Scarlet

Octavio arrived at 9:30 a.m. He always pretended that he could meet me on the hour; however, it was difficult given the fact that he drove five children to different schools and a wife to work. Out of respect for his responsibilities as a husband and a father, I always asked him to arrive on the half hour. He never disappointed me.

Our goal was the church in Santa Catarina Ixtepeji, a small town tucked into a valley. We had noticed it on our trips to Ixtlan. From the main road to Ixtlan, the church appeared large and commanding. It was a starred item on our list of sights to investigate.

We passed through three familiar towns. El Estudiante, la Cumbre and el Punto were placed like beads along the road. Each bead signified something special to us, and we welcomed each one with fond memories.

El Estudiante appealed to us as a place to retire. We often spoke about stopping and selecting two plots of land. They would have to be situated well away from the houses that were under construction, and they would have to have an unobstructed view of the mountains.

We didn't need a signpost to tell us when we reached the highest point of the route, la Cumbre (the summit). All we had to do was to feel the coolness. Octavio would slow the car, and we would take deep breaths of the fresh air through the open window.

The third bead was el Punto. Just before el Punto was a restaurant, el Monte, one of our favorites. That bead occasioned reminiscences of delicious food accompanied by a breathtaking view.

We reached the turnoff to Santa Catarina Ixtepeji. It was marked by thick clumps of tall gladioli, their scarlet blooms radiant and luminous in the sun. Scarlet would be the keynote of the day.

A group of men and women waited at the turnoff. “Ixtepeji?” asked one of the men. “Are you going there?” Our rule of the road was no rides to strangers. That day was no exception.

Even though we felt sorry for the group standing in the harsh sun, Octavio called out, “Not yet,” and drove away to a second turnoff.

The dirt road was rough and bumpy. A sea of tall corn spread out on either side as far as we could see. In the distance, a solitary white egret had been cut from a Japanese scroll and glued against the horizon. The sun highlighted its yellow bill. Occasionally its head would dart forward and disappear; food was its agenda.

As the car jounced ever closer to town, the sandy-colored church loomed to our right. We heard rockets burst and saw flashes of light followed by plumes of gray-white smoke. A bend in the road and a garden of meticulously clipped topiary figures greeted us. A green waterfall of vines cascaded down the front of a neighboring house. The face of an adjacent cottage was hidden by a thick tangle of blue morning glories. A favorable first impression.

We entered town. The date was November 25, 1998. Santa Catarina Ixtepeji was beginning its celebration of the fiesta of St. Catherine of Alexandria. We were unexpected guests on the first of three days of festivities in her honor.

The car bounced up a steep stone-paved hill to the back of the church. Men and women were erecting booths for games, food and trinkets. In the church's shadow, women, selling a variety of fruits, sat on the ground leaning against one of the walls. Men and boys lounged around the church's entrance. On the side that faced away from town, mothers nursed babies while toddlers played at their feet.

We circled the 16th century church, el Templo de Santa Catarina, admiring its impressive construction. High up, square windows were recessed deep into the sides. The embrasures were whitewashed, and the openings around the embrasures were outlined with whitewash. Twin squat towers and a massive cupola, arising from an equally massive lantern placed above the center of the transept, added to the church's weighty appearance.

Across from the entrance was a stepped pyramid with a flat top. Several men already were seated on the steps, and we joined them. The platform was perfect for launching the fireworks that were being offered to St. Catherine. On one of the steps was a long bamboo pole, rockets and St. Catherine wheels. Without any detectable timetable, one of the men would get up, attach a rocket to the pole, climb to the platform and hurl the rocket into the air. It exploded with a terrific bang. Everyone, including us, enjoyed the noise.

The steps also were an ideal place from which to view the magnificent façade of the church. Masterful carving had gone into embellishing this imposing, house of worship. Every detail was a witness to the skill of the sculptors who had worked the stone.

Four elegant Solomonic columns ranged across the lower front of the façade, two on each side of the main door. Four more were paired on either side of an upper window. A series of niches progressed up the façade between the lower and upper sets of columns. Once, each niche had held a carved statue. Now, only a few remained. A triangle of graceful scrolls filled in the space on either side of the entrance’s arch between the arch's curve and the molding outlining the door. Above ran a frieze of medallion-like scrolls, their ends curving inwards to create fruit or foliage.

Colorful strands of pierced, multi-colored triangular banners emerged from the open window above the door, their ends fastened to stakes at a distance from the church. A strand of alternating red and white pierced banners stretched horizontally in front of the church.

A rope of twisted evergreens and a rope of red and white linked chains with red and white bows were draped from the sides of a large crown of flowers hanging from the door's arch. The crown was made of red and white carnations; its ribs were gold flowers. A white vase filled with scarlet and white carnations and green feathery leaves swung from the opening at the bottom of the crown.

We left our seats, descended the steps and entered the church. A mass dedicated to St. Catherine was in progress. A brass band was playing. The band members were positioned just inside the entrance, their instruments gleaming in the dim light.

Our eyes adjusted to the dark, vast interior. We bypassed the people who stood or knelt on the floor at the back of the nave. The front pews were crammed with women, their heads covered with black mantillas. Behind them, benches were packed with men, women and children. A group of women made room for me, and I squeezed onto the end of the bench trying not to disturb the children playing on the floor. Octavio stood at my left.

And then it hit me. The scarlet. Scarlet is the color of martyrs. Scarlet is the color of St. Catherine. Man and Nature had joined together to provide a profusion of scarlet in order to commemorate this 4th century martyr. Wherever I looked there was scarlet. It blazed in the darkness.

The scarlet chasuble of the priest, the ankle-length scarlet dress of the statue of St. Catherine that stood at the front of the chancel, the scarlet banner trimmed with gold suspended to the right of the altar, the two fan-shaped arrangements of scarlet flowers atop long poles behind the altar on either side of the retablo. Fans of scarlet gladioli set the altar and transepts alight.

Baskets of scarlet and white carnations were suspended from the ceiling throughout the church. Decorative chains of evergreens and white streamers festooned the upper reaches of the nave and the chancel. We were in a celestial greenhouse. “St. Catherine must not care that she is no longer officially recognized,” I whispered to Octavio. “Surely it must not matter to her when such love is lavished on her.”

It was abundantly clear that St. Catherine was a survivor. She had been sentenced to be broken on a wheel and when the attempt was unsuccessful, to be beheaded (1). She was very much alive, though, in Ixtepiji in spite of the fact that her feast day had been removed from the Church calendar in 19691. In Ixtepeji, she was the adored center of attention in both the spiritual and earthly realms. The Church was offering up a mass and music. Nature was contributing scarlet flowers, and the people were donating joyful praise, special foods, fireworks and entertainment. Everyone had been waiting for her fiesta since last November.

The Hallelujah began. As the music from the choir and the brass band resonated throughout the church, we tiptoed out.

Families were continuing to make their way to the service. Their steps were solemn and measured; everyone wore an air of expectation. Later it would turn to rejoicing. Even the youngsters had abdicated their games in order to respect the seriousness of the occasion.

We stopped to inspect the backyard of a small house where a woman was preparing food in bright blue, green and yellow buckets and plastic bowls. Cooking odors drifted to us from pans atop braziers filled with hot coals. The smells made us hungry; it was well past noon. “Chicken mole,” the woman cried as she beckoned to us. Deciding that we wanted goat mole, we regretfully waved our thanks.

Pigs, lucky to be spared from being roasted for the feast, roamed in front yards without a care in the world. Not so, one trussed pig. He dangled by his feet from a tree while he waited to be cooked into delicious morsels to feed the hungry who later would crowd the food stalls.

We arrived at the plaza in front of the municipal offices. From there, we had a clear view of the surrounding mountains, which were densely carpeted with masses of orange flowers and fields of corn.



I was spellbound by the setting. Beautifully crafted adobe houses with steeply slanting tile roofs were terraced up the sides of the mountains. Sparkling white laundry flapped on clotheslines. Masses of tall scarlet poinsettias bloomed beside the houses. Lines of colorful triangular banners fluttered over the town.

A man, sitting on the ground beside his donkeys, showed us a dirt road that headed in the direction of San Miguel del Rio. The road appeared safe. The sky was overcast with dark clouds. Orange flowers swept up the forested flanks of the mountains. Towering cacti were stationed like fierce sentinels on the slopes. Scarlet flowers with curving petals accented the sides of the road.

We expected an uneventful drive. Soon, however, we revised our opinion. We discovered that the road curved high above a gorge. Far below on the right was a river, a silver strand embedded deep within the landscape. We fervently prayed that no cars would travel that narrow, treacherous road, because its width and its placement between cliffs to the left and the yawning gorge to the right left no room to pull over if another vehicle approached. St. Catherine must have heard our prayers; we had the road to ourselves, both going and returning.

The church in San Miguel del Rio was old, but much smaller and less powerful than the one in Ixtepeji. It was white with a pink dome atop each of its twin towers. It had a plain and simple front with a deep-set round window over its entrance door. The ends of multiple strings of yellow, pink, white and pale blue banners were secured in the window.

As in many churches outside of the City, one or two small rugs were scattered just inside the door. Most are worn and tattered, but that does not deter worshipers from conscientiously using them to scrape and clean their bare feet or shoes.

Two tall statues were against the right wall in the nave. They reminded me of two sleepwalkers. One had on a long-sleeved white gown; the other, a pale blue gown open at the neck with white ruffles around the edges of her long sleeves and the sides of the neck opening. Real hair streamed down their back. Their eyes stared at a distant point in space. Their arms and hands were outstretched as if they were straining to touch whatever they saw in the distance.

A nacimiento (Nativity) had been set up near an antique wooden Virgin whose earrings ended in dangling gold balls. White cotton fabric had been shaped to form a cave. Miniature red and white Christmas decorations and a band of silver tinsel were stretched across the cave's mouth. Mary and Joseph rested at the back, awaiting the Christ Child who would arrive at midnight on Christmas Eve.

Mary was decked out with jewelry. A tiny white heart surrounded by a larger red heart was pinned to the front of her gown. She wore two necklaces, one of white balls and one of red balls. Joseph’s head was covered with a sombrero, and he carried a hollow gourd for water, a natural thermos called a boule. A green, white and red ribbon, the colors of Mexico, diagonally crossed his chest.

Adjacent to the church were a municipal storage building, formerly a chapel, and a basketball court. A lively game was in progress. One of the spectators tore himself away and came toward us.

It is always worthwhile to talk with the people whenever one visits a town or a village. They like to know the purpose of a stranger’s visit, especially when there are no major tourist attractions. Not only does introducing oneself satisfy their curiosity, but it provides them with an opportunity to exchange news and gossip. In return for being open and honest, one gains their confidence and frequently learns important local information.

In this case, our self-appointed guide told us that there was a stand of tule trees about a fifteen minute walk from where we were, a walk, he assured us, that would be cool and pleasant, well out of the sun that had reappeared and was beating down on us. There was a small park under the tules. It was a popular picnic spot for families from San Miguel and from surrounding municipalities.

“We must see the tule trees,” we said to the man as he circled us around the basketball court and led us down a road away from the village. He was warm-hearted and amiable like most of the people we meet who are ever ready to drop whatever they are doing in order to talk with us or to show us around. “It is a pleasure,” they assure us.

As we leisurely strolled down the road with our man from San Miguel, a line of turkeys suddenly materialized at the top of a bank. In unison, the males began their ritual courtship, a slow, stately and repetitive dance in which they postured and spread their tail feathers into fans to entice the watching females. Suddenly the males refolded their tails and noiselessly disappeared over the bank, followed by the females.

The seven tule trees lived up to their reputation. They were the same species as the giant tule (also called Mexican cypress or huehuete) that is the attraction at Santa Maria del Tule, some eight miles beyond the City. That famous tule tree is reputed to be over 2,000 years old (2). The mammoth tules in San Miguel seemed almost as old as Santa Maria’s. They had thick soaring trunks with colossal branches crowned with enormous heads of green leaves. They grew in a semicircle.

Flights of steps, broken by landings, descended to the park's concrete floor. We lounged on freshly painted white wrought iron benches and enjoyed the gentle breezes. The only sound was the snap of the colorful banners strung overhead when an especially strong breeze danced through them.

Back in the village center, we thanked our guide. Leaving San Miguel, we returned to Ixtepeji and eventually rejoined the paved main road. From there, we looked across the valley in the direction of San Miguel to see if we could spot the tule trees. We found them, but how small they were! We never would have suspected they were tules.

We pulled into the restaurant, el Rio. It was built with one side and an end open to the air. We washed our hands at the outside faucet, dried them on a rough towel and sank into chairs to decide what to order.

But first a mezcal. Mine was served in the smallest of glasses deemed suitable for a woman. A consultation followed with the proprietress as to the menu of the day. By the time we finished the mezcal, chicken consommé filled with pieces of chicken, stew size cuts of carrots and potatoes, and white rice was in front of us on the table. We dipped into bowls of chopped cilantro and minced onion and stirred heaping spoonfuls of the condiments into the soup.

We ordered a second mezcal while we waited for the entrees. When the food arrived, it was everything we had hoped for. The ribs with rice was for Octavio; the chicken mole with rice for me. The meal ended with café de olla made by simmering cinnamon, sugar and coffee in an earthenware pot and then straining it into brown pottery bowls.

The proprietress convinced us to buy a cigarette to smoke with our coffee. She stepped to the counter that separated the kitchen from the eating area and selected two cigarettes from the pack that she reserved for customers. It was the only occasion during my travels in Oaxaca when I was offered a cigarette.

The car begged to have its dust washed off. Octavio, armed with a pail and cloths donated by the proprietress, attended to that chore. Afterwards, we explored the dirt road by the restaurant. The proprietress had recommended it, promising us an unparalleled view at the end.

The road made several sharp turns before it abruptly ended in a hamlet perched on a plateau. Several houses with outbuildings occupied land at each side of the plateau. They were tightly shut against the encroaching night. Hearing our voices, a child opened a door and peered out. I apologized for intruding, and she closed the door, leaving us alone with the sky and the mountains.

Not only was the proprietress a superb cook, but she had a profound sense of beauty. The plateau, jutting out over a valley, formed a stage ready-made for us to walk on center and play the role of speechless observers. It was almost dark; stars were becoming visible in the sky; flecks of light dotted the mountains. It was a private and intimate spot, so peaceful and quiet that we thought we could hear the earth turn.

We needed that interlude to clear our heads after the mezcal. And just to make sure that we were fit for the drive back to the City, we stopped again at el Rio to sip a final bowl of hot, strong aromatic coffee.

(1) http://www.catholic-forum.com/saints/saintc01.htm.

(2) Tule tree: Whipperman, Bruce. Oaxacan Handbook. Moon Travel Handbooks. Avalon Travel Publishing. Emeryville, CA. 2000. pp. 154-155.