Cliff Paintings

On the spur of the moment, we set out one November morning in 1998 when the temperature was cool and a jacket would have kept me warm. We were off to find the codex in San Miguel Tequixtepec (1,2).

Taking the turnpike, we sped north, passed Nochixtlan and exited in order to make our way to San Juan Bautista Coixtlahuaca. We parked by a modest restaurant across the street from the Templo y Exconvento de San Juan Bautista, a Dominican church and its former monastery, which we had visited the previous year.

Rose bushes with lavish pink and yellow flowers were planted in tin cans along the right side of the restaurant’s al fresco dining area. “We always use egg shells as a fertilizer,” declared the owner. “We put them around the base of the stems. That’s why our roses are so beautiful.” The conversation spun me back to the Old House in Maine where bountiful old-fashioned rose bushes and climbing roses also were fertilized with crushed eggshells.

It was rude, but I couldn’t help staring at the head of the proprietor’s wife. Her flattened profile and aquiline nose commanded attention. I felt as if I were in a time warp. This was the 20th century, but she appeared to have just stepped out from a pre-Hispanic bas-relief.

She was scooping crusty pozole into three bowls from a large enamel pot at the bottom of an underground kiln (3). The bowls were destined for three women who arrived in single file and went to sit at the communal table. Their refined table manners matched their dress, carriage and comportment. They were well aware of their status as matrons of the town.

I asked the owner’s permission to photograph the kiln. “We are honored,” he replied, bestowing generous smiles on me. First, though, his wife tidied the platform around the kiln. She artistically rearranged some circular blue and green enamel pot lids and then stepped out of the range of the camera.

“Please bring us a print if you return,” they implored.

We finished our juices and strolled to the park. What a coincidence to meet former friends! I immediately recognized the heads of the Disney-like animals covering the trash barrels. I had seen them in a park in the City over a decade ago. There was my favorite, the one I always tossed my trash in: the head of a blue elephant, its trunk upturned, its open mouth waiting to receive discards and leftovers. Octavio also remembered them. “They were teaching tools. Children learned to put their rubbish into the animals’ mouths instead of throwing it on the ground or on a park bench. Who would have thought that we would discover them so far from their original home?”

We drove out of town via the dirt road to San Miguel Tequixtepec. The village, like others in the area, had established a community museum in order to showcase its local sights and crafts. The goal was to attract tourists, create jobs and increase revenue.

The museum was open. Inside, our first stop was at the codex. What a disappointment! It was a reproduction; the original was safe in a museum in Germany.

The museum walls displayed photographs of the daily life of the village, as well as of villagers weaving palm fronds into articles for personal and community use. In the middle of the room was a cart holding a life-like corpse. A burial shroud, woven from palm fronds, covered the corpse. Against one wall was a diorama of a family weaving inside a cave. The placard beside the diorama explained that the interior of a cave is a natural humidifier. It keeps the palm fronds supple enough to bend without braking.

A great curving tusk from a mastodon rested on a workbench in the back room. Near the workbench, a painter from Guatemala, wearing a beret, stood poised before an easel. He was adding the finishing touches to a map of the area. His long-handled brush daubed paint on an outline of a tiny mastodon.

The museum exhibited colored photographs of cliff paintings. We turned to a model of the local topography on a table in the center of the room. The museum attendant inched closer and watched our index fingers trace the well-marked route to the paintings. He approached. “The way is simple. Drive to a spot where you leave your car and walk 15 minutes to the first set of paintings. It is two hours to the second set.” He brushed aside our concern that the hike might be arduous. “It is easy,” he insisted.

“Can we make it?” we asked each other. “Yes,” we chorused, even though it was early afternoon, and we hadn’t counted on this attraction.

The next step was to engage a guide. A local escort was necessary, because we would be passing through communal land belonging to the village. The attendant took charge. “David will be your guide. He will join you shortly. You have time to visit the church.”

Bunches of blue and white balloons, tied at the base with blue fake flowers, decorated the church’s altar. Colored lights formed a halo around the head of St. Michael, the village’s patron saint.

A funeral procession approached along a narrow, dusty side street, which led to the church. A group of men carried the casket on their shoulders. Family and friends, holding baskets and sprays of white gladioli, the popular flower for funerals, walked beside the casket bearers. The solemn priest paced down the center aisle of the nave to greet the mourners. He ushered them into the church. After they crossed the threshold, we slipped out.

I made a new acquaintance while Octavio was checking on David’s whereabouts. He was elderly. Although deep furrows lined his face, his eyes were clear and sparkling. “Just look”, he said. “Look around you. Where can we farm or grow crops? The soil is tired. The men go away to work. This is our land. We were born here. Our parents and grandparents too. We are proud of our village. There are wonderful things to see here. Ancient things. Things of the earth. People will come to see these things. We will welcome them just as we welcome you.”

David was ready. He directed us down a dirt road. The car forded a shallow river floored with smooth stones. “Call ahead next time,” he advised. “Sometimes the water is too deep to cross.” We turned sharp left onto barely visible tracks and parked.


The 15-minute walk turned out to be a rugged hike of an hour and a half. We followed a path on a sloping descent. The path ended, and we began crossing open country under a vast blue sky. White cumulus clouds moved shadows over the distant mountains. Tall dried flower stalks of agave silently guarded the flanks of the mountains.

We felt them watching over us as we hiked beside a river, its water level high enough so that we had to hop from rock to rock in order to cross to the opposite side.

The terrain changed. We climbed until we came to a deep dry gulch. We stood on the bank and looked across at a steep rise. There were no discernible handholds or footholds. David jumped and scrambled to the top. He squatted and held out his powerful arms. I grabbed them, and he pulled me towards him while Octavio pushed me from behind. I leapt and dashed up the hill. Octavio needed no help. Over and up he went.

Three large birds were circling above the top of a cliff. Their wing spread was immense. They appeared to be all black except for one that had a white patch on its neck. “Aguila,” called out David.

“Eagles,” I shouted.

Were they eagles? I was unable to identify them even after I had access to Peterson’s Guide to the Birds of Mexico.4 We watched the powerful birds until one uttered a high-pitched “wee-wee-wee”. The cry was a signal. They soared and flew away.

Dense thickets hid the cliff walls to our right. David led the way swinging his machete, slashing and removing any branches or tree limbs that obstructed our advance. I was in the middle, Octavio at the rear.

“Look at the knobs on this tree.” I reached out to touch them, and David uttered a paroxysm of “no’s”. I had been cautioned again and again during excursions into the countryside that innocent looking vegetation might be deadly or dangerous. His quick and spirited reaction reinforced those warnings.

We had been reckless. We had come unprepared. We had no water. Our mouths were parched. We hadn’t counted on cliff paintings when we left the City. Taking pity on us, David picked small, purplish berries. They were wet and slightly tart when we bit into them, a perfect thirst quencher. He hunted until he found some plump, fleshy berries. My hunger lessened as I slowly chewed them.

Colorful birds darted in front of us, armies of dwarf palms with thick trunks stood to one side, and swallowtail butterflies floated around us. The air was redolent with the smell of grasses and plants. Their aroma intensified when our feet flattened them. And there was the sun, always the sun.

“We are close,” David announced. “Notice the caves near the top of that cliff.” Sighting them sharpened our anticipation of what was to come. Minutes later, David held up his hand and dramatically parted the shrubbery to reveal the paintings. We gasped. “I have known about these paintings since I was a boy.” he confided. “I used to come here often. I didn’t know about the paintings farther on, though. Authorities from Mexico City discovered them.”

The drawings had been executed in red or black. David pointed to what appeared to be a circular calendar. It was a circle within a circle. The outer circle was more or less evenly divided by vertical lines; the spaces between the lines were empty or filled with a cross or a horizontal line.

A crescent and a hemisphere, both standing on end, faced out back-to-back. There were other symbols: a circle, a line crossed by three short lines and perhaps a sun, its interior divided into four quadrants with rays extending from its rim.

Ah! There was what we were searching for. The figure of the man on the poster sold by the Museum. His upraised right arm held a long staff that looked like a cactus with spines near its top. His left arm angled down and grasped what appeared to be a shield from which protruded menacing lines. Was he wearing an animal skin or was he wrapped with feathers? David didn’t know.

We absorbed all that we could of these ancient paintings before resting in the shade of bushes. We agreed that it would be unwise to proceed to the next site. It was late afternoon, and twilight would fall fast. Shadows were darkening the mountains. It would be foolhardy to be out without food, water or a powerful flashlight. Equally important, only David was appropriately dressed for the more difficult route to the second set of paintings. We turned back. We consoled ourselves. We would return next year, wearing, hiking shoes and armed with flashlights and plenty of food and water.

We arrived back at the gulch. Having steeled myself for another leap, I realized that the opposite bank was lower so it would be easier to cross. The men readied themselves to assist me. David took my hand; Octavio stationed himself at the rear. Both were prepared to boost me over the drop. I fooled them. I lifted my skirt above my knees, focused on the spot where I wanted to land and sailed over, leaving a hushed silence in my wake.

My right arm was bright red from sunburn. I had rolled down the long sleeves of my shirt, but the silk chafed the burn. It was painful. Octavio removed a roll of toilet paper from my back pack. While he explained that the lime in tortillas protects Mexicans against sunburn, he fashioned me a bandage, wrapping it like a doctor and professionally tucking in the ends. “My diet will change,” I silently swore. “From now on I will eat more tortillas.”

David noticed my flagging spirits. He entertained me by breaking off palm fronds and deftly weaving them into a mouse and an ear of corn. He fashioned a trick holder. It tightened when I slipped it on my finger. The sides had to be pressed together in order to loosen and remove it.

What a sight we presented! Octavio had taken the lead. He was dressed all in brown: brown tie, brown shoes, brown pants and a brown shirt. An oozing blister on his toe caused him to limp. I still occupied the middle with my T-shirt, denim skirt, sandals and toilet paper bandage. David came last in his sensible outdoor clothes and shoes.

Before we reached the car, we met a party of three Spanish-speaking men accompanied by the attendant from the museum. The attendant’s instructions were to deliver the men to David who would take them to the paintings. They wore short pants and short-sleeve shirts and appeared to be in poor physical condition. It was so late in the afternoon that it would be dark soon. We lowered our voices. “Surely, David will find a way to cut short the expedition. They’ll never see the paintings.”

The men darted sideways glances at my makeshift bandage, which was beginning to unwind and lose its shape. “How far away are the paintings?” they anxiously inquired.

Octavio was vague. He motioned with his hand. “They’re that way.” he mumbled.

We tipped David and thanked him for his special attentions. David was a man of the open spaces, and we were grateful to have been with him because of his knowledge of and love for the land he lived on. Nothing seemed too difficult for him. His good-humored acceptance of our urban attire had won my heart. I took a few steps, then turned to watch him stride into the distance ahead of his three charges. I waved the trinkets he had made for me, but David always looked forward, never backward.

Before we dropped the attendant at the museum, I treated us to warm beers at a small store endorsed by David. As for food, we would have to return to San Juan Bautista Coixtlahuaca. We used the museum’s bathrooms, said, “Muchas gracias y hasta luego,” to the staff and concentrated on the possibility of pozole and the warm welcome of the restaurant owners in Coixtlahuaca.

Cries of delight from the owners greeted our reappearance. We each ordered a beer and sipped it as a prelude to our meal. Consommé was our first course. In this part of the world, it was chick peas and bits of chicken swimming in chicken broth, served with a plate of diced onion and chopped cilantro. Next came warm tortillas and pozole. The pozole was heavenly. Red mole, stirred into the thick mixture of hominy, colored it a deep red. Made with tomatoes, several kinds of chilies, onions, garlic and a variety of herbs; the mole added depth and flavor to the pozole.

We made a game out of counting whose bowl had the most pieces of succulent pork. There were ribs at the bottom. When Octavio uncovered his, he threw them to two dogs circling his chair. The dogs clamored for more until he had to shoo them away.

It was time to say good-by, a phrase that signified more than politeness with me. I felt so enveloped with warmth and love that even a “hasta luego” was difficult. Octavio, however, broke the spell. “Leave a generous tip to ensure good service on our next trip,” he counseled.

(1) A codex is an accordion-pleated paper made from bark on which artists or scribes painted or wrote.

(20 Oaxaca. Pueblos y paisajes de la Mixteca. Centro de Proteccion al Turista (CEPROTUR) Editorial Evergraficas, S.L., Leon, Spain. 1997. Pp. 30-31.

(3) Pozole is dried hominy. Port, chili and garlic are cooked along with the hominy. In this case, mole was added just before serving.

(4) Peterson, Roger Tory and Chalif, Edward L. A Field Guide to Mexican Birds. Houghton Mifflin Co, N.Y.