo or Benito Juaréz. This battered bust is of the former.
Most houses are modest. In a barter economy, there's not a lot of hard cash for manufactured building supplies.
This home doesn't have electricity, but you can see a pipe that supplies running water, a step up from the places farther from the road.
A nearby restaurant has a similar look.
The proprietor didn't fritter money away on extras like signs. It's the only restaurant for miles, so what do you need a sign for? Cooking gas is supplied from the gray bottle on the right. The place seems to have electricity, but it isn't wasted on lights. That's a galvanized washtub on the roof, keeping out the rain in the one spot that's difficult to seal with thatch.
No matter how poor a place is, children go to school. They may not be very good schools, but every child gets a more or less free education through fifth or sixth grade.
It's a little startling, amidst all that poverty, to see schoolchildren in clean, neatly pressed uniforms. Probably some of these girls' parents are illiterate. But in the new generation, literacy is essentially 100%. That bodes well for a lower birth rate, economic growth and the advance of a free, equitable society.
As in the United States sixty years ago, Mexico is becoming more urban. The pueblos are dying out.
"Welcome to San Pedro" the sign says. San Pedro is the next town down the road from Tambaque. The sign gives the population as 1500 in 1996. Someone lettered over it in 1998: 700 inhabitants. I doubt there's that many today. I wonder, do Mexicans get nostalgic for small town living?
Making a Living in Xilitla
03/25/07 06:57 AM | Permalink
Xilitla is economically undeveloped, to put it mildly. There's no industry here because transportation links are poor, there's no real skilled labor base and there's no capital. Income derives primarily from agriculture (coffee, oranges), and trade in goods and services to support farmers. There's a trickle of tourist dollars, but not enough to register on the econ-o-meter.
There's some investment in real estate.
Here's a nice little rental that brings in maybe fifty pesos per week. Plus a chicken. Small, but what a view!
Someone else is thinking a little bigger. This place is going to be a hotel.
I dunno. The best hotel in town, the eight-bedroom Posada El Castillo, looks like it gets maybe 60% occupancy, if that. And this place probably is going to have to live off the overflow from the Posada, unless they're going to try to compete on price. It's probably being financed with out-of-town money. It's hard to imagine that anyone who really knows Xilitla would attempt it.
The region does boast an extraction industry: shale quarrying.
That man in the yellow shirt is quarrying blocks of shale with a chisel and hammer. He's doing it the old-fashioned way: one rock at a time. He's one of about a dozen independent operators in or near town. He doesn't own his quarry; it's on the highway right-of-way. Property of the State. But the government likes to have him there because he's removing rock that might otherwise slide down onto the road. I'm sure he makes substantially less than $5 per day.
If you want to make the big bucks, you have to go into retail. A produce market is a good entry-level business.
This one is housed under a black plastic tarp in a space that would ordinarily be used for parking along the street. Minimal start-up costs. I'm guessing that one of the proprietor's indirect expenses involves paying "fees" to someone in city government. Every night, the owner takes down his tarp and rolls a length of chain-link fence over his vegetables. By the way, when was the last time you saw wooden vegetable crates?
Those are unusual mangos behind and just to the left of the pineapples. They are small, yellow-orange with a rose blush. You can't buy them except in eastern tropical Mexico: too delicate to ship long distances. Too sweet to miss, too, so you should come here just for a taste. This guy is selling his for about 40¢ US a pound. How you eat them is you squoosh and squoosh one with your hands until the flesh liquifies. Then you bite off the end and suck out the insides.
There may be better margins in meat. This outdoor carnicería looks like a low-investment business. Apparently Mexican meat doesn't need refrigeration.
The guy behind the table is chilling out with his newspaper. The whole operation is laid back and surprisingly wholesome-looking.
As a contrast, carnicería shown below is indoors. The owner is paying rent and you'd expect a higher class store than one located out on the street.
But you would be wrong. I wouldn't knowingly eat anything that came from this place. The tub in front of the butcher is for cooking carnitas: pig boiled in lard. I love carnitas. And since the meat is boiled for a long time at very high temperatures, it's got to be safe, right? At least I keep telling myself that. Of course, it's not safe for the arteries. My coronary arteries are cringing just looking at the tub. The butcher, you'll note, is engaged in that activity common to all of Xilitla's butchers—reading the newspaper.
Selling shoes is good. Mexicans love shoes. Every small town has several shoe stores. In cities, shoe stores are often located in the high-rent district—jammed right up against the main plaza.
You can see what the big sellers are in Xilitla: huaraches. These are less than $5 US per pair. Real leather, too! I think.
The pinnacle of retail, though, is a hardware store. Mexico is a country where people make stuff, fix stuff. They buy hardware like crazy. Hardware stores are always mobbed. Although self-serve places like Home Depot are coming into the cities, their quality and service is just as bad as in the States: cheap plated screws in bubble packs, moronic clerks that didn't make the cut at McDonalds. But in small Mexican hardware stores, the proprietor assists you, and he knows his clavos.
This hardware store offers something you won't find just anywhere: a small, industrial-grade coffee mill. We're in coffee-growing country, and small operators grow, harvest, roast and grind their own. It's really good coffee, too, judging by what I was served at Posada El Castillo.
But not everybody comes into this place to buy a coffee mill or a heavy-duty flash water heater or asphalt floor tile. So the owner of this store is hedging his bet. Those shelves in the back hold a complete selection of liquor. You can always get sales with liquor.
Hardware stores are capital-intensive businesses. You have to lock up so darn much money in inventory. For those with essentially no working capital, service businesses are the answer.
Find a wide spot on a street, make yourself a tall chair and table, sling a tarp, and you have a barber shop. This is one in a row of three barber shops. A hand painted sign on the wall says the space is reserved for the barbers: no parking, cabron. More "fees" I bet.
If all else fails, you can always be a milkman.
It's probably the only job that pays worse than quarrying shale. But hey. It's a living.
There's some investment in real estate.
Here's a nice little rental that brings in maybe fifty pesos per week. Plus a chicken. Small, but what a view!
Someone else is thinking a little bigger. This place is going to be a hotel.
I dunno. The best hotel in town, the eight-bedroom Posada El Castillo, looks like it gets maybe 60% occupancy, if that. And this place probably is going to have to live off the overflow from the Posada, unless they're going to try to compete on price. It's probably being financed with out-of-town money. It's hard to imagine that anyone who really knows Xilitla would attempt it.
The region does boast an extraction industry: shale quarrying.
That man in the yellow shirt is quarrying blocks of shale with a chisel and hammer. He's doing it the old-fashioned way: one rock at a time. He's one of about a dozen independent operators in or near town. He doesn't own his quarry; it's on the highway right-of-way. Property of the State. But the government likes to have him there because he's removing rock that might otherwise slide down onto the road. I'm sure he makes substantially less than $5 per day.
If you want to make the big bucks, you have to go into retail. A produce market is a good entry-level business.
This one is housed under a black plastic tarp in a space that would ordinarily be used for parking along the street. Minimal start-up costs. I'm guessing that one of the proprietor's indirect expenses involves paying "fees" to someone in city government. Every night, the owner takes down his tarp and rolls a length of chain-link fence over his vegetables. By the way, when was the last time you saw wooden vegetable crates?
Those are unusual mangos behind and just to the left of the pineapples. They are small, yellow-orange with a rose blush. You can't buy them except in eastern tropical Mexico: too delicate to ship long distances. Too sweet to miss, too, so you should come here just for a taste. This guy is selling his for about 40¢ US a pound. How you eat them is you squoosh and squoosh one with your hands until the flesh liquifies. Then you bite off the end and suck out the insides.
There may be better margins in meat. This outdoor carnicería looks like a low-investment business. Apparently Mexican meat doesn't need refrigeration.
The guy behind the table is chilling out with his newspaper. The whole operation is laid back and surprisingly wholesome-looking.
As a contrast, carnicería shown below is indoors. The owner is paying rent and you'd expect a higher class store than one located out on the street.
But you would be wrong. I wouldn't knowingly eat anything that came from this place. The tub in front of the butcher is for cooking carnitas: pig boiled in lard. I love carnitas. And since the meat is boiled for a long time at very high temperatures, it's got to be safe, right? At least I keep telling myself that. Of course, it's not safe for the arteries. My coronary arteries are cringing just looking at the tub. The butcher, you'll note, is engaged in that activity common to all of Xilitla's butchers—reading the newspaper.
Selling shoes is good. Mexicans love shoes. Every small town has several shoe stores. In cities, shoe stores are often located in the high-rent district—jammed right up against the main plaza.
You can see what the big sellers are in Xilitla: huaraches. These are less than $5 US per pair. Real leather, too! I think.
The pinnacle of retail, though, is a hardware store. Mexico is a country where people make stuff, fix stuff. They buy hardware like crazy. Hardware stores are always mobbed. Although self-serve places like Home Depot are coming into the cities, their quality and service is just as bad as in the States: cheap plated screws in bubble packs, moronic clerks that didn't make the cut at McDonalds. But in small Mexican hardware stores, the proprietor assists you, and he knows his clavos.
This hardware store offers something you won't find just anywhere: a small, industrial-grade coffee mill. We're in coffee-growing country, and small operators grow, harvest, roast and grind their own. It's really good coffee, too, judging by what I was served at Posada El Castillo.
But not everybody comes into this place to buy a coffee mill or a heavy-duty flash water heater or asphalt floor tile. So the owner of this store is hedging his bet. Those shelves in the back hold a complete selection of liquor. You can always get sales with liquor.
Hardware stores are capital-intensive businesses. You have to lock up so darn much money in inventory. For those with essentially no working capital, service businesses are the answer.
Find a wide spot on a street, make yourself a tall chair and table, sling a tarp, and you have a barber shop. This is one in a row of three barber shops. A hand painted sign on the wall says the space is reserved for the barbers: no parking, cabron. More "fees" I bet.
If all else fails, you can always be a milkman.
It's probably the only job that pays worse than quarrying shale. But hey. It's a living.
Phoning Home
03/23/07 07:15 AM | Permalink
Telephoning has recently become easy in Mexico, but it wasn't always so. A shortage of lines and switch gear meant long waits to get a phone installed in your new home. Entrepreneurs made deals with Telmex officials to "buy" blocks of lines on the rare occasions that they became available, which they then sold to homeowners and businesses at a substantial markup. This of course only made the problem worse.
If you didn't have a phone or couldn't afford one, you borrowed a neighbor's phone, or you went downtown to use the Caseta Telefónica—the phone booth.
If you didn't have a phone or couldn't afford one, you borrowed a neighbor's phone, or you went downtown to use the Caseta Telefónica—the phone booth.
A caseta telefónica in Tancanhuitz de Santos.
Casetas provide phones for making local, long distance and international calls. "International" means "USA." It's not like campesinos have a lot of correspondents in Tokyo.
More importantly, casetas are a place where you can receive calls. Telmex, a monopoly, charges exorbitant rates, so campesinos rely on their stateside relatives to originate calls. That way, they only have to pay for booth time.
An explosion of land lines and cellular networks is reducing the need for Casetas Telefónicas. But you still see them in remote areas. For some reason, they're usually painted blue and yellow (when they're painted at all) just as tortillarías are traditionally painted green and yellow.
A typical caseta contains a row of private booths, in each of which is located what Lily Tomlin called, an instrument. You sit in a row of chairs waiting for your call. When it comes in, the attendant routes it to an instrument in a booth.
Note that in the picture above, the lady in the chair is not waiting for a call. She is selling used clothing. (After you've lived here for awhile, it all kind of makes sense.)
A caseta telefónica in Xilitla.
It all seems so inconvenient. But Mexican people tolerate inconvenience like Norteamericanos wouldn't. I saw a sign by the highway that said "Teléfono 300 Mts." It pointed to a narrow dirt path leading straight up a steep mountainside. No way to drive there; you had to walk. I don't know about you, but I'd have to be pretty desperate to walk uphill the length of three football fields, even to phone home.
Back to Nature
03/22/07 06:17 AM | Permalink
I think of inland Mexico as being desert, and I think of its waterways as polluted, its highways as littered. Visiting the Sierra Gorda Biosphere Reserve is a wonderful antidote for that kind of thinking.
This region is full of rugged mountains, tropical rainforest, rivers, lakes, caves and wildlife.
Above is a view of the peña called El Cerro de la Silleta, shot from the lookout tower in the Posada el Castillo, my hotel in Xilitla.
Jungle-clad mountains loom over settlements and roads. You can tell you're not in Indiana anymore. Sure beats looking at milo stubble poking through the snow. (A credit to Doonesbury for that one.)
The Sierra Gorda is much greener than the State of Guanajuato where I live, only a six hour drive away. Frequent mists and low clouds keep everything green and lush.
Small farmers grow bananas and coffee beneath mountain peaks. (Those are coffee trees in bloom, visible beneath the lower banana leaf.)
There's exploring to be done in these mountains, enough to keep any Sierra Club backpacker happy. When I planned this trip I had no idea. There are actual campgrounds here, and wilderness trails. Next time I'll bring hiking and camping gear.
Spelunkers travel to Mexico for caving in unexplored grottos.
On my list for a future visit are caves that are home to hundreds of green parrots, and another to hundreds of thousands of swallows.
Beautiful rivers run everywhere...
... their sources sometimes are large springs at the bases of mountains.
Above, a large volume of water flows from a hole in the rocks—an underground river rising to the surface.
These waters are clean and clear, unpolluted. Tens of thousands of people drink them every day, without the ill effects so many suffer from municipal water supplies. Fish abound. I saw a teenager with a homemade bow and arrow catch his lunch. He looked like he was fresh out of Amazonia.
Along the roads, many signs point the way to waterfalls. Others are accessible only by boat or hiking trail.
Residants of the Huasteca live in a gorgeous, unspoiled part of the world. I'd recommend to anyone that they put on their hiking boots, grab their fly rods and come enjoy the wilderness. But then, if this place were discovered, would it remain the same? Nothing this beautiful will remain secret for very long, so see it while you can.
This region is full of rugged mountains, tropical rainforest, rivers, lakes, caves and wildlife.
Above is a view of the peña called El Cerro de la Silleta, shot from the lookout tower in the Posada el Castillo, my hotel in Xilitla.
Jungle-clad mountains loom over settlements and roads. You can tell you're not in Indiana anymore. Sure beats looking at milo stubble poking through the snow. (A credit to Doonesbury for that one.)
The Sierra Gorda is much greener than the State of Guanajuato where I live, only a six hour drive away. Frequent mists and low clouds keep everything green and lush.
Small farmers grow bananas and coffee beneath mountain peaks. (Those are coffee trees in bloom, visible beneath the lower banana leaf.)
There's exploring to be done in these mountains, enough to keep any Sierra Club backpacker happy. When I planned this trip I had no idea. There are actual campgrounds here, and wilderness trails. Next time I'll bring hiking and camping gear.
Spelunkers travel to Mexico for caving in unexplored grottos.
On my list for a future visit are caves that are home to hundreds of green parrots, and another to hundreds of thousands of swallows.
Beautiful rivers run everywhere...
... their sources sometimes are large springs at the bases of mountains.
Above, a large volume of water flows from a hole in the rocks—an underground river rising to the surface.
These waters are clean and clear, unpolluted. Tens of thousands of people drink them every day, without the ill effects so many suffer from municipal water supplies. Fish abound. I saw a teenager with a homemade bow and arrow catch his lunch. He looked like he was fresh out of Amazonia.
Along the roads, many signs point the way to waterfalls. Others are accessible only by boat or hiking trail.
Residants of the Huasteca live in a gorgeous, unspoiled part of the world. I'd recommend to anyone that they put on their hiking boots, grab their fly rods and come enjoy the wilderness. But then, if this place were discovered, would it remain the same? Nothing this beautiful will remain secret for very long, so see it while you can.
Las Flores Silvestres
03/21/07 07:22 AM | Permalink
Spring is definitely in the air, with many plants in bloom already. It's one of the benefits of living below the Tropic of Cancer. I see Billie has written a post about blooming jacarandas and more.
Along the roadsides on Mex 120 and 85, in the Sierra Gorda, wildflowers are blooming, too.
In San Miguel, wildflowers come in the rainy season, peaking in September. We don't get enough rain in the State of Guanajuato for seeds to germinate and grow in spring. We live in the rain shadow of the Sierra Gorda. Storms roll in off the Gulf of Mexico and dump their moisture on the Huasteca Potosina instead of on us.
Cultivated trees are blooming in profusion, especially coffee and orange trees. Their scent is everywhere and it is powerful. Other trees are in bloom as well.
I don't know if the pictured trees are cultivars or natives. I don't know the names of any of the wildflowers. Pathetic.
The red blossoms in the lower right photo are particularly interesting. Indigenous people harvest them to sell in the towns. Why? Are they a seasonal comestible? Brewed into some kind of tea? Or are they used in folk medicine?
One of the tree species used as living fenceposts is blooming as well.
Hanging on these plants alongside the pink blossoms are green seed pods about three inches long. This plant finds many uses in this region, so knowing its name is important. Perhaps one of you botanists know what it's called...
Along the roadsides on Mex 120 and 85, in the Sierra Gorda, wildflowers are blooming, too.
In San Miguel, wildflowers come in the rainy season, peaking in September. We don't get enough rain in the State of Guanajuato for seeds to germinate and grow in spring. We live in the rain shadow of the Sierra Gorda. Storms roll in off the Gulf of Mexico and dump their moisture on the Huasteca Potosina instead of on us.
Cultivated trees are blooming in profusion, especially coffee and orange trees. Their scent is everywhere and it is powerful. Other trees are in bloom as well.
I don't know if the pictured trees are cultivars or natives. I don't know the names of any of the wildflowers. Pathetic.
The red blossoms in the lower right photo are particularly interesting. Indigenous people harvest them to sell in the towns. Why? Are they a seasonal comestible? Brewed into some kind of tea? Or are they used in folk medicine?
One of the tree species used as living fenceposts is blooming as well.
Hanging on these plants alongside the pink blossoms are green seed pods about three inches long. This plant finds many uses in this region, so knowing its name is important. Perhaps one of you botanists know what it's called...
Visiting Huehuetlán
03/20/07 06:10 AM | Permalink
The countryside in the Huastecan Potosí is incredibly beautiful: green meadows, tropical jungle, spectacular mountains.
Nothing at all like the sere Bahío where I live.
Here in the Sierra Gorda, you occasionally see a traditionally dressed Tenek woman walking by, adding color to the scene.
This one is correctly dressed head to toe: petop, colorful caped blouse, dark, mid-calf-length skirt, huaraches and the de rigeur shoulder bag cross-stitched in authentic patterns. She is headed for the pretty little town of Huehuetlán, on foot; as was I, by car.
(I love going to places you can't google for squat. Try it. Huehuetlán. You'll get nothing useful in English, and very little in Spanish.)
Nothing at all like the sere Bahío where I live.
Here in the Sierra Gorda, you occasionally see a traditionally dressed Tenek woman walking by, adding color to the scene.
This one is correctly dressed head to toe: petop, colorful caped blouse, dark, mid-calf-length skirt, huaraches and the de rigeur shoulder bag cross-stitched in authentic patterns. She is headed for the pretty little town of Huehuetlán, on foot; as was I, by car.
(I love going to places you can't google for squat. Try it. Huehuetlán. You'll get nothing useful in English, and very little in Spanish.)
—§—
Small towns don't have large budgets for monuments. But no respectable Mexican town can hold up its civic head without at least one. Huehuetlán's is a bust of Benito Juaréz.
Well, I've seen worse. The monument utterly fails to convey any sense whatever of dignity or honor, what with the cartoon-like features, the peeling paint and the outsized pedestal diminishing the bust itself. The Bela Lugosi expression doesn't help, either.
On a more positive note, Huehuetlán has a pretty central plaza and church.
When I arrived, I heard loud popular music. Something was going on. A band was playing, or so I thought.
A button box player was singing his heart out.
His suit would not have been my first choice, but his pale turquoise ostrich boots—My, my!
Several expensive video cameras were recording the performance.
I had come to Huehuetlán to explore an typical Huastecan puebla. What I found was a high-tech music video production from Mexico City.
The band was lip syncing to one of their recordings. I could hear a bass drum, but the drummer had only one trap and a cymbal. No cables connected the keyboard to an amplifier.
Only the guitar player gave any impression that he was actually grooving with the music.
The track played over and over again. Boring. Camera angles changed. When the group shots were completed, the crew moved in for closeups.
Everybody stood around a lot. I would have lost all patience before the first hour was up. These people were going to spend the entire day producing a single three-minute video.
—§—
Wandering around the plaza, I met the Morales family. When they saw my camera, they posed rather stiffly, and nothing I could say would get them to relax for a candid shot.
All three were born and raised in Huehuetlán. Artenio is mestizo; his wife, Liset, is Tenek; and the baby, Jimena, is Japanese.
That was a joke. Jimena is mestiza too, which means she will have more social acceptance and a more prosperous future than her mother. It's sad, but there it is.
Artenio works eight months a year in Nashville. He says he can earn the price of a television for a week's work there: the same TV would require three months' work in Huehuetlán. They love their home town and wish that Artenio could always be home with the family. They have no wish to emigrate to the States. Life in Huehuetlán is too good for that.
A guest worker program with a path to citizenship holds no value for Artenio. He doesn't like how Americans live. Too hurried, too stressy, too much of a rat race. What he wants is better economic opportunity in Huehuetlán. He told me if he could earn just half of what he makes in Nashville, he'd stay home.
Huehuetlán is a sweet, peaceful town. On hot days you can sit in the shade of 100-year-old laurels and look out at the spectacular Sierra Gorda. Artenio is on to something. I find myself dreaming about living here.
Coppicing in Mexico
03/19/07 07:30 AM | Permalink
When I think about the Mexican countryside, environmental preservation isn't the first thing to cross my mind. In this country, you see once-pristine cenotes ringed with snack shacks and souvenir stands. This is a land where villagers take bribes to look the other way as illegal loggers cut old-growth timber in the Monarch Butterfly Preserve of Michoacan. An obscenity called Xel-Ha promotes itself as an ecological attraction, where visitors pay exorbitant fees to stomp around on coral heads and let their kids swim with captive dolphins.
And yet, serious conservation efforts are going on here. Mexico has set aside large amounts of land as Biosphere Reserves. There are reforestation projects and efforts to save wildlife such as sea turtles.
Farmers in the eastern Sierra Gorda are using a method of fencing their fields that is cheap, effective, and environmentally friendly.
They make fenceposts out of living trees. They are planted by jamming green branches into the ground in a row along the desired fence line. Farmers use species that readily sprout roots from fresh prunings. After a year in the ground, the branches develop strong enough roots that they become firmly anchored and can be used to support barbed wire.
Eventually, the fence posts sprout new branches that grow large enough to be usable as poles themselves, so the farmers harvest them, a process that can be repeated indefinitely. The technique of repeatedly cutting trees is called coppicing.
Coppicing is practiced all over the world. Talking about coppicing seems seems to be a peculiarly British activity. Google coppice and you get a whole bunch of pages from the UK offering nuanced commentary on methodology.
Rural British homeowners cultivate coppiced woodlots: ten acres provides a family with all the firewood it needs. It's the perfect pensioner's solution. He tells his wife, "Bridget, I'm going out to check on the coppice," before nipping down to the public house for a pint or two.
In the Sierra Gorda, farmers coppice fences instead of woodlots. Harvested branches are carefully stacked, ready for replanting or use in house-building.
Some cuttings are used for firewood.
Since so many households use firewood for cooking, a renewable fuel source is essential for conserving the jungle.
Some farmers, having coppiced their fences for years, have stopped pruning them and allowed them to develop into mature trees, giving roads in these parts a unique look.
Progress in caring for the environment is not as advanced in Mexico as in the United States; nor is economic progress for that matter, an impediment to conservation. Environmentalism seems to be the province of rich countries: when the basic needs of the people are met, then it becomes possible to divert funds to conservation.
I have to curb my Norteamericano judgmentalism when it comes to the condition of the Mexican countryside. After all, not so many years ago the Detroit River caught fire and large numbers of dead fish washed up on the shores of Lake Michigan. Even today, Southern California beaches are routinely closed because of pollution from sewage.
So I'm impressed when I see Mexicans, lacking wealth, using ingenuity to keep their world green.
And yet, serious conservation efforts are going on here. Mexico has set aside large amounts of land as Biosphere Reserves. There are reforestation projects and efforts to save wildlife such as sea turtles.
Farmers in the eastern Sierra Gorda are using a method of fencing their fields that is cheap, effective, and environmentally friendly.
They make fenceposts out of living trees. They are planted by jamming green branches into the ground in a row along the desired fence line. Farmers use species that readily sprout roots from fresh prunings. After a year in the ground, the branches develop strong enough roots that they become firmly anchored and can be used to support barbed wire.
Eventually, the fence posts sprout new branches that grow large enough to be usable as poles themselves, so the farmers harvest them, a process that can be repeated indefinitely. The technique of repeatedly cutting trees is called coppicing.
Coppicing is practiced all over the world. Talking about coppicing seems seems to be a peculiarly British activity. Google coppice and you get a whole bunch of pages from the UK offering nuanced commentary on methodology.
Rural British homeowners cultivate coppiced woodlots: ten acres provides a family with all the firewood it needs. It's the perfect pensioner's solution. He tells his wife, "Bridget, I'm going out to check on the coppice," before nipping down to the public house for a pint or two.
In the Sierra Gorda, farmers coppice fences instead of woodlots. Harvested branches are carefully stacked, ready for replanting or use in house-building.
Some cuttings are used for firewood.
Since so many households use firewood for cooking, a renewable fuel source is essential for conserving the jungle.
Some farmers, having coppiced their fences for years, have stopped pruning them and allowed them to develop into mature trees, giving roads in these parts a unique look.
Progress in caring for the environment is not as advanced in Mexico as in the United States; nor is economic progress for that matter, an impediment to conservation. Environmentalism seems to be the province of rich countries: when the basic needs of the people are met, then it becomes possible to divert funds to conservation.
I have to curb my Norteamericano judgmentalism when it comes to the condition of the Mexican countryside. After all, not so many years ago the Detroit River caught fire and large numbers of dead fish washed up on the shores of Lake Michigan. Even today, Southern California beaches are routinely closed because of pollution from sewage.
So I'm impressed when I see Mexicans, lacking wealth, using ingenuity to keep their world green.
Women of the Huasteca
03/17/07 06:40 AM | Permalink
Women keep the Huastecan Potosí functioning. Many of the men have gone north of the border seeking employment. Relatively few remain to participate in the day-to-day work of maintaining homes and raising families. So the work and the responsibility falls mainly on the women.
This woman is one of them. She doesn't look too happy with her difficult lot. Or maybe she's expressing disapproval of an annoying photographer.
Life is hard. Just doing the laundry looks like half a day's work to me.
Many women have to supplement the family income through small-scale commerce.
Both mom and the wheelbarrow-shop vendor are trying to get an undecided little girl to settle on one kind of nut or another.
A woman operates the smallest polloría I've ever seen.
Looks like she's got one chicken left, hanging by a hook through its head with its feet still attached. Yum. That chicken is fresh. (But I'm not sure about buying food from a place where a five-gallon bucket originally used for Bardahl gear oil is part of the essential equipment.)
Women organize most of the community activities, and because they've taken over the social agenda, it has changed. Here, a local women's council has organized a dog training class.
Why is this unusual? Well, most Mexican men wouldn't even think of training their dogs. Dogs are supposed to be wild, fierce and free. Just like the men. The women, however, want obedient dogs in their villages; ones that don't bite the children. Do you think this says anything about how the women would like to deal with the men?
While walking down a narrow track through coffee and orange groves, I ran into Felipe and Basilio who immediately attached themselves to me.
They are Tenek children wearing traditional Coca-Cola and Incredible Hulk tee shirts. (Don't judge Felipe's mom by the cleanliness of his shirt—he's a boy, after all.)
They are standing on ground littered with orange blossoms. The scent is thick and sweet. I thought, how lucky they are to live in a place so sunny and warm, and that smells so nice.
The boys appointed themselves my guides, leading me back into the jungle, naming plants as we went. (That's an avocado tree; that's a mujer mala—a bad woman.) They told me they were taking me to see a cave and entrance would cost five pesos.
A sign indicated we were getting somewhere.
We were approaching an eatery, Las Quilas, operated by Ecotourism Project Women's Group. Many groups of this type have sprung up, women raising money to protect the local environment. Sensitivity to environmental issues isn't strong in Mexico, so it's encouraging to see the women take the lead in doing something about it.
At Las Quilas, I found three little girls and a plastic tub of newly-picked coffee beans, but no food. No problem—I wasn't hungry anyway.
Eventually a woman emerged and wanted to know if I would like to tour the soltana (cave). I gave her a 20 peso bill, knowing she wouldn't have any change. I told her to keep it. Heck, I would have given her a $100 peso donation if she had asked for it.
She led me to the cave.
It was definitely a low-voltage attraction. We walked into the darkness about thirty feet and then she told me to stop because shortly ahead, the floor dropped away into a "bottomless pit."
I wasn't disappointed, because for me, meeting the kids was the real treat. Felipe and Basilio escorted me back to their settlement and asked me for a regalo (tip). I felt bad that I only had two one-peso coins, but they seemed satisfied with them. No sooner than I paid than I ceased to exist in their world as they walked off together, happily cracking jokes. (Now, before you condemn me as cheap, consider that two pesos amounted to a 40% tip.)
The women live long lives. If they make it past infectious disease and accidents, their active lifestyles and healthy diets keep them going for a long time.
This woman has no intention of composting in some retirement home. She's an elder in her community, a source of knowledge and experience for her family, a caretaker of her great-grandchildren. She's got way too much to do to "retire."
When her responsibilities require her to go to town, a grandson escorts her without complaint, with respect. It's the least he can do for a keystone of his community.
This woman is one of them. She doesn't look too happy with her difficult lot. Or maybe she's expressing disapproval of an annoying photographer.
Life is hard. Just doing the laundry looks like half a day's work to me.
Many women have to supplement the family income through small-scale commerce.
Both mom and the wheelbarrow-shop vendor are trying to get an undecided little girl to settle on one kind of nut or another.
A woman operates the smallest polloría I've ever seen.
Looks like she's got one chicken left, hanging by a hook through its head with its feet still attached. Yum. That chicken is fresh. (But I'm not sure about buying food from a place where a five-gallon bucket originally used for Bardahl gear oil is part of the essential equipment.)
Women organize most of the community activities, and because they've taken over the social agenda, it has changed. Here, a local women's council has organized a dog training class.
Why is this unusual? Well, most Mexican men wouldn't even think of training their dogs. Dogs are supposed to be wild, fierce and free. Just like the men. The women, however, want obedient dogs in their villages; ones that don't bite the children. Do you think this says anything about how the women would like to deal with the men?
While walking down a narrow track through coffee and orange groves, I ran into Felipe and Basilio who immediately attached themselves to me.
They are Tenek children wearing traditional Coca-Cola and Incredible Hulk tee shirts. (Don't judge Felipe's mom by the cleanliness of his shirt—he's a boy, after all.)
They are standing on ground littered with orange blossoms. The scent is thick and sweet. I thought, how lucky they are to live in a place so sunny and warm, and that smells so nice.
The boys appointed themselves my guides, leading me back into the jungle, naming plants as we went. (That's an avocado tree; that's a mujer mala—a bad woman.) They told me they were taking me to see a cave and entrance would cost five pesos.
A sign indicated we were getting somewhere.
We were approaching an eatery, Las Quilas, operated by Ecotourism Project Women's Group. Many groups of this type have sprung up, women raising money to protect the local environment. Sensitivity to environmental issues isn't strong in Mexico, so it's encouraging to see the women take the lead in doing something about it.
At Las Quilas, I found three little girls and a plastic tub of newly-picked coffee beans, but no food. No problem—I wasn't hungry anyway.
Eventually a woman emerged and wanted to know if I would like to tour the soltana (cave). I gave her a 20 peso bill, knowing she wouldn't have any change. I told her to keep it. Heck, I would have given her a $100 peso donation if she had asked for it.
She led me to the cave.
It was definitely a low-voltage attraction. We walked into the darkness about thirty feet and then she told me to stop because shortly ahead, the floor dropped away into a "bottomless pit."
I wasn't disappointed, because for me, meeting the kids was the real treat. Felipe and Basilio escorted me back to their settlement and asked me for a regalo (tip). I felt bad that I only had two one-peso coins, but they seemed satisfied with them. No sooner than I paid than I ceased to exist in their world as they walked off together, happily cracking jokes. (Now, before you condemn me as cheap, consider that two pesos amounted to a 40% tip.)
The women live long lives. If they make it past infectious disease and accidents, their active lifestyles and healthy diets keep them going for a long time.
This woman has no intention of composting in some retirement home. She's an elder in her community, a source of knowledge and experience for her family, a caretaker of her great-grandchildren. She's got way too much to do to "retire."
When her responsibilities require her to go to town, a grandson escorts her without complaint, with respect. It's the least he can do for a keystone of his community.
Getting Around in the Huasteca Potosí
03/15/07 07:09 AM | Permalink
East of the Sierra Gorda many hundreds of tiny settlements are spread out over a huge area. They are served by a sprinkling of larger towns with populations on the order of 20,000 and most importantly, commercial centers. People in the settlements need to get to town to buy shoes or seeds.
Rich folks own cars. The next lower economic tier takes the bus.
You can go all over Mexico on the bus. They have one of the best systems in the world: way better than the British one.
But buses ply the main highways. If your town isn't on an arterial, you have to get off at an intersection where taxis wait to take you into el centro.
The bus stop and taxis pictured above are at the Mex 85 intersection with the road to Tancanhuitz de Santos. It's typical.
By U. S. standards, buses are cheap, and the taxis cost only a buck or two. But for many here, that's still too expensive. Moreover, many live well off the beaten track, in places where no buses go and taxi fares would be too high, maybe even for gringos.
The ubiquitous Mexican form of really cheap passenger transport is the pickup truck. Here, a group of Guadalajara soccer fans accept a lift from a friend.
(Check that bottomed-out rear suspension.)
Illegal in the U. S. for safety reasons, I occasionally saw passengers in truck beds there anyway. Once I watched as a pickup truck with two illegal passengers had a low-speed rear-end collision with another vehicle. Neither car suffered any damage, but the impact bounced the rear of the pickup into the air, catapulting the two passengers over both vehicles. They landed on the road in front of the car that had been struck, which fortunately had been stopped.
Mexico appears to have no restrictions on passengers in truck beds. Any such regulation would be unenforceable, given that riding back there is an integral part of the culture.
Inhabitants of the Huastecan Potosí have formalized the use of pickups as public transportation.
Three-quarter or one ton pickup trucks are fitted with tall frames in their beds that allow passengers to hang on while standing. That way, twenty or more can fit into the back. Each pays the driver a few pesos fare.
You see them everywhere in the region, prowling the back roads and carrying people into the towns. They're often overfilled.
(They look like commuters on the IRT, don't they.)
Most don't look safe. They're often 25 years or more years old, and I imagine maintenance is a little thin.
Most frightening is encountering one on the open road. I snapped this image in the country north of Asquemón.
The driver was going at least 50 MPH. Those are schoolchildren up there. (Shudder.)
Rich folks own cars. The next lower economic tier takes the bus.
You can go all over Mexico on the bus. They have one of the best systems in the world: way better than the British one.
But buses ply the main highways. If your town isn't on an arterial, you have to get off at an intersection where taxis wait to take you into el centro.
The bus stop and taxis pictured above are at the Mex 85 intersection with the road to Tancanhuitz de Santos. It's typical.
By U. S. standards, buses are cheap, and the taxis cost only a buck or two. But for many here, that's still too expensive. Moreover, many live well off the beaten track, in places where no buses go and taxi fares would be too high, maybe even for gringos.
The ubiquitous Mexican form of really cheap passenger transport is the pickup truck. Here, a group of Guadalajara soccer fans accept a lift from a friend.
(Check that bottomed-out rear suspension.)
Illegal in the U. S. for safety reasons, I occasionally saw passengers in truck beds there anyway. Once I watched as a pickup truck with two illegal passengers had a low-speed rear-end collision with another vehicle. Neither car suffered any damage, but the impact bounced the rear of the pickup into the air, catapulting the two passengers over both vehicles. They landed on the road in front of the car that had been struck, which fortunately had been stopped.
Mexico appears to have no restrictions on passengers in truck beds. Any such regulation would be unenforceable, given that riding back there is an integral part of the culture.
Inhabitants of the Huastecan Potosí have formalized the use of pickups as public transportation.
Three-quarter or one ton pickup trucks are fitted with tall frames in their beds that allow passengers to hang on while standing. That way, twenty or more can fit into the back. Each pays the driver a few pesos fare.
You see them everywhere in the region, prowling the back roads and carrying people into the towns. They're often overfilled.
(They look like commuters on the IRT, don't they.)
Most don't look safe. They're often 25 years or more years old, and I imagine maintenance is a little thin.
Most frightening is encountering one on the open road. I snapped this image in the country north of Asquemón.
The driver was going at least 50 MPH. Those are schoolchildren up there. (Shudder.)
The Tenek
03/14/07 07:19 AM | Permalink
Drive farther east from Xilitla on Mex 120—maybe thirty minutes—and you come down off the Sierra Gorda into a region called the Huasteca Potosí. Here is where live tribes of indigenous people: the Pames, the Nahua and the largest tribe, the Tenek. Each has its own language, although most speak Spanish as well as their tribal tongue. The people of the Huasteca Potosí are thought to be descended from Mayans, cut off from their Yucatecan brothers when the Aztecs expanded their conquest of Central Mexico.
Owing to sluggish exploitation and development of the region, these tribes have hung on to some of their ways. This woman, in traditional blouse and headdress, is selling snacks near the central plaza of Aquismón, a primarily Tenek community.
Tourists rarely visit the region, so she is not costumed for the trade. She is wearing real clothes ordinarily worn by real tribespeople, although in this case, she's clearly in her Sunday best. Gotta look sharp if you're gonna move the merchandise.
Her headdress is called a petop. It's woven with yarn and her hair. One person told me the colors designate her marital status and age—apparently the presence of green means she's a widow.
You see a fair amount of women still wearing traditional dress, but men's clothing has evolved to Mexican Standard. Traditional loincloths were outlawed by the colonial Spanish; I'm told you only see them worn during festivals—with underpants!
This man is selling fruits and vegetables on the main street of Tancanhuitz de Santos. He grew or gathered them himself: bananas, oranges, chayote and the red flowers of a native tree for making a medicinal tea. He says he only does this when he need a little cash. Otherwise, he's a subsistence farmer.
Some Tenek live in huts made of sticks with palm thatch roofs, much as you see in Yucatán or Chiapas.
They're quaint, but they indicate poverty. No Tenek lives in one of these in order to preserve the old ways. She'll trade up to a cinderblock house in a heartbeat if she can scrape up the money for it. In fact her husband and sons probably are up north, sending back money for just that purpose.
The house shown below must belong to a relatively well-off Tenek: It has a tin roof.
Moreover the owner could afford paint. When these people cook, wood smoke pours out from under the eaves. Their houses have no running water. They have backyard privies. Many have no electricity. I saw one place that had a small solar panel. Boom box music thundered from inside the house. First things first.
Near every home I saw, people were growing their own food...
... plus a little to sell. Here we have papayas and bananas.
Teneks travel from small settlements of maybe a hundred people to cities like Ciudad Santos via pickup trucks converted into people carriers. They're the cheapest public transportation around, and they go out into the country on narrow, winding dirt roads where normal commercial buses don't. These women are waiting in a depot for a ride home.
The older woman is traditionally dressed in blouse, petop, and huaraches. The white garment on her head is (I think) called a quechquémitl. It's a shoulder-length cape usually worn to keep off early-morning chill, and here tucked into the petop to cover the head, to keep off the noonday sun. The young mother, every bit as Tenek as her seatmate, wears the traditional Huastecan blue jeans and running shoes.
Women make their own traditional dress. These styles aren't carried by Land's End. But making them takes time, and many women don't have that luxury. What young suburban mother races home from a play date and sits down to embroider a blouse?
This young mother probably has to race home and plant some corn. I mean, it's March, already. Her life is hard. She's probably all of sixteen years old. So she got married and pregnant when she was fourteen, judging from the size of the child she's carrying in her rebozo.
What kind of future does she have? Odds are she'll wind up carrying firewood during her retirement years.
Traditional dress is for company and fiestas and visits to the city. Jeans and a man's shirt are more practical for hard manual labor.
This woman was selling Tenek cross-stitch embroidery on the Aquismón plaza. I bought some of her work, some of which you can see in the background. Her designs are traditional and full of meaning, but her Spanish—and mine, were so bad I wasn't able to learn much about them.
In this close-up, you can see how her hair has been woven with yarn into her petop. Her toothy grin owes its charm to the absence of refined sugar in her diet, I'll bet.
In many ways, the lives of the Tenek seem so contented. They live close to nature, in a gentle climate, eating stuff that is good for them, in close-knit families. Thatch huts in a pastoral setting. What could be more romantic?
But then again, the villages are run largely by women because most of the men are in the U. S. trying to earn enough money to live on in an increasingly modern, expensive world. So the families are broken up. Children wear uniforms to public school. How to pay for them? They rely on the village shaman for traditional medicine—unless the patient doesn't get well. Then they have to go to the clinic in Santos. How to pay for it?
It's a joy to visit these people and admire their fine lives and distinctive culture. But travelers shouldn't let too much more time go by. The modern world is closing in on the Tenek. The kids want IM and ice cream. In twenty years, you'll have to look in Burger King to see the Tenek.
Owing to sluggish exploitation and development of the region, these tribes have hung on to some of their ways. This woman, in traditional blouse and headdress, is selling snacks near the central plaza of Aquismón, a primarily Tenek community.
Tourists rarely visit the region, so she is not costumed for the trade. She is wearing real clothes ordinarily worn by real tribespeople, although in this case, she's clearly in her Sunday best. Gotta look sharp if you're gonna move the merchandise.
Her headdress is called a petop. It's woven with yarn and her hair. One person told me the colors designate her marital status and age—apparently the presence of green means she's a widow.
You see a fair amount of women still wearing traditional dress, but men's clothing has evolved to Mexican Standard. Traditional loincloths were outlawed by the colonial Spanish; I'm told you only see them worn during festivals—with underpants!
This man is selling fruits and vegetables on the main street of Tancanhuitz de Santos. He grew or gathered them himself: bananas, oranges, chayote and the red flowers of a native tree for making a medicinal tea. He says he only does this when he need a little cash. Otherwise, he's a subsistence farmer.
Some Tenek live in huts made of sticks with palm thatch roofs, much as you see in Yucatán or Chiapas.
They're quaint, but they indicate poverty. No Tenek lives in one of these in order to preserve the old ways. She'll trade up to a cinderblock house in a heartbeat if she can scrape up the money for it. In fact her husband and sons probably are up north, sending back money for just that purpose.
The house shown below must belong to a relatively well-off Tenek: It has a tin roof.
Moreover the owner could afford paint. When these people cook, wood smoke pours out from under the eaves. Their houses have no running water. They have backyard privies. Many have no electricity. I saw one place that had a small solar panel. Boom box music thundered from inside the house. First things first.
Near every home I saw, people were growing their own food...
... plus a little to sell. Here we have papayas and bananas.
Teneks travel from small settlements of maybe a hundred people to cities like Ciudad Santos via pickup trucks converted into people carriers. They're the cheapest public transportation around, and they go out into the country on narrow, winding dirt roads where normal commercial buses don't. These women are waiting in a depot for a ride home.
The older woman is traditionally dressed in blouse, petop, and huaraches. The white garment on her head is (I think) called a quechquémitl. It's a shoulder-length cape usually worn to keep off early-morning chill, and here tucked into the petop to cover the head, to keep off the noonday sun. The young mother, every bit as Tenek as her seatmate, wears the traditional Huastecan blue jeans and running shoes.
Women make their own traditional dress. These styles aren't carried by Land's End. But making them takes time, and many women don't have that luxury. What young suburban mother races home from a play date and sits down to embroider a blouse?
This young mother probably has to race home and plant some corn. I mean, it's March, already. Her life is hard. She's probably all of sixteen years old. So she got married and pregnant when she was fourteen, judging from the size of the child she's carrying in her rebozo.
What kind of future does she have? Odds are she'll wind up carrying firewood during her retirement years.
Traditional dress is for company and fiestas and visits to the city. Jeans and a man's shirt are more practical for hard manual labor.
This woman was selling Tenek cross-stitch embroidery on the Aquismón plaza. I bought some of her work, some of which you can see in the background. Her designs are traditional and full of meaning, but her Spanish—and mine, were so bad I wasn't able to learn much about them.
In this close-up, you can see how her hair has been woven with yarn into her petop. Her toothy grin owes its charm to the absence of refined sugar in her diet, I'll bet.
In many ways, the lives of the Tenek seem so contented. They live close to nature, in a gentle climate, eating stuff that is good for them, in close-knit families. Thatch huts in a pastoral setting. What could be more romantic?
But then again, the villages are run largely by women because most of the men are in the U. S. trying to earn enough money to live on in an increasingly modern, expensive world. So the families are broken up. Children wear uniforms to public school. How to pay for them? They rely on the village shaman for traditional medicine—unless the patient doesn't get well. Then they have to go to the clinic in Santos. How to pay for it?
It's a joy to visit these people and admire their fine lives and distinctive culture. But travelers shouldn't let too much more time go by. The modern world is closing in on the Tenek. The kids want IM and ice cream. In twenty years, you'll have to look in Burger King to see the Tenek.
Naranjas
03/13/07 06:30 AM | Permalink
Eastern Sierra Gorda farmers grow a lot of oranges. Whenever I get out of my car, the scent of orange blossoms almost overwhelms me. The air is clear and sweet—a good reason to live here.
Many growers operate in this valley; most are fairly small, supplying local outlets. Roadside fruit stands line Mex 85.
This guy runs a fairly sophisticated outfit, for the genre. He sells pottery, some kind of unidentified stuff put up by hand in bottles, and several kinds of citrus that have that "purchased-from-a-large-wholesaler" look—all unblemished and bagged. Probably grown in Florida. Sunkist maybe.
Here's a more modest retailer. His fruit is ungraded—direct from the grower. Could be he's the grower himself.
Of course, if you build a stand, you're almost obligated to operate it all year. I mean, you got to keep all that capital working. That's not for everybody. Seasonal sellers let nature provide their storefronts.
"Over here, Eugenio. Just dump 'em under the tree. Bag up a few of the good ones for the gringos."
At the very bottom of the pecking order you got your street vendors.
This one appears to be selling windfalls—maybe a couple dozen of them. He's scrutinizing one closely. Is it good enough to sell? Maybe...
He has a sideline dealing in sugar cane. He gets one peso for a two-foot length. Sells 'em to school kids. Maybe his cousin is a dentist.
Looks like he has a dozen sugar canes. So today he's looking at grossing maybe three bucks tops. He probably could make more money begging, but he isn't old and wrinkled enough yet.
The really big producers, the ones that load up several 10-wheelers a day, sell their produce wholesale to processers.
Citrofrut, your local polluter, buys oranges for even less than the street vendor charges. Why they have to emit all that smoke (it's smoke, not steam) is beyond me. Maybe they burn the rinds. In Mexico, they still use incinerators, you know.
Watchiing Citrofrut saturate the air in Tazaquil with partial combusiton byproducts kind of took the charm out of the orange growing scene for me. So I moved on down the road to where the air smelled like orange blossoms again, where I found a very small vendor selling fruit from his single orange tree.
This operation is one cut above a lemonade stand. My kind of place. And his oranges are good, too—I bought a couple. Gotta vote with your custom if you want small businesses like this one to survive.
Many growers operate in this valley; most are fairly small, supplying local outlets. Roadside fruit stands line Mex 85.
This guy runs a fairly sophisticated outfit, for the genre. He sells pottery, some kind of unidentified stuff put up by hand in bottles, and several kinds of citrus that have that "purchased-from-a-large-wholesaler" look—all unblemished and bagged. Probably grown in Florida. Sunkist maybe.
Here's a more modest retailer. His fruit is ungraded—direct from the grower. Could be he's the grower himself.
Of course, if you build a stand, you're almost obligated to operate it all year. I mean, you got to keep all that capital working. That's not for everybody. Seasonal sellers let nature provide their storefronts.
"Over here, Eugenio. Just dump 'em under the tree. Bag up a few of the good ones for the gringos."
At the very bottom of the pecking order you got your street vendors.
This one appears to be selling windfalls—maybe a couple dozen of them. He's scrutinizing one closely. Is it good enough to sell? Maybe...
He has a sideline dealing in sugar cane. He gets one peso for a two-foot length. Sells 'em to school kids. Maybe his cousin is a dentist.
Looks like he has a dozen sugar canes. So today he's looking at grossing maybe three bucks tops. He probably could make more money begging, but he isn't old and wrinkled enough yet.
The really big producers, the ones that load up several 10-wheelers a day, sell their produce wholesale to processers.
Citrofrut, your local polluter, buys oranges for even less than the street vendor charges. Why they have to emit all that smoke (it's smoke, not steam) is beyond me. Maybe they burn the rinds. In Mexico, they still use incinerators, you know.
Watchiing Citrofrut saturate the air in Tazaquil with partial combusiton byproducts kind of took the charm out of the orange growing scene for me. So I moved on down the road to where the air smelled like orange blossoms again, where I found a very small vendor selling fruit from his single orange tree.
This operation is one cut above a lemonade stand. My kind of place. And his oranges are good, too—I bought a couple. Gotta vote with your custom if you want small businesses like this one to survive.
Posada El Castillo
03/12/07 06:20 AM | Per