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...
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