September 3, 1996 introduced me to the route to Ixtlan. It was a steady climb in altitude through lush vegetation. Ahead, a metal bridge spanned a rushing river. We turned off and parked on a dirt road that followed the river's course. The water was in full force, speeding over the stones in the riverbed and winking in the sun. Patches of foam, scattered across the top of the water, mirrored puffs of white clouds clumped in the blue sky.
Hibiscus trees, rampant morning glories and tiny black-eyed Susans shielded blocks of slate along the river’s edge. Swallowtail butterflies sailed by, and yellow, orange and spotted butterflies flitted over the clay bank. A few lazily fanned their wings while they rested on the ground. They did not fly away when we bent over them. Either they had just emerged from cocoons and were drying their wings or sensed that we meant them no harm.
We arrived in San Pedro Guelatao, the birthplace of Benito Juarez and parked near the impressive arcaded plaza built in his memory. He was born nearby in 1906 to Zapotec parents who died when he was three, leaving him to live with an uncle(1). The plaza overlooked the small town. Downhill were silos with conical roofs for storing corn. Clustered nearby were small houses. Bean vines curling around tall poles, plots of corn, laundry hanging on clotheslines and turkeys roaming in back yards presented a scene of quiet domesticity.
One length of the plaza was devoted to a museum of Juarez’s life. It was closed on Mondays, but a placard on the wall detailed in Spanish his achievements. The opposite length afforded unobstructed views of the Sierra Juarez. Distant peaks were slate blue; those in the middle distance dark green; those closest to us bright green. Anyone who complained of monotony would be richly rewarded by spending time in the company of these mountains.We found a spring-fed pond bordered by scarlet flowering trees. Dragonflies skimmed over the water’s surface. “Caballitos del Diablo,” Octavio said, “little horses of the Devil, that’s the children’s name for them. And look at that one.” A small red damselfly zipped by.
A bronze statue of Juarez stood beside the water. The sculptor had cast him as a young boy accompanied by the sheep that he had herded for his uncle. Later, at the age of 12, he would walk from Guelatao to the City to join his sister, a route that eventually enabled him to be Governor of Oaxaca and to be elected three times the President of Mexico.
We went part way around the pond and then followed a trail that branched off the path. “Ah, here is a school. Let me find out if we can tour the grounds.” Octavio disappeared inside one of the buildings. He emerged, pleased. He had interrupted a teacher in a classroom, and the teacher had given us permission to be on the property.
We looked in the windows of a dormitory. Rows of beds with natural wooden frames were covered with off-white spreads woven with wide red and blue stripes. Students, who came from too far away to return home at the end of the day, slept there. Their commuting time was measured in hours or days of walking.
Close by was a small hut. Inside, two women were making tortillas for the students’ lunch. As we ducked our heads to enter, we met a blast of unmerciful heat from the fires and the lack of ventilation. The women’s faces were flushed and shiny with perspiration. They beamed a welcome.
Each woman had her own equipment, and each had produced a tall stack of tortillas. “Watch,” one of the women said. “We put the masa on this flat piece.” She placed the dough on an iron griddle. “Now I put some of this on top,” and she placed a piece of plastic on top of the masa. “Now look,” she said as she pulled down the top of the griddle and pressed it on the masa. “I've made a tortilla." She transferred the tortilla to a charcoal brazier and left it for the right amount of time. No clocks or timers for these cooks. Instinct and years of experience guided them.
It was the other woman’s turn to take the spotlight. She removed two tortillas from the top of her stack and handed one to each of us. “Please take salt.” she invited. “It brings out the flavor of the tortillas.” We pinched salt crystals between our fingers and sprinkled them over the tortillas. We rolled them and took a bite. Our smiles conveyed how good they tasted. The women smiled in response.
“This is the way mountain people eat tortillas,” Octavio said. The woman nodded in agreement.
Black beans, onions and garlic simmered in a deep iron pot atop a brazier outside the kitchen. The aroma was tantalizing. I was positive the cooks wouldn't offer us any. The only utensil in sight was a ladle in the stew. Furthermore, there only was enough to feed the students. It would be easier to replace two tortillas than to explain why there were not enough beans. Thanks to these two women the students ate well and heartily. “Yes,” one of them volunteered, “my work is hard. I like it. I like it, but it is very hot here.”
“We make good food for the children,” added the other.
We asked directions to Ixtlan de Juarez, located about two miles north of Guelatao. Juarez had been baptized in Ixtlan's parish church, the Templo de Santo Tomas Apostol. Its construction had begun around 1640, and its date of completion 1721 was inscribed on an arch inside the main door. “A canyon arch,” Octavio explained, “like an upside down canyon.”
The main and side facades were different. The main facade was in the Churrigueresque style, a style of the late Baroque characterized by florid carving, estipite columns and Salomonic pillars (named after the columns on the Temple of Solomon). There were three double tiers of Salomonic pillars on either side of the main entrance. This type of column appears twisted.
The direction of the coils on each of the pairs happened to be the mirror image of its companion column. In more extravagant examples, the pillars may spiral with intricate foliate designs.The side façade was a gem. Grapes, shells and plant-life were the predominant motifs. Over the door was a bas-relief of the Virgin standing on scalloped clouds. Raised outlines of a square cross enclosed the carving. Two Salomonic columns framed each side of the entablature. Above, God ruled from the apex of the high curve at the top of the façade.
The current church had been built on a pronounced rise. An overgrowth of trees and shrubs covered stonework and rocks. Octavio hypothesized that the site might conceal a former temple. “It was part of the Dominicans’ plan,” he said, “to choose land sacred to the Zapotecs, destroy their temples and replace them with Catholic churches.”
The interior was intimate. Immediately upon entering, our attention was captured by the retablo behind the altar. Lavish, gilded carving covered its soaring main panel and the two side panels that angled out from it. The gleam of the gold and the riot of intricate designs luxuriating over its surface appeared to assume a life of their own. God presided over all that sumptuousness at the top of the main screen.
As we stood before the main altar, Octavio introduced me to estipite columns, another characteristic of the Churrigueresque style. The retablo columns were estipite, inverted pyramids with their tip cut off and placed on a block. Sometimes the pattern of an inverted pyramid is clearly repeated up the column. Other times the elements of the column are so richly carved that the shape of the pyramid recedes into the background.
Opulent gilded retablos from the eighteenth century, decorated with Salomonic pillars and oil paintings of saints and religious scenes, flanked the nave. Angels with dark hair and nontraditional faces suggested the influence of local workmanship.
A Trinity was attached to a wall in the nave. El Padre Eterno wore His triple crown and was seated on His throne. His hands held a crucified Jesus, but the Holy Spirit, represented by a dove on top of the crucifix, had broken off.
I was intrigued by a painting of three men with triangular haloes who surrounded a woman. Octavio identified the subject, the Trinity crowning the Virgin. I commented on how rare triangular halos were. “Oh, no," Octavio responded. “In Oaxaca they are very common. You will have to look for them. They are everywhere.”
Octavio selected del Monte for our late afternoon meal. The restaurant, situated between la Cumbre and el Punto, was on several levels. Inside, a flight of stairs descended to the dining room where a wall of windows gave diners a panoramic view of the landscape. Silvery lichens dusted a weathered split rail fence at the bottom of a slope across from the windows. Scarlet gladioli and white calla lilies grew in front of the fence. A bleached animal skull rested against a post. It was pure Georgia O'Keefe. It was a scene, I felt sure, that she would have loved to paint.
The arrival of the entrees interrupted our contemplation of the scenery: a large tortilla topped with avocado, lettuce, tomato and cheese and a slice of meat accompanied by cucumber and tomato slices. No need to discuss dessert. We both knew fried plantains were our favorite. The waiter set the dessert plates in front of us. Five slices of fried plantain, arranged like flower petals, enclosed a center of strawberry preserves topped with a dollop of whipped cream.
A thunderstorm moved across the mountaintops. Lightening crackled through the sky. We tracked the storm. It intensified as it approached so that sheets of rain sealed us off from the outside world. We waited. Driving would have been reckless. The sky began to clear. On cue, the waiter brought steaming coffee. It was his way of apologizing for our delayed departure.
April 21, 1997 marked our second trip to Ixtlan. After we were in the mountains, we noticed a large black bird, possibly a raven. We watched it through the windshield flying in a straight, sure line. The flapping of its large wings conveyed purpose. Suddenly a smaller bird flew in at an angle and overtook it. It buzzed it like a toy airplane before pacing its flight to the larger bird’s.
I guessed what we would see before it happened: something I had read about but never witnessed. I waited without speaking or moving, afraid that I might disturb the plan that was being worked out. The two birds concluded their negotiations, and the smaller bird glided onto the back of the larger one. They continued out of sight, the larger bird neither deviating from its path nor slowing its speed.
I nudged Octavio. “Did you see that?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I’ve been watching.”
“I’ve read about birds giving rides to birds.”
“I have too.”
“What if we hadn’t been here at this very moment? Do you realize that we would have missed this?”
“Yes”, he agreed, “we have seen a great thing.”
Thick bushes of floripondia covered with long white trumpet flowers lined the road from Guelatao to Ixtlan. “Coquitos,” Octavio announced as he motioned to leafless trees that sported red flowers bursting from the ends of bare branches. Blossoming hibiscus and jacaranda trees and bougainvillea vines added vibrant color. Green and yellow-streaked gourds dried in the sun on the flat roofs of wood sheds.We arrived in Ixtlan greeting it as an old friend but hoping to discover new qualities and dimensions in that friend. Octavio went to ask the police if he had chosen an approved parking spot. He returned relieved that we could leave the car in the space he had selected at the side of the dirt street next to the market.
A church, dated August 1721, called for closer inspection. Years ago an earthquake had demolished its walls and interior. Only an arch, incised with a simple, repetitive design, remained upright. A burrow, tethered to one of the stone blocks that littered the ground, waited for its owner.
The market abutted the ruins. It was a Monday, the weekly market day for Ixtlan. Arriving near noon, we missed the early morning shoppers; however, enough fruit and vegetables remained to give us an idea of what was in season.
I needed a bathroom. Where was the woman who supervised the public toilets? There she was, right in the corner near the entrance. Her rate of exchange was three pesos for the key to the damas and a few sheets of toilet paper. There was more to come. “Un momento.” She advised me to enter the door marked caballeros. “Hombres go in the door without a sign.”
The heavy padlock on the caballeros was rusted. I wondered how long it had remained unopened. Octavio struggled with the padlock until his determination and his strong arm prevailed. I entered with trepidation, unsure of the standard of cleanliness I would find. My fears, however, were groundless. I confronted two spotlessly clean toilets. Neither flushed, but each had a red plastic pail on its tank. Later, the toilet guardian would fill one of the pails at a faucet in the market and use it to flush the toilet.
I emerged from the caballeros to find a man waiting to enter. Octavio was trying to explain that it was not the caballeros but the damas. It took all of Octavio’s patience to make the man understand that the key he held in his hand opened the padlock on the door without a sign, the door to the caballeros.
A shrine and flower stalls were at the opposite end of the market. We liked the waxy yellow orchids that looked like dwarf tulips. The orchids could be cultivated as long as they were watered regularly. Octavio bought twenty plants for his garden and five for me. When the flower vendor learned we were from the City, she covered the plants with sheets of newspaper to protect them from the sun. We rushed to the car where we placed them on the back floor. During the remainder of the day, their perfume scented the car. And during my stay in the City, they added a delicate fragrance to my room.
We paid a repeat visit to the church where Juarez had been baptized. A different attendant was on duty. He had an eagle eye. When he spotted me positioning my camera, he halted the action. He refused to let me take a picture. Octavio asked him to read the sign on the church door: photographs were permitted within the church as long as no flash was used. A quiet but intense discussion ensued between the two men. Octavio asked him to explain the discrepancy between what the sign said and what he was telling us. The attendant was adamant. I thought he wanted a bribe, but Octavio disagreed. “He just has a different understanding of the rule."
We walked toward the mountains along a dirt road. We passed a prison. It was white-washed and windowless, and on its flat roof was an open-sided tower with a blue base and a conical top to shade the guard on duty. Octavio knew nothing about prisons, but I was curious. “Who were the prisoners, how many were there, what crimes had they committed, what did they eat?” Questions raced through my mind as I continued to look back at the building with its lone sentry.We stopped near the end of the road. The strong sun forced us to shield our eyes. Octavio let out a muted cry. “There at the top of the mountain. What is it? It’s tiny, and it isn’t moving, so it can’t be a man. It must be a statue.”
“It must be a statue of someone important,” I hypothesized. “As a rule, ordinary citizens don't get monuments on mountains.”
“Yes,” people said in response to our query, “there is a statue and a mirador. Go to the end of the road at the other end of town and take the rough road. Your car can make it. Go slowly.”
We drove up through stands of deciduous and fir trees. The car groaned and pitched in potholes until we arrived at the top where a covering of palm fronds provided shelter for a car. At the edge of the clearing, two mammoth figures looked out over the valley. They represented the two Zapotec warriors who had been responsible for defeating the invading Aztecs.
We headed into the woods. Two men carrying machetes silently glided through the forest. Notices tacked to trees advised that cutting wood was prohibited. I asked Octavio if they planned to cut wood illegally, but he reminded me that the woods were communal land and that the men would operate within strict forestry guidelines.
Long empty bags, fashioned from tightly woven plant fibers, hung from tree branches. Which birds had constructed them? The owner of del Monte, where we later ate, supplied the answer; they were nests of the oropendola(2).
From Ixtlan, we continued to Capulalpan in order to visit its parish church. We paid the obligatory visit to the town hall to ask if someone could open the church door. The clerk at the desk explained that a man rang the church bells at 3 p.m. when he was not working in the outlying fields. We waited, but the bell ringer didn’t appear. Disappointed, we retraced our route through Ixtlan and Guelatao until we could stop at del Monte for a much needed meal.
Octavio had two beers, cream of corn soup and ribs. I had a guava drink, cream of corn soup and chicken mole served with pureed black beans(3). We shared a basket of corn crisps with our soup and a basket of hot tortillas wrapped in a cloth. Our favorite dessert, fried plantains, followed. Coffee with cinnamon, made in a clay pot called an olla, completed the dinner.
Our third trip was on April 17, 1998. High overhead, vultures drifted and soared in updrafts. Octavio stopped the car to show me a fruit tree called zapote. There are white, yellow and black zapotes. The white zapote acts as a soporific; eating three puts one to sleep. In addition, a tincture of the white zapote aids in lowering high blood pressure.
Trees were posted with warnings not to light fires. The lack of a rainy season had resulted in combustible woods. Many fires still burned. Octavio’s garden had suffered too. The drought had claimed three fruit trees and the orchids he had bought last year in Ixtlan. In contrast to the dry woods and patched fields, Capulalpan appeared to be an oasis. Tall bushes were festooned with masses of pale pink trumpet flowers, their edges ruffled in a deeper pink.
Just as last year, our first stop was at the municipal office. Perhaps this year we would learn who had a key to the church. I waited outside. I wanted to read the notice about dengue fever. Local authorities take great care to educate their citizens not only about diseases such as tuberculosis, measles and dengue fever but also about health precautions. The walls of a town’s municipal building or its medical clinic, or a sheet tied to a fence on the outskirts of a village serve as medical bulletin boards.
Workmen were restoring the exterior of the church. They might have a key. In fact, they were the key to our success, because they directed us to Senor S. who lived down the street, a short walk from the church. He was at home. At his doorstep I received a lesson in Oaxacan diplomacy. Senor S., rightfully concerned about who we were and why we sought access to the church, engaged Octavio in a prolonged series of questions and answers without revealing that he had the coveted key. Senor S., finally convinced that we meant no harm, produced the key and led us to the church.
Although it may seem curious that we should have difficulty gaining entrance to a church in a village, there was an important reason why we had to undergo such relentless scrutiny. A valuable statue had been stolen from a church in a neighboring town. And there had been attempted break-ins in nearby churches; consequently, anyone entrusted with a church key was reluctant to acknowledge that he possessed it. Prudence was the order of the day. Local repercussions might ensue if a custodian carelessly unlocked a parish church to strangers who might steal from or damage that church. Having a church key is a responsibility that no one treats lightly.
The church was completed and dedicated to Saint Matthew in 1718; however, the year 1731 appeared on an arch inside the door. The arch and the ceiling above it had been restored to their original condition of brightly painted designs of vines, tendrils and flowers.
The transept ceiling had been renovated in 1954. Carpenters had replaced the rotting wood of the ceiling with wood treated against insects. The ceiling looked like the inside of a boat’s skeleton. Row after row of small squares of wood were set end to end across its width. Each row alternated with a narrow raised rib of wood.
A tall angel carved from wood with glass eyes guarded each side of the steps leading up to the sanctuary. A large silver lamp hung over the steps. Two crystal chandeliers were suspended in the sanctuary in front of the altar. Behind the altar, a five-sided, gilded retablo soared to the ceiling in gleaming splendor.
Several of the gilded retablos along the nave walls were of finely carved wood and embellished with exquisitely carved angels and estipite columns. In the right transept was a retablo with a statue of St. Joseph. He wore a straw hat with an adjustable chin strap and held a miniature hollow gourd, called a bule or calabaza, which travelers carry water in.
We tipped Senor S. and went next door to a store. Its ceiling was a replica of the church’s. The woman behind the counter was proud that such an unusual and elegant feature graced her humble space. She made sure that we knew that her husband had helped with the restoration of the church’s interior and had copied its ceiling.
While we sipped beers and talked with the owner, I looked over her merchandise for something to buy. A pile of escobetas was on the counter. Short pieces of straw of equal length are bound together in the center with a wire to make a brush. Octavio reminisced how his mother cleaned the tops of tables and chests with her escobeta. Local shops and markets still sell them, although modern brushes and brooms are more popular in the City and large towns. I paid two pesos for a souvenir of another way of life. The shopkeeper was happy, because two pesos make a difference in the sum of a day's transactions. In addition, my purchase and our presence would provide ingredients for a good story to tell the family at the end of the day.
To be continued
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