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.