Ixtlan de Juarez Part II

A billboard on the outskirts of the village advertised that Calpulalpan was home to a center that distributed indigenous plants from the Sierra Juarez. A man waiting by the sign directed us to the Centro de Desarrollo de Medicina Indigena Tradicional.

We entered the waiting room to find two diminutive curanderas (curanderas are women healers; curanderos are either men healers or men and women healers) seated in small chairs, talking to a tall woman who introduced herself as the clinic's President. We requested a consultation and a limpia (a cleaning) by a curandera. The President escorted us into a sparsely furnished room. A trestle table and small chair were at the back of the room. A tin container filled with fresh green herbs was on the table. To the left was a window. Two small chairs were near the door.

One of the curanderas who had been in the waiting room when we arrived, entered and took a seat at the table facing us. Octavio offered to be first. He drew close to her and described his symptoms. She instructed him to place one of the chairs at a right angle to me and to the table. She left the room and reappeared with a long sheaf of fresh herbs in one hand and an unbroken egg in the other. She spread the sheaf of herbs and placed the egg in its center, enclosed the egg with the herbs and sprinkled them with a clear liquid.

She stepped up to Octavio with the herbs in her right hand. Lowering them to within several inches of his body, she began to brush him. She proceeded to brush his front and back, all the while praying in a low monotone. She made the sign of the cross with them over the front of his body and turned toward the table.

She extracted the egg from the herbs and broke it into a glass that she had filled with clear liquid from a bottle. She held the glass with the unbroken egg yolk in it up to the window. Speaking inaudible mantras and prayers, she slowly rotated the glass in the sunlight. We watched as the egg white clumped around the yolk. She carried the glass to Octavio and explained what the pattern of the egg white revealed about his condition. She prescribed an ointment, nose drops and the application of green leaves to his neck for two consecutive nights.

She left the room and came back holding a clear bottle of liquid in one hand and an amber glass bottle of liquid in the other. Octavio whispered, “Is it my imagination or do I detect the faint smell of mezcal?” She mixed the two liquids in one of the bottles and took a mouthful from the bottle.

Standing far back, she waited in silence. Without warning, a mist of fine spray erupted from her mouth and hit him in the face. She went to stand in front of him and began spraying mouthfuls of the liquid onto the back and front of his head, chest, palms and knees, all the while brushing him with the herbs. Abruptly she stopped and threw the herbs in a corner on the floor.

It was my turn. She went to get a fresh bunch of herbs and another egg. My cleaning duplicated Octavio’s. The pungent smell of herbs filled the room. I felt peaceful and calm. Having watched the procedure, I knew what to expect. Her low voice, murmuring prayers and chants, relaxed me.

Only a tiny white spot formed on the side of my egg yolk. When she brought the glass to me, she softly asked, “Triste? Do you feel triste?” Of course, I felt sad. I always felt sad at leaving Oaxaca. It had become a nostalgia lodged deep within me. It was good news, though, that except for sadness, I was in good health. A sigh of relief swept through me.

I thought I was prepared for the next step. I watched her take a mouthful of liquid, watched her stand at a distance, and I waited, and I waited. I was confident that when she sprayed me I would be in total control. The sudden force of the liquid hit my face, and at that moment my entire system went into shock. That was it for poise and control. My rational, logical side went into hiding.

Close to me, she repeatedly took sips of the liquid and sprayed it outside and inside the neck of my T-shirt. She sprayed the left and right sides of my shirt. After each spraying, she patted the fabric to my skin. She proceeded to spray my back, both sides of my hands and the back and front of both knees.

A woman appeared in the open door and began making notes. “I'm in training,” she announced as she requested our names, ages and origins and recorded them in a large ledger. “Would you like to tour the Center?” she asked. We nodded, and the President joined us.

We learned that the Center had been in operation for some six to eight years and offered general consultations and services for pregnant women, childbirth and newborns. The staff included curanderos, chiropractors and herbalists from surrounding villages.

The sun-drenched courtyard had clotheslines sagging with freshly washed laundry and bedding. Arranged around the courtyard were sparsely furnished bedrooms with one or two mattresses on the floor, bathrooms with shining white porcelain toilets, which didn’t flush, the temazcal and a recuperation room.

The temazcal was too small for my height. I would have had to curl into a ball to fit inside its domed shape. The President explained that special herbs are placed on stones outside the temazcal. A curandera pours boiling water over the herbs and stones in order to create steam that flows through an opening into the interior chamber. The amount of boiling water regulates the quantity of steam and the temperature inside the chamber. This ancient purification and healing system for cleansing the body and the soul dates from pre-Hispanic days. It is especially beneficial after childbirth, because it tightens a woman's stomach and abdomen. Patients usually spend several hours in the temazcal, followed by an hour in the recuperation room.

The President ushered us into the pharmacy where tiers of shelves held packages and boxes of remedies and immaculately clean jars and containers of herbal pharmaceuticals. The herbs were collected in the early morning from nearby mountains. They were then made into ointments, soaps, teas and salves in Capulalpan before being brought to the Center.

Back in Ixtlan, we deliberated about where to eat, finally selecting a restaurant near the market. First was a glass of mezcal. I was an eager pupil as Octavio taught me to sprinkle salt on the back of my hand and lick the salt after each sip. “There is a saying,” he said, “that mezcal makes one's food muy sabroso (more tasty).”

We lunched on cream of squash soup and meat in yellow mole accompanied by string beans, potato wedges and rice. The ever-present basket of hot tortillas sat on the table between us. “Look,” I exclaimed after uncovering them. “The top one has a face on it. I’m saving that one for you.”

Octavio sighed. “You are becoming Mexican. You are seeing shapes in the tortillas, the clouds and the trees just as we do.”

It was too early to return to the City. Octavio inquired about adjacent towns. We decided to go beyond Ixtlan and visit Santa Maria Jaltianguis. Its church was locked. We peeked through cracks in the carved panels of its arched wooden door. Darkness and dust were all we saw.

Jaltianguis had to be the hottest place on earth. The sun beat down relentlessly. There was no shade. I found a wall overhung with jacaranda blooms and slouched against it, contracting my body into the smallest possible area while Octavio went to search for whoever might have the key to the church. He came back empty-handed. “The people are suspicious. It’s best to leave.” Even I could feel the suspicion. It clouded the air. The village was blanketed in a wary silence.

Before we departed, we took one last look at the ancient stone face attached to the church's left front wall. Centuries ago, an unknown artist had carved rudimentary round eyes, a nose and full lips in the stone. Now the face stared back at us.

We drove as far as el Estudiante in order to eat before we attempted the last leg of the route to the City. While we ate, Octavio spoke about local customs. “In many small villages and rural hamlets the people serve at mass, because priests are scarce, and a resident priest is costly. Parishioners will invite a priest to officiate at a special ceremony, such as a marriage or a baptism. Marriage costs money : the clothes, the music the priest, the sacrificing of a goat. That is why when we tell a friend about a problem, we add, ‘That’s why I’m not married’”

A full stomach helped Octavio cope with the remainder of the drive. Having ascended a steep grade and rounded a curve, we came face to face with burros in the middle of the road. There was nothing to do but stop and wait until they moved. They took their time. Descending, we met an oncoming truck. Octavio signaled the driver to be on the lookout for trouble. Burros in the road on a blind curve would be an unwelcome hazard.

That was my initiation into signals that warn motorists of impending danger. Drivers of trailer trucks blink the lights on the outside of their trucks' cabin; other motorists use headlights. Hands are signals too. A sign language. Hands convey swift and clearly visible warnings with an economy and fluidity of movement that may mean the difference between life and a cross planted at the side of a road.

We encountered two slow-moving trucks hauling enormous logs on low bed trailers. Passing was a problem. Their length and the ever-present curves made it impossible to see in front of them. The drivers helped. They motioned to us when the road ahead was clear, reduced their speed to a crawl and pulled over to the right as far as possible. In response, Octavio, alert for the sudden appearance of an oncoming vehicle, cautiously inched up beside them, then spurted ahead. The drivers flashed their lights; we waved and disappeared around the next curve.

(1) Zapotec: one of the 16 indigenous groups in the State of Oaxaca, each with its own language. The Zapotecs are the largest group.

(2) Oropendola: Peterson, Roger Tory and Chalif, Edward L. A Field Guide to Mexican Birds. Houghton Mifflin Co., NY. Plate 39.

(3) There are red, yellow, black and green moles. The sauces are made from a variety of chilies, spices and herbs and are used with pork or chicken. During special festivities, mole is used with turkey. Oaxaca is called Land of the Seven Moles, and Susana Trilling in her book, Seasons of My Heart (Ballentine Books, N.Y., 1999) describes the seven moles in Chapter 10.