Hierve el Agua

I first visited Hierve el Agua in May 1996(1). Octavio had been there once before, a few years earlier. He had been the driver for an Italian photographer who was on assignment to capture Hierve el Agua on film. They arrived at Hierve, the photographer leapt from the car, raced to a view of the waterfalls, took photographs and, without a word of praise for what he had seen, got back in the car and ordered Octavio to be off.

I fell in love with Hierve. At the edge of the cliff below the parking lot, the world as we knew it dropped away, and only the surrounding mountains held us and Hierve el Agua in the palms of their hands. Nothing else existed. We wondered if we were in Eden, so alone were we in that encompassing landscape; we were man and woman embraced by a primeval wonderland, the first and only people on earth. We spent hours in deep silence, contemplating the incredible power of Nature and communing with its living, pulsing presence.

We went to Hierve before it was a name on tourists' lips. There were no tours. There were no postcards. Only a poster sold at the entrance. After we left the food stalls and the occasional villager, we had the run of the place. Nothing and no one disturbed its tranquility.

Weekends and holidays were another matter. Villagers took advantage of the local attraction, and groups of school children from surrounding communities brought bathing suits and picnics and spent the day swimming and eating.

With time, Hierve lost its exclusiveness. It became known. It also became commercialized. Postcards appeared in shops and markets in the City. First, one agency advertised a tour; later, others competed for business. Initially, there had been only a yu’u (Zapotec for guest lodge), rustic bathrooms and changing rooms. Cabins were built and a swimming pool installed. More and more visitors disturbed its pristine isolation. On our last visit, the swimming pool, its surface covered with thick green algae, was off limits.

The attendant at the parking lot told us that Hierve had been an important, sacred Zapotec site. Looking at the canyon walls from the cliff above, we saw what resembled an ancient irrigation system. A network of narrow, shallow channels described the contour of the mountainside. The sides of the channels appeared to have been built up from minerals deposited by the spring waters in the area.

A robust copal tree grew at the head of a rocky path. We introduced ourselves to the tree. Eating three of its small, round, green berries a day is the home prescription for curing acne. Artisans carve its wood into fantasy animals, which, when brightly painted, are popular items in the markets. The resin of the tree is the incense of choice among indigenous peoples. Considered sacred, it is burned during ceremonies.

We carefully picked our way down the path’s crude rock steps and ledges to a plateau. Mineral deposits had covered the plateau with a white crust. Over the years, water from the adjacent springs had seeped across its surface, carving out several basins filled with water that varied in color from lime to blue-green depending on the minerals in the water and the weather. The largest basin was at the very edge of the plateau. It had been reinforced for swimming.

Far to the right was the main attraction, a petrified waterfall. The falls appeared to plummet down the face of a steep rock. Over centuries, spring water has continuously trickled down the mountain side and evaporated, leaving innumerable layers of minerals that have created this illusion. A second waterfall, roughly half its height, had its beginning at the edge of the plateau on which we stood. The play of sun and shadows over the calcium carbonate deposits transformed what looked like white foam into dark turbulent water. It was difficult to believe that the falls were not real.

We climbed to the top of the cliff near the food stalls and chose a palapa, an umbrella-like roof made from fronds of a local species of dwarf palm. Each palapa sheltered a picnic table and benches. We gazed across the canyon to the mountains while above us the palapa’s fronds rustled in the constant breeze. Appetizing aromas from the eateries drifted to us. Hunger tugged at our stomachs.

We decided to save the food stalls for another trip and to eat at La Sorpresa in Mitla. Hidden from the street, the restaurant was surrounded by a profusion of flowering shrubs, which overhung the tables and screened the guests from the sun. What I liked were La Sorpresa’s freedoms: the freedom to roam the kitchen and negotiate with the owner what he could cook for dinner, the freedom to open the refrigerator door and select drinks, the freedom to sit on the wide porch railing and stretch out my legs along its sturdy length. It was like home, comfortable, unpretentious and welcoming.

We dined on limonada, beer and chicken barbecue served with tortillas, squash, corn and black beans, and it was at La Sorpresa that I learned that tortillas, in addition to be being tasty and nutritious, are useful utensils. “Tear them into quarters and make tiny scoops.” Octavio instructed. “They're perfect for small pieces of food and sauces. It's the Zapotec spoon.”

In September of 1996, we went back to Hierve. Aiming straight for our car were donkeys, their backs stacked with hearts from maguey plants. The hearts also are called pinas because of their resemblance to pineapples. Such a plentiful harvest indicated that someone might be producing mezcal(2). A mule hitched to a large mill stone caught Octavio’s attention. He stopped. He had found the still.

We skirted a pile of maguey hearts at the side of the road. Two men were waiting for us at the bottom of an incline. They welcomed us and offered to show us the still. Wood charcoal, already lit, lined a deep pit. As soon as the charcoal glowed red, the hearts would be placed in the pit. After four days of cooking, the mixture would absorb the smoky taste of the wood charcoal.

The hearts would be removed and dumped into a circular area. A horse or mule would walk around the circumference of the circle dragging a mill stone over the baked hearts in order to crush them to a pulp. After fermentation, the pulp would be distilled at 90 degrees centigrade and the resultant vapor condensed. After a second vaporization and condensation, the mezcal would age in oak barrels for eight days.

Farther up the road, the uncle of the still’s owner operated a store where we could sample the final product. The nephew eagerly accepted a ride to the store. He was grateful for the opportunity to ride in a car instead of walking over a dusty road under the burning sun.

We ducked into a cool, dimly lit basement; canned goods, eggs and a few vegetables lined the shelves. Uncle and nephew poured mezcal into a bowl. Octavio, as the man and the guide, would drink first, I second. They watched us attentively, because a sale depended upon our liking what we sampled. Octavio signaled his approval, then I. Out came two large plastic containers into which uncle and nephew siphoned mezcal, plugged the tops and pocketed the pesos. The transaction was complete. Octavio had purchased enough mezcal to serve at future family celebrations.

At Hierve, we decided to follow a trail along a ridge high above the plateau. The trail ended, and we scrambled down rocks to a natural table. The main waterfall fell from the rim of the table. On either side, infant falls were slowly and silently taking shape. In another several hundred years, they would be as majestic as their neighbor.

We clambered back up the rocks and stopped at a shallow depression in a ledge. A spring bubbled from its depths. We washed out burning hands and faces in the hopes that the water would cool us. I licked a few drops from my lips and tasted the salty residue.

We retraced our steps up to the trail. Pushing aside flowers, brambles and bushes with long sharp spines, we discovered a hole lined with what appeared to be rose quartz. Pieces of quartz had been cut from the sides, They were waiting to be tucked into our pockets as souvenirs of a time and a place we vowed to remember.

At the food stalls, we bought tortillas made from blue-gray masa (dough). Octavio selected a stuffing of sausage and cheese; I chose cheese and a large squash blossom. The owner spread the tortillas with salsa, loaded them with the stuffing and grilled them on her brazier. When they were done, she removed them, folded then in half and placed then on paper napkins. Thirty pesos or about three dollars paid for six tortillas, two beers, a Coke and an apple juice(3). We carried our food to a palapa.

A motor whirred in the distance. A large silver helicopter appeared. It came closer. Like a giant creature from science fiction, its metallic skin reflecting the sun, it hovered in front of the falls. “Perhaps," Octavio said, “the Governor of Oaxaca is bringing important guests to Hierve."

By April of the following year, the nephew no longer sold mezcal in his uncle’s store. Instead, he sold it at his still. His uncle had diluted the mezcal with water to order to increase profits. The price had increased, but the mezcal was unadultered. The nephew expressed disdain at the thought that anyone, especially a family member, would water down his mezcal.

We requested a tasting in order to compare the pure mezcal with the former thinned version. The nephew poured mezcal into two tiny glasses and handed them to us. We sipped and savored the rich, smoky aftertaste. Last year's was a poor comparison. “Congratulations,” said Octavio and shook the man’s hand. “Your mezcal is worthy of an award.”

Arriving at Hierve, I ordered a large blue tortilla filled with sausage, cheese and salsa. The cook laughed. “You chose the dark tortilla, because you are light; he chose the light tortilla, because he is dark.”

The owner’s little girl carried our food to a table under a palapa. She hid behind me and watched while I opened a bottle of apple juice. A wasp dive-bombed into it and died. How she giggled at our unsuccessful attempts to extract the wasp! She raced to her mother to fetch another drink. Her little dog ran back with her. He circled the table and snuggled up against Octavio’s leg. His eyes followed our food from plate to mouth. We couldn’t resist him. We fed him tasty morsels, and, when he wanted more, he lifted a paw and patted our legs.

We wandered down to the pools. Not suspecting anything but the usual peaceful atmosphere, I shrugged when a woman shrieked and ran towards Octavio. “El Nombre!” (the Name) she cried with upraised hands while her head and eyes rolled from Octavio to me. She wanted her photograph taken. Octavio led her to a pool and posed her in front of it.

Just as he was ready to take the photograph, two women, wearing high heels, fancy tops and full skirts, swept down the path. They almost fell in their hurry to reach their companion. They too wanted their picture taken. Their friend broke her pose to join them, and they surrounded Octavio, a circle of frenetic women rushing from side to side. The witches of Macbeth had come to Hierve and were dancing, their bangles and beads jangling and glinting in the sunlight.

This was a scene I had to share. I leaned towards a local woman and her daughter who were selling photographs of Hierve. They were watching the frenzied antics of the women who were pushing and pulling Octavio this way and that. Whenever he arranged them in a group, they tore away and sped to a different spot. “Mujeres rapidas!” (rapid women) the woman and her daughter repeated doubling over with silent laughter. The woman’s husband joined us, and he also participated in the fun. We clapped our hands.

Laughing,I exclaimed, “Mi guia!”(my guide).
At last, Octavio snapped the much-desired photograph, and the three women pranced up the path in the direction of the parking lot. Octavio scaled the ledges to sit beside us. “The women were on a bus tour. I ‘m sorry I devoted so much attention to them. I was afraid the bus would take off without them.” We waited, but they did not return.

The previous night I had dreamt that the pools were the eyes of Mother Earth. I had gazed into one and felt Her all-enveloping compassion and love. Now I intended to make the dream a reality. I looked into the depths of one of the pools. It reflected the blue sky and my blue eyes. It steadfastly returned my gaze. Our eyes merged, and we gazed into each other’s soul.

We were sitting facing the mountains across the valley, two figures projected out into the elements, when the energy of the air changed. Thunder boomed; lightening knifed down to find its mark in the landscape. The storm filled me. I became wired. Every molecule in my body was charged. Great surges of electricity swept through me. I felt that blue volts would leave my fingers and strike anything within range. I sat on a ledge behind a green-blue eye and molded balls of energy with my hands. There they went, tossed into the air. The storm ended as suddenly as it had begun, and a breath-taking rainbow appeared over the valley. We thanked the spirit of the rainbow for its beautiful gift before we packed up to leave.

We made one last trip to Hierve. On that occasion I was showing my tourist card to Octavio when a gust of wind lifted it from my hand and blew it away. It flew above the cliff and dropped to the floor of the valley. Octavio ran down the face of the cliff. My last view of him for a long time was a figure waving and calling, “Don’t follow me!” Did he have an accident? Where was he? He was that human speck far below, waving a tiny white slip of paper. “Look!” his voice piped, “The paper says, ‘Don’t lose this.’”

I frequently teased Octavio and called him a mountain goat because of his nimbleness in scaling rock faces and his sure-footed negotiation of difficult trails. He had missed his calling. He should have been a professional mountain guide or climber. I held my breath while he inched up the sheer rock wall. His ascent was as impressive as his plunge down. Gasping for breath, he reached the pools and collapsed.

We waited until color returned to his cheeks and his breath slowed before we walked to the food stalls. A local man sat down. He gestured. “There are caves down that path. About a 20 minute walk. And that road in the valley. It leads to a mine. It's no longer open. Politics closed it. Only a faint track remains.” We mentally added the abandoned mines to our list of sites to explore.

More locals gathered at the tables in front of the food stalls. We had attracted quite a party. A nurse arrived. She had been giving polio and diphtheria shots to children in the village. She had finished early. Her choices were to walk two hours in the hot sun along the main dirt road in order to catch a bus back to the City or to wait until late afternoon when the bus left from Hierve’s parking lot. We presented her with a third option, one she readily agreed to. We would drive her back to the City.

(1) Herver is the infinitive for “to boil”. Hierve el Agua translates as the water boils. The boiling water refers to the bubbling of the springs.
(2) Mezcal is a strong liquor distilled from the maguey plant, a member of the agave genus.
(3) The value of the peso during the years of my trips ranged from 8 pesos to ten pesos to the dollar.

The Wishing Rock

Octavio buys books about the indigenous cultures of Mexico. His knowledge about the ancient art of Central and South American and Egypt is extensive. To listen to him discuss the sculptures at the archeological sites of Monte Alban, Mitla, Lambityeco, Dainzu and Yagul is to learn how these sculptures relate to ancient art throughout the world.

Octavio is always on the lookout for new and interesting places, which will appeal to tourists with special interests. It was in one of his books that he read about a big rock that could be tipped only with a finger. He casually mentioned it several times and promised that he would try to learn more about it.

He did not speak about it again until my third visit in 1996 when we were returning from Ayutla. He turned to me. “Let's try to find the big rock today.” Shortly thereafter, he turned right onto a road that ended in a small village.

The village was arranged like an exclamation point. The upper part of the punctuation mark was the long dirt road lined by small houses fronted by grass plots. The dot was the church at the end of the road.

It was just after mid-day. It was the hour for siestas. The village was silent and empty of people except for a man who stood at the door of his house. We stopped to ask about the rock. The man doffed his hat and thought. “I have heard about it,” he said. “You need to drive to the church. The rock is just behind the church. You can't miss it.”

We followed his instructions and parked beside the church, confident that the rock would be easy to find; there would be something to identify it, a fence or a sign. But a community doesn't reveal its secrets so readily.

Octavio approached a house near the church. Two women emerged in response to his greetings. One cradled a baby and clutched the hand of a little boy; the other led a little girl. They exchanged pleasantries with us and listened with an impassive expression as to why we wanted to see the special rock. They knew its location. Our intentions evidently were sincere enough to win their approval, and they agreed to show it to us.

The women and children climbed in the back of the car. Octavio let the older children choose a succulent pear from the fruit we had purchased in Ayutla. The children didn’t waste time; they immediately bit into the flesh. Juice trickled down their tiny chins and onto their hands. Meanwhile, the women directed us down a rutted dirt road, which headed into the countryside. We were to park the car at a water tank and proceed on foot.

The hike began at two stiles separated by approximately four yards. Three horizontal logs fitted into an upright log on either side. Wooden pegs on the ends of the horizontal logs slid into corresponding holes on the sides of the uprights. The stiles brought back memories of Maine pastures and the Swiss Alps; however, Oaxacan stiles didn't have moss or lichens, tangles of bushes, puddles of water, paddies of cow dung, or buzzing flies attracted by the cow dung.

Once through the stiles, we descended a slope to a valley cultivated with rows of black beans. Narrow irrigation channels of hardened clay followed the slope's contour to the bottom.

From the floor of the valley, the climb was ever upwards. The terrain was rough. We frequently stopped to catch our breath. Not so the women. Even though they carried the children, they easily navigated the difficult ascent. The view, though, made our breaks a pleasure. A blue sky dotted with white clouds, a ring of soaring mountains and in the center, the miniature village, flowing like a sand-colored river through land made verdant by the rains.

We hiked up and up. Although the women didn’t disclose the rock’s location until we were a couple of inches in front of it, we could sense their mounting excitement. “There it is! Right there!” Without them, we would have missed it. No one would be able to find it without the help of a knowledgeable guide. A long time ago, the boulder must have broken off from an adjacent outcrop. It lay like a beached whale, as tall as the women. Other boulders kept it company.

The women showed us the indentation where we should put our finger. “Use the thumb,” they advised. The groove at one end of the boulder had been worn smooth by countless petitioning thumbs. Our thumbs tested it. Success! But our hands, elbows or feet failed to move it. The huge boulder remained motionless until we used a thumb. We examined it from all angles, even squatting to look at its underside. None of us knew the answer to the puzzle. To the women and to us it was a miracle.

We learned more. “You have to make a wish before you put in your thumb.” Each of us observed a few moments of silence while we made a wish before we inserted a thumb to rock the boulder. “Your wish has a better chance of coming true if you remove a pebble from the boulder." That was impossible. The pebbles were bound tightly into the rock’s matrix.

They revealed that on New Year's Eve, the villagers form a procession. Everyone carries a lighted candle. After they arrive at the boulder, they make a wish and rock it. Some fashion votive offerings from small stones. The skeleton of a diminutive stone house still rested at the boulder's base. It stood untouched, a silent testimony to someone’s deepest desire, the wish for a new home.

I imagined the scene during New Year's Eve: the dark night, the bright stars and the moon, high in the sky, gazing down upon the adults and children with flickering candles as they moved in a slow, majestic parade down the slope, across the valley and up the steep ledges. It had to be an impressive sight, one to silence inconsequential talk or thoughts.

On the afternoon of New Year’s Day, the community travels to the boulder a second time. Both processions are an old custom; how old, the women couldn't say. Their parents and grandparents participated, so to them that was old. “Before our grandparents went there,” they said, “who knows?”

We were leaving the area, our backs turned to the boulder, when Octavio called out, “Turn around! Look! It's a man!” We turned, and there, in profile, was the giant head of a man. The back of his head rested on the ground. He stared up at the sky and drifting clouds though a deep eye socket. His nose was long and sharp; his chin, protruding and well-formed; his ear, a white stone. We had been tipping a man's head by placing a thumb in his crown!

It reminded us of the giant statues carved on Easter Island. “What can arise in one part of the world can arise in another,” Octavio whispered. It was the women’s turn to be surprised. They had never realized that the rock resembled a man’s head. This was important information. After we left the village, they would lose no time in sharing it.

But wait! The women asked if we would like to inspect the shrine to the water. Of course we would! And so in the sweltering sun, we backtracked to the car, drove farther down the dirt road and parked at a different location.

We passed through another stile. This time the women spoke in hushed voices as if the stile marked the entrance to a sacred space. Their muted voices and tempered gestures served to modulate our elation at being invited to this unexpected place of power.

Another long walk brought us to the spring and shrine. The spring fed into a square concrete well. A concrete slab covered its opening. The women raised it and motioned to us to look in. Visible, deep below, was the trembling surface of the dark water. Filled by the precious life-giving spring, the well enabled the village to provide water to its crops and livestock. It was no wonder that the people believed that the spring’s discovery warranted a shrine.

The white-washed chapel was on our right. It commanded a view of the well head from high atop a rock and concrete foundation. Outside and inside, the walls were painted to simulate the Mexican flag with green and red bands separated by the white wall. Steps on either side of the foundation allowed access to the chapel's interior. Built by the villagers, the shrine was the result of their collective thanksgiving to Our Lady of Guadalupe for revealing the spring that had changed their lives for the better.

We mounted the stairs and entered the shrine to face a statue of Guadalupe. A large tin can and a tall glass, which previously had contained a votive candle to Guadalupe, were on the floor below her feet. Both containers held sprays of feathery foliage and white daisy-like flowers. Green and red paper garlands decorated the wall above Guadalupe’s head, and green, red and white garlands draped her shoulders.

A memory hung in the air over the well and the shrine, a memory older than the village and, therefore, not articulated by the women. Since time immemorial, wells have been revered places, entrances into the deep, thresholds into the Underworld or into the Interior. To affirm their belief in the power of wells, people have erected shrines, made pilgrimages and left votive offerings(1,2). Did building the shrine symbolize this more ancient meaning, a meaning that was buried deep in the villagers' unconscious, just as the source of the spring was buried deep within the earth?

Back at the church, we reluctantly said good-by to these brave women who had dared display the village’s hallowed sites to two strangers. Perhaps never before had the sacred boulder or the shrine to the spring been seen by anyone who was not originally from that community.

Was it a reflection of our happiness at meeting the sacred, or did the village radiate joy? Everything and everyone seemed to emit light and cheer. It was late afternoon, the time when animals were returning from pasture. Even they appeared to leap and dance down the road home.

And that night, as if in answer to my question about a more ancient meaning of the well, I had a dream. In the dream, I approached the well and lifted its cover. As I looked into the well, I found myself slipping down the dark tunnel into the water and through the water to land on a vast sandy beach. The beach glowed, because each grain of sand emitted a golden light.

I explored the beach alone, absorbed in picking up precious stones of emeralds, diamonds and rubies. “These are my treasures,” I thought before I ascended the tunnel and closed the cover. When I awoke, the fingers of my right hand were tightly closed as if they still clasped the gems.

(1) Knab, Timothy J. A War of Witches. Harper Collins. 1995, pp. 63;121.

(2) O’Donohue, John. Anam Cara. A Book of Celtic Wisdom. Cliff Street Books. 1997.
 


 

Saint Cecilia. Part II

It is April of 1998, and we are gazing at the high altar of San Pablo de Ayutla. A translucent curtain obscures the arch behind the altar. The sun is positioned so that it creates an immense glowing orb that appears as if it were embedded in the curtain. The effect is dramatic.

“‘Yo soy buen pastor,’ dice el senor,” proclaims a sign to the right of the apse(3).

I go in search of my favorite statue of Guadalupe. She has a black ribbon tied around her waist. All Guadelupes have a black ribbon around their waist, but some ribbons are more defined than others. The meaning of the black ribbon is controversial. Perhaps, some suggest, Guadalupe is a hang-over from a distant past, a former Aztec goddess of fertility who still wears a black ribbon to signify that she is pregnant(4).

“Perhaps not,” Octavio says when I ask his opinion. “I prefer to respect her as Our Lady, not to philosophize about whether she represents a fertility goddess.”

This Guadalupe has no hands. She lost them many years ago, but she is very dark, and golden rays surround her. They shimmer and pulsate with power.

And there is our mysterious friend whom Octavio is about to introduce to me. “Here is St. Cecelia,” he says without fanfare, as if he always had known her name but wanted to wait until the right time to tell me(5). “Yes,” he adds, “that’s her.”

We have a St. Cecilia Society in Boston,” I respond, trying to match his nonchalance. But, of course! She is St. Cecilia, the Patroness of Music.

“And here is anima sola.”(6) His arms and hands are uplifted to beseech Heaven for mercy; his expression mirrors his gesture. He knits his eyebrows as the red flames of Purgatory envelop his hips. Fake red roses are at one side of his glass prison, white calla lilies at the other. Octavio and I pray before him, as we pray before all anima solas. It is Octavio’s devotion. And I have made it mine.

And then we were on the road to Tamazulapan. The absence of traffic allowed us to admire the pairs of stately women walking at the side of the road. They wore white blouses with three-quarter length sleeves. A narrow red woven band edged the sleeve openings, and an identical band went from the hem of the blouse up and over each shoulder. Their ankle-length, navy blue skirts had a wide band of darker blue around the bottom. Their waists were encircled several times by a narrow red woven belt.

In Tamazulapan a loud speaker vied with the babble of children playing in the plaza. The voice over the loud speaker repeatedly called someone’s name; a villager was being summoned to the communal telephone. We visited Santa Maria de la Natividad in order to admire its gilded seven-paneled retablo, and then we drove on over the road that men and machines had widened and black-topped last year(7). At last we turned left onto a bumpy dirt road, wide enough for one car.

The road went straight up the mountain to a town, perched like an aerie above the houses that spilled down the mountain side. More houses rose above the town. We passed the Mayor’s Office, a few comedors, and suddenly the road thrust us into Santa Maria Tlahuitoltepec.

The plaza was filled with activity. A girl was singing a song. Other children were competing in races. The starter pursed his lips and blew on his whistle to launch them on their way. A man announced the contests and contestants in Mixe over a megaphone, his eager, amplified voice adding to the chatter and cries of the excited children.

A short path led to the church. A line of saints in the nave and a row of Madonnas in a side chapel watched us as we entered through the open door and walked down the central aisle. The statues were blessed with offerings: bright flowers, ears of corn, handfuls of corn kernels and black beans, treasures of the Highland Mixe(8).

From the church, we went to the municipal offices. On the second level of the arcade, rows of children were absorbed in playing board games. Little boys, watched over by a teacher, were arranging dominoes so that a finger could flick one and set in motion the collapse of the others.


We climbed to the third level. Facing us at the top of the stairs was a mural depicting the Mixe creation myth. A woman, with her head bent backwards, stared upwards. Each arm stretched out to the side, and each hand grasped an ear of corn, a scepter from Mother Earth. The braids of her long black hair fell forward onto her breast where they looped through two white calla lilies. The lilies' undulating leaves and stems followed the horizontal line of her arms.

Above her rose three tiers of jagged mountains topped by blue sky. Above the sky were three narrow bands of mountain peaks. An egg was suspended in the sky between the top of the woman’s head and the uppermost tier of mountains. Inside the egg was the Condoy, the legendary King of the Mixe; he who lives atop the sacred mountain Zempoaltepetl; he, the protector of the health and welfare of the Mixe and their lands. A snake with a turquoise blue eye wound itself around the Condoy. Outside the shell, two turkeys with their tails fanned, formed an oval on either side of the shell’s base.

The Condoy, wrapped in a cloak, thrust his right fist directly at the viewer in a gesture of power. His right fist grasped a long, thick rod with a yellow and red ribbon, his badge of authority; his left hand clasped a shorter rod with ribbons of the same color; he cradled four dark brown rods in the crook of his left arm.

Nearby, a team of men was remodeling a smaller arcaded building. They had donated and pooled their labor for the good of the community. We glimpsed murals along the upper arcade but were unable to get close to them. They would have to wait for another trip.

Zempoaltepetl, the sacred mountain of the Mixe, the mountain of 20 peaks and the highest mountain in Oaxaca at 11,037 feet, loomed across from the town.8 “It takes six hours to climb to the top,” a Spanish-speaking teacher informed us. He didn’t tell us that the people make yearly pilgrimages to the top to ritually offer poultry, corn, beans and eggs. Neither did he tell us that each family has its own special place on the mountain. That information was confided by a woman who slipped out the door of an adjacent building and answered my questions in hesitant Spanish as if afraid to share Mixe customs with outsiders.

As we moved from one end of town to the other, laughing children darted up and dashed away or hid behind the skirts of older girls. Women and girls wore white embroidered blouses and white skirts embroidered with a simple vine-flower pattern. An artisans’ shop sold narrow, red woven belts, bolsas (woven bags on a long cord) embroidered in red or in white foliate patterns and pottery made from local red clay. Across the street, a clothing store stocked the typical skirts and blouses worn by the girls and women, as well as rebozos with white embroidery in a vine-flower design.

I handed the shopkeeper a rebozo and pantomimed that I would like her to show me how to style it. She held my hands and guided my fingers while we folded the material into a narrow length, formed the length into a circle and then wove the long ends in and out on opposite sides. She placed it on top of my head. “There, you are wearing an elegant crown,” Octavio said.

She demonstrated how to wrap a more casual style. We put the rebozo over my head with the ends in front and tied them tightly at the top of my forehead. The next step was to spread the fabric over the crown of my head and to allow the ends to fall down my back. Perfect for avoiding sunstroke.

We didn't want to depart Santa Maria without visiting its famous music school. One of the teachers pointed us in the general direction, but we let the faint sounds of music guide us. The school was near the cemetery.

We parked beside a water tank. A sign hung on the front of the tank. It translated water into Spanish and English, as well as Mixe, Zapateco, Mixteco and Chinaneco, the indigenous languages spoken at the school.

We went down a slope to the school and stepped into a pavilion where a group of boys, their backs turned to Zempoaltepetl, were playing instruments. The school supported two bands. While one was traveling and giving concerts, the second remained in residence, practicing and preparing to go on the road.

A woman was seated on a nearby bench. She was talking to several boys who were gathered around her. At our approach, she introduced herself to us as the manager, dismissed the boys and invited us to join her.

She was curious as to how we had learned about the school. A television program had been Octavio’s source of information. She turned to me. “Rarely are tourists interested in traveling so far to the school.”

We plied her with questions, which she patiently answered.

“The school only accepts indigenous students regardless of the language they speak. Government subsidies provide free lessons from grade school through high school; however, more aid is needed.

“Enrollment is at its height at the beginning of the year and decreases as the year progresses. Many students drop out in order to return home to help their families. None are made to feel ashamed. The school always welcomes them back; no questions are asked. The school knows that what they have learned will be put to good use in their communities, because no town or village is without a band to play at fiestas or funerals.”

We asked about the sign on the water tank. She called our attention to a sign outside a bathroom with translations of bathroom into the same languages as on the water tank. “Music is the common language among the students,” she said, “but we also teach linguistics. We emphasize cleanliness and good hygiene by selecting the words water and bathroom. The Spanish and English equivalents allow the students to recognize essential vocabulary when they are away from the school. It gives them confidence in unfamiliar surroundings.”

It was getting late. The manager stood up. She told us that we were free to walk around the grounds but not to enter the buildings. Our presence might disturb the students

The official who manned the Mayor's Office at the edge of town was vigilant when we exited. He hurried to the window when we drove by. The symbol of local authority, a rod with a thong threaded through it, was painted beside the window.

A delivery truck blocked the road. We waited while the driver unloaded crates of soda and carried them into a rustic shop and loaded crates of empties. After, it was straight down to the bottom until the road curved to the left. At the bend of the road was a white-washed chapel dedicated to St. Cecilia. If the car’s brakes had failed, we would have driven through its door.










“Virgen de Santa Cecelia,” announced black letters over the Gothic arch of the chapel’s entrance. Inside, St. Cecilia had the limelight. She sat in profile on a piano bench with her hands poised on the piano keys. Two angels leaned out of the clouds above her head. The blue-toned print was framed in wood. Garlands of gold tinsel and ropes of blue tissue laced with blue, red, white and silver flowers and bows were draped over the corners of the frame and strung across the back wall. A blue G clef was attached to the wall.

“You see how popular St. Cecelia is,” said Octavio. “The people here are devoted to her. There are many musicians in this area, and they love music. It is their daily life.”

We picnicked on box lunches at an open-sided chapel on a turnoff from the road beyond Ayutla. Octavio slouched in the car and listened to Mexican music on the radio. I dragged one of the roughhewn benches to where I had an unobstructed view of the mountains. Before we left, we made sure that the area was clean of food and sandwich wrappings.

As we neared the City, thick smoke from forest fires billowed down the mountains and crept into the valley. A solitary figure, swathed in blue spirals, tended smoldering garbage and trash. The scene had the appearance of a wasteland besieged by forces beyond man's control.

I made a third trip to Santa Maria Tlahuitoltepec four years later in 2002. We left the sleeping City behind. Dawn began to break as we drove through the valley. By the time we were in the mountains, the fiery sun shot up like a red hot cannon ball between two peaks. As its blazing rays pierced my heart, I felt myself dissolving and uniting with its powerful presence. I grounded myself and knew deep within why man has worshiped the sun since ancient times.

Arriving at the base of the road to Santa Maria, we looked up to see a steady stream of children and adults pouring from the top of the mountain, through the town and down to the valley to the new primary and secondary schools that the government had built. Children were playing basketball on the court between the schools.

There were significant changes in Santa Maria. The women and girls had adopted a new style of clothing. They had replaced their traditional dress with long white skirts trimmed around the bottom with rickrack in primary colors. The trim rose in sharp peaks and descended in steep troughs like the surrounding mountains or to symbolize Zempoaltepetl.

Adults and children now spoke Spanish. Children had lost their shyness in the presence of strangers. There were shops selling automobile parts and more comedors. An ambulance was parked at the edge of the plaza, and a small clinic was tucked between buildings. We only found clay pots and huraches in the artisans’ shop, but a new store sold modern jewelry, skirts for the women and girls and selected pieces of traditionally embroidered clothing and linens.

The music school was deserted; students were enrolled only on weekends, not during the week. The school’s sign on the water tank and bathroom had deteriorated. The Mayor's Office was gone. There were no offerings for the saints in the church. St. Cecilia's chapel was unkempt and needed a coat of white-wash.

But three things remained the same. Like most municipalities outside the City, Santa Maria refused to set its clocks ahead to daylight saving time. The murals still existed, and families continued to ascend Zempoaltepetl to perform their rituals in order to invoke the Condoy’s protection.

On that trip, we were able to examine the murals that had been hidden from view four years before. Along the upper arcade, the daily life of the Mixe unfolded before me.


A mother cradled a child in her rebozo, a man played instruments, the Condoy glared at me like a monster from a comic book,
and a petitioner on the sacred mountain held aloft a rooster prior to its sacrifice.




Santa Maria Tlahuitoltepec wasn’t the only place that had changed. Ayutla had a medical clinic, automobile shops, gas for sale and a shop that repaired musical instruments. All had opened since our previous trip. There was even a convenience store. On the outskirts of Ayutla, a rough wooden structure had “Open 24 hours” painted in Spanish in tall white letters on the wall facing the road.

En route to Santa Maria that day, the early morning light had concealed the erosion of the mountains. On our return, we were able to see the scarred land. The indiscriminate cutting of trees had denuded the soil and exposed it to the rains, the sun and the wind. The trees had been felled to make way for new houses or to sell for timber. The land was damaged. I mourned the loss of the trees as the stripped terrain spread out around me. It was a painful end to the day.

I asked myself endless questions. “What is progress, who initiates it, who defines it and how do people adapt it to their needs and aspirations?” Back in the City, I entered the posada, climbed the steps to my room and closed the door without answers.

(1) The 16 indigenous groups in Oaxaca are: Zapotecs, Mixtecs, Mazatecos, Chinantecos, Mixes, Chatinos, Amuzgos, Chontales, Triques, Cuicatecos, Huaves, Tacuates, Zoques, Chochos, Ixcatecos and Populucas. www.oaxaca-travel.com (see Indigeneous Villages).

(2) I later learned that a malanga is a starchy tuber used in South American and African cooking. The tubers can be sliced, diced or mashed. The one I sampled tasted like a nut-flavored potato.

(3) I am the good Shepherd…” from John 10:11. The Bible. King James Version.

(4) http://www.daily-word-of-life.com/ol-guadalupe.htm (see Our Lady of Guadalupe’s womb).

(5) Cecelia is the Spanish spelling.

(6) Anima sola or the lonely soul traditionally is a red-haired woman bound with chains in the midst of the flames of Purgatory. For a photograph of the two traditional anima solas see Flickr: Photos from Sandunga, page 6 at http://flickr.com/photos/lunamorena.

(7) Retablo: a gilded and/or painted altar screen, usually carved and embellished with paintings and statues of saints and members of the Holy Family.

(8) Trilling, Susanna.Seasons of My Heart. Ballentine Publishing Co., NY. 1999, pp. 136-137.

Saint Cecilia. Part I

We first met St. Cecilia in 1996. We didn't know her name, but we fell in love with her and promised ourselves that we would find out who she was.

We were headed to Ayutla. We had started early when the City was still and shadowed. It would be a long day. At last we were well on our way, driving over a dirt road, passing through hamlets. The road began to climb in hairpin turns. Spectacular views of pine-forested mountains surrounded us.

It was the end of September and the end of the rainy season. The predominant color of the landscape was green, a sharp contrast to the browns of the arid dry season. Cornfields crowded the deep valleys; plots the size of postage stamps were glued against the steep mountains. Birds called. Butterflies hovered in the fresh air. Fields of tall grass spiked with pink spread into pale pink rippling oceans, which swelled and rolled in the wind. An atmosphere of well-being enveloped the land.

We rounded a sharp curve, and I motioned to Octavio. “Stop. Look at the waterfall!” It plummeted over the edge of a cliff and down the mountain into a small basin. From the basin, the water disappeared under the road and emerged on the opposite side to fall straight into a valley.

Blue butterflies swirled over the surface of the basin’s crystal clear water. They repeatedly lighted on our arms and shoulders, rested and then flew off. We thrust our hands into the roiling water in the center of the basin. “Don't put your hands in stagnant water. Find water that is stirred up or running,” warned Octavio. A stone marked like a tortoise shell lay on the bottom. It was just out of reach. I left it. Ayutla beckoned.

“To Ayutla,” was our slogan. “Ayutla!” we exclaimed whenever we saw a sign pointing in that direction. “Ayutla!” Our excitement lasted throughout the day and throughout the week.

“Is that Ayutla?” we asked a little boy who was trudging along the dirt road. “Are those buildings and church, Ayutla?” we asked again, pointing to the side of a distant mountain. He was the only person we had seen for many miles. “And how far is it to Zacatepec?” He had never been to Zacatepec, but he had heard it was a day's walk from Ayutla. We left him staring at us, kicking a stone with a bare foot.
My goal was Zacatepec. I wanted to see Zempoaltepetl, the sacred mountain of the Mixe who are one of the 16 indigenous tribes in Oaxaca with its own language(1). Octavio was less enthusiastic. In an attempt to dissuade me, he told exaggerated tales about the snakes that lived in Zacatepec; according to him, its medical clinic specialized in treating snake bites.

We entered Ayutla and parked near the plaza. Clusters of men and women stood talking. The soft, musical syllables of the Mixe language floated through the air, rising and dispersing with the breezes like the butterflies at the pool.

We passed shops displaying toys, fabrics and paper goods. A row of women, their heads covered with a rebozo (a woven rectangle of varying lengths) sat on the ground, selling fruits and vegetables neatly stacked in front of them. We bought bananas and mameys. Our mameys had salmon pink pulp and a dark brown, almost black, pit.

We stepped onto a mirador (a look out). Directly below was the lower level of the town, beyond it a valley and on the far side of the valley, mountains wrapped by the thread of the road we had traveled. We addressed a man who was waiting for transportation to the City. He understood and spoke enough Spanish to tell us that Zacatepec was a six-hour walk from the very spot he stood on. He jabbed his finger at the floor of the mirador and held up six fingers while he marched in place to compensate for his lack of fluency.

Leaving the mirador, we descended steps to the lower town. Facing us was a basketball court. To the right, a school. To our immediate right, the market that occupied the basement of the white-washed municipal building. Monday was not the town’s official market day so only a few women offered a meager supply of vegetables and dried fish. Vibrant pink and yellow table clothes added color to an otherwise dark interior. It was a gloomy place; only a few rays of sunlight penetrated through the open doors.

We strolled left by more shops and climbed a flight of stairs to the town's upper level. By then it was bathroom time, and Octavio located the public toilets. As I entered the damas, a man came out. Octavio noticed my bewilderment. “Toilets are toilets,” he chuckled.

Octavio was interested in the cut of the men’s hair, short over the ears, and by their sandals called huraches. Styles were different than in the City. He laughed, “We will return, only on the next trip I will disguise myself as a Mixe. I will cut my hair and wear huraches.

Uncertain what to do, we selected a table covered with plaid oil cloth at one of the small eating places called comedors and ordered beers. This was a momentous occasion. We had talked so long about visiting the Mixe that we were stunned to be living our dream. We sat in companionable silence nursing the beers and soaking up the atmosphere.

Perhaps the woman who ran the comedor knew how long it would take to drive to Zacatepec. We asked when we paid the bill. “Ah, Zacatepec. I have never been there. I hear it’s another three to four hours' drive. Take the dirt road out of town. The rains have stopped. You should be able to get through.”

We crossed to the church. Scaffolding covered the exterior; sheets of plastic draped the interior. Tall statues with plain faces occupied a side chapel. The Holy Family was a loving nuclear family. The parents gazed with adoration at their beloved Child, the delicate modeling and coloring of their faces giving them an ineffably sweet expression.

Mary was dressed in a white gown trimmed with gold around the hem. A necklace of gold beads circled her neck. A cloak of the palest blue, bound in silver, wrapped her shoulders. A wide-brimmed straw hat, edged with pink, was tied under her chin with a ribbon the color of her cloak. She held two straw baskets.

The Baby's dress was all white: white fabric, white embroidery and white lace. An airy silver crown, studded with blue and white balls, topped a white straw hat with an upturned brim. His hands were full, not with the problems of the world, but with a straw bell with a gold clapper, an orange ball on a string and a white Christmas ball decorated with a band of gold. Play time for the Holy Child!

Joseph wore white. A gold rope belt ending in gold tassels surrounded his waist. His cloak was of umber velvet. Tiny black pompoms bordered the rim of his straw hat. He carried a painted gourd in one hand and in the other, two clay pots.

And there she was behind glass. A print of a lady who had a porcelain complexion and black hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. She looked like a Victorian china doll. Her formal gown was designed with a mauve top and a reddish purple skirt. She sat in profile on a piano bench, her hands on the piano keys, ready to begin a concert. Candles burned before her, the reflection of their flickering flames dancing in the glass.

A woman appeared beside us. Her rebozo was turquoise blue with red stripes. One long end trailed down her back. “Who is she?” we inquired. She leaned forward and peered at the picture. Then she laughed and answered in Mixe.

We stepped out into the blinding sunlight of the small plaza in front of the church. It was empty except for two vendors. One enterprising woman sold fresh fruits attractively presented on a wooden table under a white cloth rectangle. It had been staked at each end and in the center so that it formed a modified tent to shelter her from the sun. Her scarlet rebozo was a brilliant contrast to the white awning. The other woman had stationed herself nearby. She also was selling produce, but hers was a more modest presentation arranged on a crate. Her protection from the sun was a white rebozo patterned with narrow bands of orange, red, blue, green and purple. Its entire length was folded on top of her head.

“If only we spoke Mixe!” I lamented. “We could find out what that complex is that looks like a motel. Look at the plateau it sits on! Let's check it out!” We found the road but chose the wrong turn. We winced as sharp ledges scraped and clanked against the bottom of the car. Turkeys fled into the shrubbery. And two little boys thought that it was hilarious that we met them everywhere we went.

Octavio backed up the steep incline and took the other fork. Deep potholes tested our stomachs until the car came to rest with a loud groan on the plateau. Inch-by-inch, Octavio examined the car. Even the engine received a methodical inspection before he closed the hood and stood with folded arms and a satisfied smile. Only after he was certain that the car was undamaged and would deliver us safely to the City did he feel free to admire the magnificent vistas.

“Holas,” roused the caretakers, a young couple who emerged from a room on the second floor rubbing their eyes and yawning. “This is a Catholic retreat center,” they told us. It had been built in a perfect location, isolated and in the midst of dramatic scenery, an ideal place for anyone seeking a temporary refuge from the concerns of daily life. The L-shaped, white building had blood-red trim around its doors and windows. Along the front walls were chunky clay pots of red geraniums alternating with globular clay planters of red Christmas cacti.

Massive thunderheads were gathering. It was best to leave the mountains before the storm broke. We made a quick stop to eat our fruit and wash our sticky faces and hands in the fast-moving water of a stream. Like children, we twirled our fingers in the cool, dancing water while dragonflies flew around us.

We returned to Ayutla in the spring of 1997. Things had changed in six months. The waterfall of last year was a trickle. Locusts whined like a futuristic machine from outer space. Octavio stopped the car, and we got out. High in the mountains, we stood in the clear air, bathed by their otherworldly sound.

Another change. On the outskirts of Ayutla, a billboard advertised Superior, a brand of Mexican beer. Only one word, “Superior”, big, bold and succinct. No missing it.

As before, we parked near the plaza. A man approached and followed us. He plucked at our sleeves and muttered, “Malanga.” From his smattering of Spanish, we learned that a malanga looked like a potato and should be eaten with brown sugar(2). He insisted that we had to go with him if we wanted to buy it.

“No gracias.” We politely declined his offer.

The scaffolding had been removed from the church to reveal the lantern dome. It had been painted red with sky blue ribs. The townspeople must have known what a striking color scheme that would be against a cloudless, blue Ayutla sky.

Buenas dias, Señora.” There she was, our nameless lady. Banks of candles burned before her portrait. A woman tiptoed into the side chapel after us and spoke to me in Mixe. She trilled like a bird. She watched me photograph the statues. I said a few Spanish words to her, but she did not understand.

At the edge of town, giant fuschias bloomed beside houses. A dog slept in the middle of the road. Octavio, always ready to do a good deed, unsuccessfully tried to rouse it. He bent over and pulled it to the side. Awake, the dog gazed up at him with affection. Octavio has a winning way with dogs. His mother believed it was important to be kind to them, because a dog ferries the dead across a river to the mountains of the Underworld.

We drove from Ayutla to Tamazulapan, another step on the way to Zacatepec. Beyond Tamazulapan, road crews were widening and improving the red dirt road through to Zacatepec. “Zacatepec is about two hours away, and the roads are good, thanks to us,” one of the foremen bragged. Giant earth-moving equipment crawled back and forth across the slopes of the mountains. From the road, they looked like tiny ants or caterpillars. Their earth, rock and clay tones camouflaged them so that they seamlessly blended into the landscape.

Emboldened by the foreman's announcement, we decided to try to reach Zacatepec. Impossible. A landslide blocked the road. It had just happened, because only a few trucks were on either side of the debris. It would take hours to clear the road, even with the men and equipment working several miles behind us. We faced reality, backed up and headed home.

The truck drivers who used that road were aggressive. It was who could muscle in first who got the right of way. The size of the truck had a lot to do with the outcome, but a bull dog approach helped even a small vehicle.

We watched two trucks, one smaller than the other, face off. The driver of the smaller truck backed up until he could pull off the road to make room for the larger truck to pass. The driver of the larger truck placidly watched and waited in his truck's cabin. Without warning, his manners kicked in, and he began to back up until he could pull off the road. With a diplomatic wave of his hand, he beckoned the smaller truck to pass.

To be continued...

A Sampler of Oaxacan Life

Flying into the airport outside of the City, I expected to see Guadalupe nestled in the cumulus clouds that towered in the pink sky. Below, the gathering dusk shaded the mountains blue-gray. By the time we landed, the sun had set behind the mountains. A red glare emanated from a peak as if it were about to explode in a volcanic eruption.

At 7 a.m. the posada (bed and breakfast) began to awaken with squeaks, whispers and quiet footsteps. Birds sang in the patios. Palm fronds shaped like rakes fanned the guests while they waited for breakfast. By mid-morning, clouds were lifting from the mountains encircling the City. A hummingbird jabbed hibiscus blossoms on the rooftop.

Each town or village has a special day of the week for its main market. The City is no exception. Its weekly market is on Saturday; however, two markets, the Juarez Market and the 20 de Noviembre Market, are open seven days a week.

Leaving the posada early one Saturday morning, I found myself in the midst of men, women and children. Everyone carried empty shopping bags, plastic bags or burlap sacks. Buses, overflowing with riders from outlying villages, lumbered through congested streets to the second class bus station opposite the market. Colectivos, shared taxis or minivans that charge a set fee, crawled to their stands near the bus station.

It was easy to get lost within the Saturday market. The multiple buildings, maze of corridors and indoor and outdoor stalls sprawled across a wide area. The variety of goods was endless. Watermelons, cilantro, pineapples, papayas, mangoes, sacks of dried beans, handmade furniture, leather goods. Fruits of enormous size and vivid color, chilies arranged on giant green leaves, baskets of freshly shelled peas and pieces of sugar cane. Cuts of meat ready to be cooked on hot braziers, chickens roasting on spits, live turkeys, flowers, baskets, candy, farm implements, sling shots, yoke for oxen, handicrafts, pinatas, ceramics, clothes and tools. Baskets of lime for soaking the corn used for making tortillas, green tomatillas, herbs, banana leaves for Oaxacan tamales and baskets of fried chapulines (grasshoppers).

The glass front of one of the market’s shrines mirrored the activity behind me. It was perfect for unobtrusively photographing the shoppers. I heard a low “psst”. Looking up, I saw the reflection of a man dressed in a white suit and white hat. He clutched a bag of small white objects. He pointed to his chest. I turned and rapidly calculated the exposure and distance. The shutter clicked. He turned away and melted into the crowd. I met him as I moved through the market, but he never acknowledged that he had posed for me.

Curanderos (healers) presided over deep bins brimming with roots, leaves and barks. They sold amulets to protect against the envious eye and charms for attracting love, luck or wealth. Backed by centuries of wisdom and with the authority of their respected role in the community, they dispensed advice and natural medicines.

Along the streets leading from the Saturday market to the Juarez market were undertakers, repair shops and shops selling CD’s and tapes. Music blared from the Oaxacan equivalent of a dollar store. Dentists displayed samples of dentures in showcases. Juice bars offered fruits and vegetables mixed into healthy, refreshing drinks. A flash of orange and a sidewalk cook held up a squash blossom before enfolding it with a tortilla. The smell of chocolate lingered in the air. People thronged the streets eyeing rolls of plastic and household items. They sampled cakes, layers of colored jell-o in plastic cups, cut-up fruit and roasted corn on the cob.

Close by, a street drama was taking place. An elderly man in tattered clothes had slung innumerable sacks over his shoulder. He balanced himself with a precise placement of sticks and pieces of lumber. He teetered. The supports collapsed. He tumbled to the ground and sprawled on the sidewalk. The policemen who watched him fall retreated down the street.

A tall, pale man with gray hair rushed up and interrupted the scene. The American addressed me in halting, but distinctly articulated Spanish, “Senora donde esta la plaza?”

“Go in that direction,” I answered.

He departed muttering, “She’s from the States.”

The sky was turning orange; overhead were grisaille clouds, in the distance, thunderheads. The wind was blowing. Toy helicopters whirled and flew into the cathedral. Little boys dashed in after them.

The first figures I met when I entered the cathedral for mass were the saints etched into the glass panels of the main doors. The church was packed with worshippers. Many stood. Children clutched the strings of balloons. Outside in the plaza, Alameda de Leon, balloons in the shape of squid, fish, hot dogs, giant baby bottles and dinosaurs swayed and rocked. Their reflections danced in the glass that protected the religious pictures along the walls of the cathedral’s nave. A bird, hidden high up in the cathedral’s interior, joined its voice to the music. The sacred and profane united and soared upwards in praise, adoration and thanksgiving.

Heading back to the posada, I stopped to look in the windows of several bookstores. Parents and children, waiting to buy schoolbooks, queued on the sidewalk. I was curious as to what Oaxacans read: paperbacks by Deepak Chopra and Carlos Castaneda; books about natural diets, papaya diets and vegetarian diets; books about natural healing; novels; books about the care of dogs, especially German shepherds, which were popular as guard dogs. Posted on rooftops or in front yards, they prowled, growling and barking as they assessed every passerby.

Back at the posada, I sat in the outer patio. I wrote and read amidst the potted geraniums and the sound of splashing water from a fountain. The house was quiet, empty of the chatter of maids. The clear air, the right altitude (5,110 feet) to move about in made ideas and inner guidance come and go as if in a dream or a deep meditation. Thoughts flowed into actions. Harmony existed between my inner and outer worlds.

I left the posada to walk through the Alameda and watch the children, the twirling merry-go-round and the carnival rides ablaze with lights and music. Little trucks and Disney characters tirelessly spun around. I ate a plate of tamales Oaxacan style and drank a limonada at one of the restaurants in the arcades in the zocalo (Plaza de Armas). A group of little boys, multicolored stripes painted on their faces, performed a tumbling act. Children begged for money or sodas. Street vendors urged diners to buy jewelry, carvings, weavings, embroidered blouses and bark paintings. A quiet “no gracias” was all that was needed. They rarely asked twice.

It was a beautiful, warm night with crisp stars, the moon wreathed by a bright halo and church bells ringing on the half hour. A perfect night for a hotel to host a birthday celebration for a vivacious woman who wore an elegant blue suit and matching accessories. People brought presents. A band played. The guests enthusiastically applauded each piece. At the end of the evening, everyone shouted, “Heep, heep, hooray!”

Early the next morning, several hours after midnight, I was startled out of a deep sleep by the sound of running water, unidentified scrapings, crashes and bangs, and the beam of what appeared to be an enormous flashlight waving in the air. It was the night desk clerk watering the plants on the balconies and patios.

Every day a hypnotic thread of music repeated itself over and over in the hotel. It became a background to my thoughts. It joined with the music of the City from the stores, the streets, the churches and the concerts. It wove itself into the fabric of daily life: the tap, tap, tap of a chisel as a stone mason patiently chipped blocks of stone under a canopy in the deserted atrium of a church; the swishes of the branches of the street sweepers’ brooms, which swung like pendulums across pavements; the buzzing of scissors being honed on a scissors grinder’s wheel attached to the front of his bicycle; the melodious bird song produced by a boy who whistled with his fingers in his mouth as he directed a water truck to back up a driveway. Doorbells rang, door knockers rapped, and latches creaked.

Wherever I went, sparkling black eyes and responsive smiles greeted me. Simple courtesies abounded. An elderly man, arms loaded with goods to sell at the market, stepped aside to let me by. “Pasa, pasa,” he repeated. I thanked him, and he awkwardly bowed.

My heart melted at a little girl with dark liquid eyes who lifted a red plastic bowl and begged, “pesos”. Her tired mother sat on the sidewalk on a square of cardboard with two smaller children. The two little ones laughed while they ate an apple. The mother opened her hand and whispered, “alms”.

And there was a grandmother who had sat on a stool just inside the door of the market selling tortillas. It was late afternoon, and she slowly shuffled out of the market. Instead of a cane or a walker, she leaned on two poles. A young woman escorted her to a taxi parked at the curb. The young woman lovingly helped her into the back seat before settling in beside her.

Cars, their hoods and trunks decorated with satin roses and peach satin rosettes or vases of flowers, waited outside churches for newlyweds. Women with a basket of carnations, roses or gladiolas on their head paced through the plaza in front of Santo Domingo Church. Black crepe paper draped over doorways reminded the living that death had visited.

A murmur of women’s voices rose and fell from deep within the interior of Santo Domingo Church. It was the hour of the Rosary. Suddenly a clear soprano voice exploded into song, rose and trailed off into silence.

The following day I revisited Santo Domingo and took a seat in the second row from the front. A woman entered and knelt on the opposite side. Her high, pure voice gushed upwards like a fountain. She arose and entered the Chapel of the Rosary where she knelt and lifted her ethereal voice to worship Our Lady.

I wanted to ask the sales clerk in the church’s gift shop if she knew the woman with the angelic voice. I began, “The woman who sings...” and stopped, because the clerk wore a black mantilla draped over her head and around her shoulders, and her eyes were filled with light. She was the woman! We shook hands, and I told her that her voice had moved me to tears.

Some months before my visit in 1996, a student or professor had been martyred at Benito Juarez University. People were commemorating his death with a symbolic funeral. A procession accompanied by brass bands wound its way through the streets. Muscular men carried 35 large easels upon which rested oval floral tributes of white flowers surrounded by greens.

The procession stopped in front of the University. An audience gathered. There were impassioned speeches. The marchers left for downtown where another protest was taking place. Hundreds peacefully marched with signs asking for “solutions of problems”. The two lines passed each other, moving in opposite directions along parallel streets.

In the zocalo, the police band performed while a police detail ceremoniously lowered the flag, folded it and marched in formation with it to the Governor’s Palace. The locals watched the tourists who angled for the best views to record on camcorder or camera.

Martial arts students demonstrated karate in Benito Juarez Park. A parade with horses, bands and costumed people from the Isthmus of Tehuantepec circled the zocalo. The women tossed avocados and paper flags into outstretched hands. From the zocalo, I went to the church of San Juan de los Dios and landed in the midst of a baptism of babies. An open-air concert by the Oaxaca Orchestra in the Alameda capped the afternoon.

At 4 p.m. on August 31, 1996 the blessing of the animals should have taken place at La Merced. It did, but I missed it. I missed it, because someone had scratched out the 3 from the 31 on the notice board. A parishioner said the ceremony had been canceled. Another assured me that it had been rescheduled for September 1. I arrived on September 1st at 4 p.m. in time for a funeral. “You are late,” one of the mourners said. “The blessing was yesterday.”

Several weeks before Independence Day on September 16, 1996, the sidewalks and open spaces looked like gardens planted with red, green and white flowers. The flowers were the Mexican flag; thousands of flags in all sizes fluttered and nodded in the breezes. At night the flags were uprooted to be replanted the following morning.

When I wanted to rest, I headed to the plaza adjacent to the atrium of the Basilica of Our Lady of Solitude where I would buy a tuna nieva (ice) from my favorite vendor. I would take it to a wrought iron table and chair and slowly let tiny spoonfuls of this salmon pink nieva made from the fruit of the prickly pear melt in my mouth.

It was April 1997. I went to the Hotel Rivera del Angel to take the public bus to Monte Alban. The bus was packed with tourists and locals. Occasionally the bus ground to a halt, and women and children climbed on board with necklaces to sell at Monte Alban. The bus driver left the door open, the bus hit a pothole, and a little boy who was standing beside the driver almost tumbled out.

We passed through pocket-size communities clinging to the mountainside. The houses were in various stages of construction on tiny terraced plots. The most ingenious methods and materials were used to defy gravity and provide the most house for the smallest area.

People were leaving church, catching up on local news under the lavender blossoms of jacaranda trees or climbing to their houses via steps tamped into the earth. The smells of grilling pollo (chicken) and conejo (rabbit) stirred hunger pains. My stomach growled.

Arriving at Monte Alban, I followed a trail that wound down the mountain. Birds and butterflies flew beside me. Cigarras, cicadas that supposedly predict rain, surrounded me with a continuous, supernatural, stereophonic concert.

Retracing my steps, I crossed the road and mounted the stairs to the entrance to the ruins. I climbed down to the plaza. Its spaciousness was overwhelming, and the views from that sacred mountain top that had been so painstakingly leveled and rebuilt with grand buildings, were inspiring. A rainbow arched over the City.

Everything was closed on the Aniversario Gran Revolucionario on November 20, 1998. Local school children, led by drum majorettes and followed by bands, paraded through the streets. They halted and circled in intricate formations. I had a front row seat; they passed by the entrance to the posada.

The sun, a giant ball of fire, sank in the west at the end of Hidalgo Street. Pedestrians stopped. Cameras appeared. Throaty notes drifted from the bandstand in the zocalo as the State band prepared for a concert. Streetlights, former gas lamps, cast a soft glow on the sidewalks and buildings. Shadows floated along the walls.

Beginnings

I grew up in an eleven-room house built in the mid-1800’s, a house surrounded by fields, a pond, a brook, acres of woods and a stand of ancient soaring pines. The property sustained wild and cultivated flowers, birds, butterflies and moths and animals such as deer, raccoon and fox. The ecosystem contained a cranberry bog, blueberry bushes, grape vines, wild strawberries and fruit trees.

Heady fragrances, home-remedies and ingredients for recipes emerged from the brick-paved herb garden. Stonewalls, an antique sundial and old-fashioned roses climbing over white trellises were part of everyday life. No one could find me? Check my secret hiding places: lichen-covered logs, carpets of green velvet moss and tiny pools patrolled by damselflies and dragonflies.

The seasons circled. Winter came and went, marked by ice skating, toasted marshmallows, snow angels, ice igloos, snow shoeing, cross-country skiing and cold toes. Jewels sparkled when the sun’s rays danced on ice-coated tree branches.

Spring arrived with the flowering of pear, peach and apple trees. Opposite my bedroom window, sprays of crabapple blossoms foamed high above the second story. The intoxicating scent of Persian and common lilacs permeated the house and gardens.

Spring was the season when we paced the perimeter of the property, duplicating the ancient ritual of “beating the bounds”. Armed with sticks like our English predecessors, we noted which boundary markers needed straightening and which stonewalls required repair. It was a way to honor the land and to celebrate our good fortune in being its owners.

During summer afternoons, I practiced the piano. Neighbors walking by would stop to listen to the music of Bach and Mozart issuing from the open window of the music room. Birds accompanied my playing with their songs while they perched on boughs of the cedar tree that reached three stories high beside the window.

Summer meant picnics in the countryside, hikes to pick blueberries and huckleberries and excursions to a dam along the local river. I launched leaf boats into our brook and followed their course downstream. When I wanted to rest, I stretched out on an Indian blanket spread over Mother Earth, inhaled the smell of freshly mowed grass and watched cloud formations sail over me.

During steamy August days, neighbors took refuge under the lawn’s mighty trees. I was too busy giving tea parties for my dolls to pay the adults much attention. “There was a pink and blue tea cart with tea pot, creamer and sugar bowl. You silently poured cold tea into tiny pink teacups and saucers. Before serving each cup, you nodded and touched your heart.”

The dolls sat in a circle around me on the grass: Cassandra and Hector, the twins, and Andromeda, Artemis, Europa, Hepzibah, Penelope; Hebe, Rosebud and Jason. I loved them all, but Cassandra and Hector were my favorites. Cassandra was one of my family nicknames; it was said that I could foretell the future. And I longed for a brother. “Call him Hector,” I begged my parents.

Jason held a special place in the circle. I always served him first. There was no doubt in my mind that when I grew up I would sail with the Argonauts and be by Jason’s side when he discovered the Golden Fleece.

Autumn was the time to scuff through dried leaves before we raked them into piles at the edge of the road. The acrid smell of burning leaves was a signal that colder, crisper weather was approaching. The wispy tendrils of smoke that rose and circled above the cones made the mounds look like miniature, active volcanoes.

Every room in the old house had a distinct atmosphere. My favorites were the dining room and the library. Both were hushed and serene cocoons in which sounds from inside and outside the house were muffled and muted. They were spaces for meditating and dreaming.

Another beloved spot was the hayloft. The view to the back was of the woods, lawns, gardens and pond.

To the front, I could follow the course of the lively brook, watch the ancient elms along the road or monitor the forsythia bush, which was large enough to conceal a small child. I reclined against scratchy bales of hay, wrote in my diary and composed tunes for family birthdays. I wrote plays for the neighborhood children that I later staged on a granite ledge behind the pond. The scenery was the forest, and in late spring the audience sat on cushions of lilies-of-the-valley.

My mother was dark and mysterious. She was Mother and Friend, but it wasn’t until much later that I realized she was my first Teacher. She was a magnet for the neighborhood children and young people who needed someone to help them with their lessons, someone to have fun with and someone to whom they could confide their deepest fears. She moved about the house assuredly and calmly or wove herself into the community, collecting for charities and visiting the sick and elderly. Guided by her example, I shone in my own circle, teaching reading and mathematics to slow learners in the lower grades, providing leadership to youth organizations and harmonizing with the network of relationships that bound the community together.

I inherited my mother’s laugh and my father’s looks; however, laughing did not come easily. I found the family’s situational humor puzzling and stared with solemn blue eyes at that noise they called “laughter”. How I wished someone would explain what it meant! Even Santa Claus kept forgetting to bring me the ability to see the funny side of life. And then one memorable day, the unexpected happened; I was baptized with a sense of humor.

My parents told me that when it was warm, and the moon was full, I would slip out the back door in my long, white, lace-trimmed nightdress and head for the lawn beneath the crabapple tree. Believing that no one could see me, I would dance to the moon. “It was a goddess dance,” they said, “bending, bowing and stretching your arms up in supplication to the moon.” Still thinking myself invisible, I would tiptoe back into the house and resume my place in the kitchen until bedtime.

My mental landscape was of the ocean, boats, fog and the aurora borealis. The sounds of the foghorn and creaking masts. But my dream landscape was of the high mountains and plateaus of the Himalayas, lamas in saffron robes, prayer wheels and the piercing bass notes of eight-foot long trumpets, images gleaned from my mother’s collection of books about Tibet. How I longed to penetrate that distant land! To experience it first-hand, not from an author’s description.

There were portents of things to come. Sign posts to point the way on a road that I never realized I was traveling. In a department store in Lisbon, Portugal, I saw a deep blue bowl, the perfect size for a family salad. I accidentally hit the rim, and a beautiful ringing tone filled the store. I listened, entranced. I bought it and sounded it until I discovered Tibetan singing bowls.

And there were the Alps! My heart leapt at the snow-covered heights, the solitary trails, mountain hamlets and the all-encompassing silence broken only by a distant cowbell or a thundering avalanche. The juxtaposition of blue sky and white snow and ice thrilled me. I was content to spend hours watching and listening to the mountains.

And then I knocked on the heart of Oaxaca.

My first encounter with Oaxaca resulted from reading about its markets, supposedly the most varied and colorful in all Mexico. I had to see them. Markets were a favorite of mine. So was folk art. And I loved Mexico.

Soon after I arrived in the City, I bought a package of chocolate bread. Back in my room, I greedily tore open the cellophane covering and took a bite of the bread. As I swallowed it, I knew I would be sick. I translated the first ingredient, “uncooked egg yolk.” Within minutes, I was in bed. I had just enough strength to pop pills into my mouth, place the medicine bottle on the nightstand to my left and a photograph of Our Lady of Solitude, the Patroness of Oaxaca, on the table to my right.

I closed my eyes and succumbed to a violent headache, stomach pains and intense pounding in my ears and eyes; distress coursed through my body. My stomach refused food, but my senses fed on the contents of the City’s markets: produce, bread, chocolate, meats and fish. Recovery was slow. By the third day, I sat in an armchair by the window, basking in the sun and sampling the blandest food that the hotel’s chef could cook.

Later in the week, I booked a tour to the ruins of Monte Alban, which crown a mountain outside the City. Up, up went the van. The higher it went, the more light-headed I felt. Arriving at the ruins, I was dizzy and had to sit on a stone block at one end of the vast plaza. I looked around in a daze. The guide said that the altitude was affecting me because I had been sick. So, no sudden movements. Only snail-like ones. No gazing up into the sun, no climbing the pyramids nor descending the stone steps into the ball court. Just resting or taking a few steps while I waited for the tour to end.

Before returning to Boston, I entered the richly gilded and painted interior of Santo Domingo Church as the streaming rays of the setting sun poured through the west door. Molten gold exploded from the main altar and burst into a yellow radiance, which filled the nave. Stunned by the magnificence of the light that enveloped me, I vowed to return to Oaxaca. My heartfelt intention melted into the extraordinary blaze that transfigured all that it touched. It took years to fulfill that vow. But I did return. I returned again and again, drawn as if by a spell, enchanted by the web Oaxaca wove around me.