A Cleaning

The scent of adventure and the thrill of exploring new territory added spice to our 7 a.m. departure one May Sunday in 1999. It was hot and dry and just before the rainy season. Our spirits were high. We had been anticipating this overnight hiking trip into the mountains of northern Oaxaca for the past six months.

I attuned my nose to the smell of the freshly made tortillas that a father and son were selling at a stand on the sidewalk just below the steps where I waited for Octavio. The aroma was tempting on an empty stomach. I had left the bed and breakfast too early for breakfast.

Behind me the bells of Nuestra Senora de Soledad announced mass, and a line of women trudged past me up the steps leading to the church. The elderly and infirm brought up the rear, steadying themselves against the wall beside the stairs.

Octavio arrived, and I climbed into his van. Within a few minutes, we had reached the outskirts of the City where we stopped at a Pemex gas station. Octavio filled two red plastic containers with gas. “Ten gallons for safety,” he announced. “This will be the last gas station. There will be no gas where we are going unless it's sold privately. I don't trust private supplies. They might be diluted.”

We headed north, all the while maintaining a harmonious silence; we and Oaxaca were waking up together. We stopped at the sanitorios beside the turnpike, the last chance to use a real bathroom before we arrived at our destination. Any future roadside bathroom would be located behind a large boulder, a tall thick cactus or a sheltering tree.

We continued north and turned northeast. We stocked up at an outdoor market: toilet paper, a sun hat, bottled water, beer, bread, cheese, a bag of bananas, a bag of mangoes and a can of motor oil. Then we were on our way into the unknown.

In no time, we were high in the mountains following a winding dirt road that kept to the edge of steep cliffs. To one of the vultures slowly soaring overhead in the updrafts, the road would appear as an undulating dragon snaking over and around the mountains. No white roadside crosses marked the scene of fatal accidents in that remote area. Traffic was non-existent. We never did meet another vehicle.

It was noon by the hands of our synchronized watches when we pulled into the village. Israel, the local guide, was waiting. He would accompany us on our hikes through the communally owned land. He waved and gave us thumbs up. We were on time.

We selected three beers from our provisions and presented one to Israel. We ate fruit, bread and cheese while we discussed the details of the hike. I sprinkled the last few drops of my beer on the ground. Turning to face the tallest of the encroaching mountains, I silently petitioned that its spirit would grant us safe passage.

Octavio was amazed. “What are you doing?"

“Appeasing the gods.”

“The Mixes to the south do that; they don't here.”

"Never mind. The ritual is important to me.”

Off we went, well-fed and well-hydrated, following a river until we detoured to the left to labor up a steep foot path. We were headed for a barely visible overhang. Below us, the water sparkled with diamonds as it flowed over and among stones bleached white by the burning sun.

Under the overhang, an opening led to a small cave. Not enjoying close, dark quarters, I sent Octavio and Israel into the cave and settled myself in the lap of a ledge carved by the elements into an armchair. I leaned back against the warm rock and closed my eyes. The sound of the speeding water seemed far away. How high we had climbed in such a short time!

Octavio reappeared, abruptly interrupting my reverie. His face was drained of color. It took him a few minutes to regain his composure. After several deep breaths, he reported, “It was dark, and there were bats. I saw smoke rising from the floor. I got scared and ran out." Israel hadn't seen the smoke, but he believed Octavio’s story. We decided it was energy being released from the earth.

We left the cave's entrance and picked our way back down the trail, slipping and sliding the last few yards. We followed the river into a canyon and then through a succession of canyons fortified by towering cliffs. Vertical walls soared to the sky. Gray-green mosses and lichens created frescoes of impressionistic pictures of deer, dogs and celestial bodies. The landscape was magnificent.

Octavio and I never could identify just when our mood changed. Talking about it was a relief, because we were feeling increasingly angry and depressed for no reason whatsoever. There seemed to be no logical explanation for our irritation and impatience.

Walking was difficult. My feet refused to obey me. I was unable to lift them more than an inch above the ground. They felt as if heavy weights were attached to their soles. Or as if they had grown massive roots, which were anchored deep within the earth. In order to begin a step, I had to uproot one foot and counteract whatever force seemed to be pulling it back down.

We moved through a seemingly endless series of canyons. Hidden springs birthed tumbling brooks that fed the river cutting the canyons’ floor. Small caverns beckoned to be explored. In the distance, a goatherd and his goats stood immobile, as if bewitched.

A constant breeze had been at our backs since we began the hike. The canyons narrowed. Their diminishing width compressed the breeze into a funnel of strong wind. Its hot, incessant breath fueled our edginess. Our mood soured. I clutched my hat. The wind blew it off. I snatched it back. The wind won, and the hat sailed up to an inaccessible ledge.

There were no vultures in the sky, no insects buzzing, no birds singing, no butterflies. The only sign of wild life was a gray squirrel. Israel saw it first. He dove towards it with outstretched hands. He caught it, and for a second, man and squirrel were splayed against the face of the rock. Hunter and hunted froze into a long, continuous line until the squirrel shot up and out of Israel’s grasp and disappeared over the top of a cliff.

A circle of stones, each the size and shape of a cantaloupe, was in front of us. “Look, Octavio. Here is a sacred circle. You and Israel go on. I will wait inside the circle. I will be safe here." The men disappeared. I stepped into the circle and sat on the flat ground. I closed my eyes. Vivid scarlet swirls swam behind them, then erupted into the colors of the rainbow, a kaleidoscope of color and form.

After we regrouped and began the trek back, my feet developed an unanticipated independence. They refused to go in the direction I intended. When I tried to go straight ahead, they veered 45 degrees to the right. After several yards, they effortlessly carried me 45 degrees to the left. Meanwhile, the distance among the men and me lengthened. They stopped and waited for me to catch up. The only thing to do was to surrender to the experience.

It wasn't until we entered the village that our emotions turned positive. It was as if two parallel worlds existed side by side, and we had stepped from one world to its opposite. The world we had left fostered negativity and darkness; the village, with its fertile land and abundant life, fostered tranquility and light. To be an integral part of Nature’s polarity was, for us, a living reality. Our task would be to unify its two aspects.

That evening we wandered through the village, scuffing our shoes in the dirt. The sun had set behind the mountains, and the village was quiet except for the sound of the river, which ran through the lush valley.

Later, I stared up into a night sky spangled with bright stars. They looked as close as the fluorescent stars and planets that once had glowed on my nursery ceiling. Just as when I was a child, they blanketed me with comfort and reassurance. The peacefulness of the night lulled me to sleep and put to rest the day’s tumultuous events.

If Octavio had not dreamt that three witches tried to steal his soul and carry him out the window, we might not have gone for a cleaning. His dream, however, clinched it. Frantic knocks on my door early in the morning attested to the impact the dream had on him. His face was pale. He had awakened with his limbs contorted and his face twisted to one side. I was stunned when he demonstrated the position of his body.

“I protected myself. I made crosses on my back and front. They didn't get me. I fought them off. Are there witches living nearby?”

“No, no witches live nearby,” a villager informed us. “Only a curandera in a distant village. She does limpias (cleanings).”

Israel had scheduled us for a morning hike along a trail rated difficult. I stayed in the village and joined the early risers on their way to the fields. After waving good-by to Israel and Octavio, I wandered along the footpath that bordered the bank of the river. I stepped aside into the tall grass to let a father and son drive a herd of cows to pasture. The path was well worn. Men, as well as animals, had traveled that route many times.

I discovered a low stone wall where I sat and bathed in the early morning light. Mountains enclosed the valley. The sun, inching above their crests, spread long shadows over the swaths of grass that lapped at the base of their slopes. Clouds, shaped like white hats, topped the mountain peaks; wisps of clouds trailed down like white beards. That morning the mountains appeared to be venerable spirits, blessing and protecting the valley and its occupants. Behind me was the extraordinary landscape of yesterday. I kept turning to look in its direction as if I might be able to decipher its riddle.

I heard the men calling my name and went to join them. We ate, and Octavio packed the car for the trip back to the City. During the drive, our mood was thoughtful. We were struggling to assimilate the extremes we had experienced. We agreed that the balance of our bodies, minds, emotions and spirits needed to be restored. Our decision was mutual. Tomorrow we would go for a limpia (cleaning). There was no discussion.

To be continued...