Apoala and the Fleece

In the latter part of November 1998, we arrived at the outskirts of Nochixtlan, and Octavio assumed a thoughtful expression. “Did you know,” he asked, “that ‘lan’ is a suffix that means ‘the place of?’”

“No,” I replied. “What is Nochixtlan the place of?”

“Nochixtlan means the place of the cochineal. Cochineal are insects that feed on a species of cactus. The insects make a red dye, which they store in their body. The Spanish dyed textiles with cochineal and shipped them to Europe where the imported fabric became as valuable as gold.

“Now, Nochixtlan is noted for round loaves of wheat bread. Families bake the bread in kilns and sell the loaves in the local Sunday market.”

A sign at the boundary of Santiago Amatlan announced that its population was 550. A red-domed church looked down on us from a hill. Yellow flowers and diminutive white-washed houses covered the hillside. A road led up to the church. Half-way up, boulders and ledges prevented the car from going farther. We locked the doors and the trunk and stumbled the remaining distance over the rocks. Below, a loudspeaker summoned workers to the fields.

Inside the church, a man trailed us at a discrete distance. He followed us until we stopped in front of an unfamiliar statue in the left transept. “Who is he?” Octavio asked the man.

“Senor de la Reflexion."

Octavio asked more questions. “It's how we see Jesus in our mind,” he explained to me. “This image represents our personal view of Christ.”

The statue wore a dreamy expression. Bearded, but of youthful demeanor, Christ wore a long white robe and had a silver cruciform halo. He held a pole in his right hand with a square white flag attached near the top.

A woman loitered close by. She confronted Octavio outside the church. “Who invited you into our church?”

“We are Catholics, and no one has to invite us. We don’t need an invitation. God and His church are for everyone.” Octavio turned to me. “The people in this part of Oaxaca take two if you give them one and look for an advantage.”

“Por favor, give me an example.”

“Several years ago, my father and I were cutting Spanish moss to decorate the family crèche and Christmas tree. We had just finished when a man approached. He identified himself as the owner of the land and demanded payment for the moss.” Octavio shook his head in disbelief.

Tiny settlements were scattered along the road. I was fascinated by the different styles of architecture. Close to Nochixtlan, split log outbuildings with conical thatched roofs leaned and sagged against one another. They looked like elderly villagers gossiping and holding onto each other for support. After Amatlan, outhouses were the predominant feature. They had been built beside the main house in full view of the road. Each outhouse had a door made from colorful plastic or fabric, which had been pushed aside to reveal a shining white ceramic toilet. Farther down the road were one-story split log houses. They reminded me of Alpine huts, even to the bench on each side of the entrance and the tin cans of flowers and pots of plants on one of the benches.

It had rained during the night, and the slippery red clay mountain road was treacherous. We slowed for solitary burros and an occasional flock of sheep. We pulled up behind a truck loaded with soft drinks and followed it until the driver turned off to the right and vanished into dense fog.

Suddenly thick mists enveloped us. “No wonder they call this ‘The Place of the Clouds,’” Octavio said. Woods shrouded in fog stretched beside and ahead of us. Drooping tree branches dripped with silvery streamers of Spanish moss. The trees appeared to be an army of hoary spirits condemned to be shackled to the ground until some potent spell unlocked them. We stopped, and, marveling at such a magical place, I slipped through the mists and gathered moss.

At the end of the woods, leafy branches of trees on either side of the road had interlaced their arms to create an oval opening. The opening took us from one world to another, from a world of mystery to a world of clarity.

At last, far below, Santiago Apoala appeared nestled in a valley, a tiny green miracle amidst arid mountains. We cautiously descended into the village and pulled up beside a new tourist yu'u (lodging). After we registered at the front desk, and the clerk deposited our 30 pesos in a drawer, he pulled out a cache of photographs of the significant sights of Apoala.

The first photograph showed the Devil’s Cave. At one time children routinely disappeared from the village. The Devil stole them from their parents, carried them to his lair and ate them. An intrepid villager solved the puzzle of the missing children. He banished the Devil, and the children of Apoala were safe from then on. The mouth of the cave loomed high above the village, visible to all, witness to the story.

The other photographs depicted pre-Hispanic agricultural terraces used by the Ancients and a beautiful waterfall. “And here is the most important bit of news,” the receptionist proudly announced. “We have a cave where a live double-headed eagle was discovered!”

Nothing, not even a live double-headed eagle, could divert Octavio’s attention away from the fact that the fog had increased. It had crept down the mountains and obscured the mouth to the Devil's Cave. We only had enough gas to make it back to the City. He was nervous.

“Let's hurry to the church,” Octavio said. Rushing through the gate, we entered a grassy plaza surrounded by a stone wall.

A small white-washed open-sided chapel topped with a red dome stood at each corner of the plaza. The church was white-washed and had red domes and steeples.

We pushed open the entrance door and entered. Octavio bowed his head in a long prayer. I dipped my index finger in the holy water, crossed my third eye and prayed. We petitioned the fog to lift. We both sought encouragement, but Octavio needed it more than I.

On our way back to the yu’u we stopped at Tony’s Store. Two women lounged in the door. Their fingers were almost invisible as they wove palm fronds into a basket. The hands of the shorter woman were like machines. They moved with rapid-fire precision while she talked. Her eyes never strayed from our faces. She would finish her basket within the hour.

A tall, well-dressed man stopped us as we neared the yu’u. Octavio shared our predicament of not having spare gas. “There is no gas in Apoala to buy,” the man said. “If you get stuck on the steep ascent into the mountains, I will send help from the village.”

I persuaded Octavio to eat. We needed good food and hot coffee in case we met an emergency. While the attendants prepared tamales, the village host caught up with us in the yu’u.

He regaled us with a story about an American man from Georgia. “He lived in Apoala a long time ago. He arrived one day to learn our language. He left as silently as he had appeared, without a word. No one saw him go. There were no good-byes. He never contacted us. I would how you his house if you had time. It’s still down by the river.

“Be sure and alert the Tourist Office in the City that the people of Apoala are ready and waiting for tourists.”

He opened the screen door. It closed behind him with a click.

His departure gave us time to inspect the yu’u. A solarium, which served as a living-dining room, ran the length of one side of the building. Along the opposite side were a matrimonial room with double bed, an open kitchen area with a refrigerator and stove and two single rooms with private baths, comfortable lodgings for overnight. Guests could cook food that they brought or pay the women on duty to prepare food stocked by the yu’u.

The two attendants put our plates in front of us and sat down to gossip. “The girls here in Apoala leave, because there are not enough men. They go to the City, get a job, meet a man and return home with babies.” They sounded envious as if they also wanted to escape life in Apoala and have a baby or two.

We finished eating. I led Octavio outside. “Look up. Look at the Devil’s Cave. The fog has lifted. We can see the cave’s entrance.” Octavio relaxed.

Red poinsettias and giant hibiscus bushes, the color of their flowers intensified by the overcast sky, crowded gardens and towered to the roofs of the simple homes. Like a stage curtain, the receding fog rolled upwards to reveal tangles of yellow flowers covering the flanks of the mountains.

Chicken wire divided the yu’u from a small medical clinic. The ends of a white sheet were tied to the wire. A list printed in red, blue and green letters notified the community of the need to be vigilant in preventing disease and to save the children from dying from pneumonia or diarrhea. The instructions combined good sense and good hygiene and included a command to stop smoking around children.

Taking a last look around, we got in the car and began our journey out of Apoala. It was not the time to talk. The road ascended in precipitous curves, and the red clay was still wet and slippery. That meant possible skids, plunges over the cliff edge and rock slides. The fog had cleared, allowing us to see across the valley. Deep folds creased the lower parts of the mountains; agricultural terraces mounted the sides.

We couldn’t resist the pretty white church in Fortin Alto. It had red steeples and pale blue trim around its windows and a pale blue string course and door. It looked more like an edible confection than a religious structure. In fact, it was the perfect scene to place inside a sugared Easter egg.

A tree was placed in the ground a short distance from the church. The slender trunk with its two outstretched branches had been stripped of bark and leaves. “A cross!” Octavio exclaimed. We examined the strips of faded crepe paper that were tied around its branches and the two red paper flowers tied in its forks. Adjacent to the tree cross was a boulder covered with moss and lichens. An equal-arm cross was crudely carved into its side.

We stopped again. My shoes and jeans were encrusted with thick red mud. Not Octavio’s, though. He was always immaculate. Wherever we went, he automatically repelled dust, dirt and mud. As for the car, it would have to be cleaned when we reached Octavio’s home on the outskirts of the City.

I gathered a few twigs and loosened the clay on my jeans and sneakers. Discovering plants with large leaves that would make perfect washcloths for wiping off the mud, I asked their permission to break off a few leaves. I found low bushes with deep green leaves. “Pinch my leaves,” a voice told me. I did, but only after I obtained their consent. I crushed the leaves between my fingers. The leaves gave off a fragrant, sweet-smelling aroma. I brushed the leaves over me. “Thank you,” I said, addressing the bushes, “for cleaning and perfuming my clothes and shoes.”

Arriving at Octavio’s home, I met his family. They ushered me into the living room and showed me their shrine and Christmas tree. Octavio introduced me to the family portraits that illustrated important stages in the growth and development of the nuclear and extended family. Someone had casually flung a yellow evening gown on a couch. One of the daughters would turn 15 in a few months. She would wear the dress for her quinceanera or coming of age party.

After the family washed the car, the owners never would suspect the hardships it had endured nor the mud it had accumulated. Swinging a book bag over his shoulder, the eldest son climbed in the back seat. Octavio’s wife waggled a finger at me; Octavio slid into the driver’s seat. We were off to the center of the City. Octavio would deliver his son to an English class, me to my posada and the car to its owner. Octavio and his son would return home by bus.

Before I left Oaxaca, we planned another trip to Apoala. It would be during the dry season in May of 1999. The route would be safer to drive.

Six months later I was back in the City in time for our second trip to Apoala. Octavio had booked a guide and rooms at the yu’u in Apoala. Our arrival time scheduled for 11:30 a.m. dictated an early morning start.

We drove the federal highway, paid the toll and turned off at the exit for Nochixtlan. We bought oil at a Pemex gas station before going into the center of town to buy fruit and bottled water at the market. Before we shopped, we visited a church at the edge of the market. The interior was cool and dark. “It is the custom,” Octavio whispered, “to visit the local church in order to pray for a safe journey.”

Octavio selected a restaurant. Customers sat at the back in the open air at trestle tables and long benches. At the front, the chef presided over a brazier on the sidewalk. There was no better advertisement to attract customers than the smell of sizzling meat and poultry.

We ordered goat consommé. It was filled with goat meat, goat bones and vegetables. Succulent fare. Hot and tasty. The consommé came with bowls of chopped scallions, chopped cilantro and salsa. We took what we wanted and stirred it into the consommé. Dark red cubes floated in the broth. “These are cubes of congealed and hardened goat blood,” Octavio confided. “Very nourishing," he added.

An elderly couple with weather-beaten faces sat across from us. The man had plantain leaves piled with white corn mush and topped with cubes of goat blood. He scooped up the mush with a rectangle cut from a plantain leaf.

Our hunger satisfied, we departed Nochixtlan, passing the bread kilns, the thatched roof houses, the outhouses, through Amatlan, by the Swiss style houses and through Fortin Alto.

The terrain was eroded. Slabs and boulders were strewn about as if tossed by an angry giant. Patches of dried grass interrupted barren red-brown soil. Agaves dotted the background. In the distance were clusters of trees with crowns of green foliage and bent and angled trunks.

The car crested a mountain. All we could see was a blue sky awash with white clouds. As the car nosed downwards, shafts of brilliant sunlight pierced the deep shadows on the lower flanks of the mountains. Potholes jerked the car to abrupt halts.

“Look, another tree cross!” we exclaimed. It stood in a field to our right. Its wood was deep red. The two thick branches that extended outwards made the cross look like a stick man with his arms extended. White crepe paper hung from its top. Someone had carved a large dove from white stone and placed it atop a cylindrical rock in front of the cross. A dirt road led from the cross to a small house hidden behind a screen of trees.

Farther on the left, the ground had been freshly turned to form a circle of bright red soil. Boulders and rocks enclosed the circle. Two lance-shaped boulders, similar to menhirs, stood in the center. Who had built the circle; what was its purpose?

The clouds had moved on, leaving the sky an intense blue. It stared down on eroded top soil, mats of dry grass and lightly forested mountains with bare summits. The land pleaded for nourishment.

We paused at a fork. Last year we had gone right. The road to the left was new, dug from the deep red earth of the surrounding countryside turned to the color of rich, vibrant blood by the night’s rain. The left fork was the most direct and also the most difficult; it ascended almost vertically. Our reward for choosing the left fork was another tree cross.

We drove through more dust and more arid land. Plots had been cleared for planting. They too bled red. It seemed as if we were constantly being reminded of blood: first, goat’s blood, later the red blood-soaked soil of Mother Earth. Perhaps we were meant to give thanks that Mother Earth gave her blood to us to nourish us, not only through rich soil that produced crops but through the animals that grazed upon her.

To be continued...