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yesitalksMarch 26 A Potpourri Christmas to Easter - March 2008A Teacher's Blog - Yelapa English Spanish Institute http://www.talkadventures.com
A Runner’s Inspiration
Kipp studied with YESI in November. She was inspiring since she’d get up at 6:30 or so, in the dark, and run upriver and back before breakfast and an early class. On these journeys she saw a fledgling group of Mexican women running. While Kipp was very seasoned in running and dressed for it, the women had excess cargo and wore flip flop sandals. ¡Imaginate! Imagine! When Kipp knew she would be back for a 2 day visit with husband, Phil, she asked if the women might want some lightly-used but in good condition, running shoes. I asked the doctor, Princesa, and a couple of runners what they thought. They were very happy and excited. Most mothers in Mexico don’t typically have the luxury of spending money on themselves that could be better spent on the family. They suggested maybe 15 pairs of shoes would be needed. I thought this a high number, since I hadn’t seen that many runners out a couple months ago. Also I didn’t think Kipp would be able to carry so many, in addition to regular luggage. Kipp put the word out to the community in Albuquerque. The response was immediate and generous. In early March, Kipp and Phil transported 24 pairs of track shoes in very good condition – many of them top of the line Nike, Brooks, various classy cross-trainers. They were also freshly washed and looking brand new! And some men’s pairs were thrown in for good measure. Now thoughts are going into what commitment the women need to make to running to be rewarded a pair. Kipp’s already working on the Albuquerque sister donors hosting a run in their city – at 5,280 feet. I’ve put out to Cruz, the one Mexican male runner here, and the jogger's fitness coach, Princesa, the idea of sponsoring a Yelapa run on Marine Day, June 1st. Runners, keep in touch on this one!
Garbage Collection – Gringo Style
Well, less than 50% of the local townsfolk are estimated to recycle and send out their garbage on the weekly garbage boat. There’s a lot of traffic through Yelapa and most of it collects in some nook or cranny. Bob McCormick decided to do something about it. He’s made his contribution to the various charities, recycling groups, hospital projects, etc. Now was time to take action. He ordered a few dozen T-shirts, Luchadores Contra Basura de Yelapa, Fighters Against the Garbage of Yelapa, bought a number of handy garbage retrievers so there’s little bending over required and inspired a dozen or so high school students. Of course, they were motivated by a barbecue, turkey sausage dogs on the barbie, afterwards. The students were not expecting to have to work hard, but they did. In the end there were 70 big black garbage bags sitting on the dock which were carried out by boat (private booking with a truck arranged at the other end) the same day. And that only cleaned the downtown core, which is very small. I could see a few hours weekly as a school project for all classes would be what it would take to clean the river valley along the trails.
A month passed and the town needed another facelift for Easter. Bob again organized a clean up – 8 gringos signed up, 3 actually came. Ani, Bob’s wife, said this time they weren’t scouring the earth picking up every cigarette butt, but just the obvious most annoying and most disgusting people waste. Sixty bags again were filled with garbage. The bottom-line is: garbage is endless, take yours with you or Re-use and Recycle as much as possible. Fill that water bottle again, and again!
Making Soap
In January when I visited Chacala with Sergio and his wife, Chena, Hortensia’s youngest daughter from Yelapa, we stopped to see some of the plants growing in gardens in family homes. We collected seeds, plant cuttings and roots. At his aunt’s house there was a big aluminum tub full of bubbling ashy yellow thick liquid. Under it was a small wood fire. Beside this was a pail full of ashes, with a well of water in its centre. Below this was a pail to collect the drippings. When asked what was in progress, they explained the pork fat was boiling, the ashes with water produced lye, which when added to the fat, and boiled non-stop for three months produced soap. This in the stores here in Yelapa is sold as laundry soap for eight pesos. It was nice to see a sustainable practice in operation. It was also easy to see how we’d deviated to the easy option of store bought items.
Mariposas Monarcas
As a child in Canada I knew that the Monarch butterflies migrated south in the winter. To where it was a mystery, but I recall that these were special butterflies. I did somehow know that they ate milkweed plant leaves and somehow became poisonous to predators. Amazingly, other butterflies will mimic their colours and predators which have learned that orange and black will make them sick if not dead, will also leave them alone. I also worked in Morelia, Michoacan near where the monarchs migrated to back in 1985 without ever going to see them on their winter grounds.
Now was the time in my life to see this compatriots. After all, we Canadians weren’t really “snowbirds”, as the Ann Murray song goes, we’re really “monarcas”, since we hibernate 5 or 6 months here and then go back home miraculously changed, with new life and in a new skin.
The Monarch butterfly (mariposa) has 4 life stages: egg, larva, pupa and adult. The length of each stage varies with the climate. Eggs (huevocillos) are laid on the back of milkweed (Asclepias) and hatch in 3 to 5 days. The larva (oruga) is brilliant black yellow and white rings in contrast to other larvae which blend in to the environment. Since there are poisons in the milkweed, these are present in the larvae. Predators eat this and are warned to find something else to eat. After 14 days, and five changes of skin, a conical green sack envelopes the pupae stage (capullo). This becomes transparent later. After eight to thirteen days the orange and black adult emerges feet first, extends itself, dries and hardens. The orange and black patterns differs between male and female of the adult; the female has wider black veins. They mate in the air, lay eggs and die. Such is life for a butterfly.
Usually adults live four to five weeks. For the monarch once the fall arrives, a migratory generation is born (la generación matusalén) that last seven or eight months. These adults have lower quantities of sexual hormones and their sexual organs do not develop initially. This doesn’t happen until the weather warms up at their hibernation grounds in Mexico, a little before their northern migration. The adults mate in the air, the male clutching the female with its back feet while flying. Even how they mate in Mexico differs than how they mate in their northern region, being more forceful in the tropics! This pairing (apareamiento) can last from a few minutes to 16 hours, while the male transfers both the sperm and nutrients to produce the eggs. These fly back and once they reachthe United States, the voyage is continued in a relay race of consecutive generations born each four or five weeks, until they return to Canada.
Studies of their migration only began in 1937 by a Canadian pair of biologists, Dr. Frederick Urquhart and his wife, Norah Patterson. They tagged monarchs and had thousands of volunteers join in tracing their route. In 1973, after 35 yeas of study, they finally advertised in a Mexico City newspaper asking for help finding the hibernation area. An American businessman responded and rode around Mexico on his motorcycle until in January of 1975 he found the first known sites in the state of Mexico, near Michoacán. Dr. Urquhart published his findings in National Geographic in 1975. That recent date explains why I didn’t know about this amazing migration as a child, nor even as a student biologist in the early 1970s.
Las Monarcas in Mexico – While in Canada and the U.S. the monarchs live in rural agricultural areas where the Asclepias or milkweed grows, usually open fields with a great influence of winds and often drastic temperature and humidity changes. On their hibernating grounds, in contrast, they live in closed forests protected from winds, and changes in humidity and temperature, at more than 3,000 meters altitude. They specifically target temperate forests of oyamel, a type of eucalyptus introduced from Australia. They appear to be headed to the dense forest cover offered by this specific species.
Fall migration begins in September and beginning of October. They use the sun and tiny bits of magnetite in the thorax to use the magnetic fields to guide their path. One biologist, Dr. Orley Chip Taylor has mapped the routes use on his web page www.monarchwatch.org . By the end of October, the monarchs are on the hibernation grounds in the east of Michoacan and western border of the state of Mexico. There are some migratory routes and monarchs that live west of the Rocky Mountains that hibernate on the coast and centre of southern California. Some also go via Florida and via the Yucatan into Central America.
In Mexico, from mid-November to mid-February the monarchs remain relatively stable. They populate the southwest slopes of the oyamel forests (a type of eucalyptus) from 2800 m and higher. In the second half of February, with warming temperatures and lower humidity, they move down in altitude along the drainages, searching more humidity. At the end of Feb and during March they initiate their pairing and then begin the migration north.
The population of monarchs has changed over the years. They estimate this by photo images of the surface area they cover in the months when they are most stable. Coverage has changed from 2 hectares to 20 hectares. These estimates show an almost 77% drop in populations in 10 years. Threats occur in Canada and the United States to their breeding grounds due to urbanization, use of pesticides, especially Roundup, toxic to their host plant, milkweed. Other threats occur on their hibernation grounds. Monarchs have a hemolymph or “blood” that can withstand low temperatures to -14 degrees Celsius without freezing their wings, if there is not excessive humidity on their bodies. If winter rains wet their bodies and temperatures drop, a large part of the population can freeze. This happened in 2001-2002 and in 2003-2004. Scientists feel this is increasingly occurring due to the reduction in size of the forests which makes it hard to maintain an adequate microclimate to protect the butterflies.
I drove a long way to see these monarchs, and hoped I wasn’t being propelled by advertising hype nor would face a disaster on the hibernation grounds. The countryside of eastern Michoacan was hills and forests only on the mountains, farmlands, river, lakes, and some ecotourism resorts. Of the two butterfly sanctuaries open to the public, Chincua and El Rosario. I chose the latter since it was closer, it had abundant butterflies and I liked the name of the town, Angangueo (an-gan-gay-oh). It was a mining town recently closed, with a prosperous funky feel to it; some nice hotels and restaurants but still not “touristy”.
I arrived in the early evening. Most tourists stay closer to the town centre, but I chose the simple Hotel Mary, that had seen grander days. I tend to like local colour. Across the street was a Don Juan type who had a thing about Marilyn Monroe and posted numerous posters. Two doors down there was a whole band of five musicians rehearsing. The room was not much wider than their loudspeaker. They blared out great salsa hits and I salsa-ed up the street to see the sights.
Next morning I asked opinions of whether a regular rental car could do the journey up to the sanctuary. “Sure. No problem. Go slow. Follow the signs”. About 2 km up there were two men keeping each other company, collecting 35 pesos to direct you to the right. A simple sign would do, but this was a form of full employment! Another kilometer further in another little pueblito (little village) four young boys besieged my car wanting to guide me. “Only one,” I said. I instructed the chosen boy to hop into the passenger seat. His name was Adrian, eight years old and the oldest of five children. “Why aren’t you in school?” I asked, realizing it was Wednesday. Mi maestro es un huevón. “My teacher is a big testicle”, he replied. Porque es un huevon? Why, I asked. Porque no quiere enseñar clases siempre. He doesn’t want to teach classes always. He was either pretty astute or listened carefully to his parents!
We rode to the entrance of the park. I left my car and him waiting to return with me, although I warned him it would be much, much later. I was not here for a quick peek. The climb was probably difficult for most, but not for one who lives in the hills of Yelapa where walking is a way of life. The dust on the trail and the constant sweepers keeping the dust in the air is a problem. Bring a simple face mask, if you come.
At the top of the stairs, in open meadows with large blossoming shrubs, there were foot paths, some going in various directions. And there were butterflies; a moderate number, flitting between flowers. It wasn’t the spectacle I was expecting. The path led on to where a small crowd gathered, eyes upward. Here was a miracle. Countless thousands of butterflies stuck to the trunks, covering every branch. It was difficult to discern any one butterfly. They sat thousands-thick, side by each, on top of whatever foothold, with their wings folded up as they matched the brown tree trunks or covered the branches. I cry when overwhelmed by miracles. Naturally, I cried. Then sat and watched for hours.
As the sun warmed the butterflies, they opened their wings to dry them and they recharged. As slight breezes wafted through the trees, those able would fly, others drifted on the wind. The skies were orange and moving. Some would land on the ground, many doomed to be stepped on, some already exhausted and damaged by the winter’s harshness. Others would light on a bush, or on a head or arm. Imagine four busloads of children shrieking and trying to catch or be the host body for a pet monarca.
I returned from my visit in awe. I prayed the young Mexican students could influence their governments and the local townsfolk to stop the destruction of the forests. I prayed also to stop the destruction of their northern food sources; a message we Canadians and Americans need to take home.
Mexican Music Night in Yelapa
Neti and her mother Henny, and her niece, Esme, came for a week to study. Henny was of Dutch descent but raised in Indonesia, interned by the Japanese as a teenager in the World War. Her story is an inspiration. Neti is a professional musician from New Orleans, also a survivor of catastrophe. She practiced while here, and one night promised to play for Irma and Angel, their hosts. We were joined by Irma’s sister, Abelia and her husband, Lucio, and the postmaster, Margarito, and wife. With other YESI students, Anne and Marie and sons, we had dinner on the rooftop terrace. Then out came the violin and guitar. Soon Irma was singing along to La Cancion Mixteca – Mixtec Song, one of my favorite “blues” ballads from Mexico.
O, tierra del sol Oh land of the sun Suspiro por verte I sigh to see you Ahora que lejos Now so far Yo vivo sin luz y sin amor I live without light and without love Y al verme tan solo y triste cual hoja al viento On seeing myself so alone and sad like a leaf in the wind Quisiera llorar, quisiera morir I want to cry, I want to die of nostalgia. de sentimiento
Neti and Esme sang other numbers, mostly in Spanish, some originals, often joined by one or both of the sisters. Soon we heard other music and song wafting upward from the house below. It was nephew Eric and friend Rangel, on bandoneon and guitar. Angel quickly called them up to join our voices and it became a great party; the sort of spontaneous celebration that happens often in Mexico. From higher up the hill came the sounds of saxophone, more violin, and guitar and voice, mostly in English, from another get together. I secretly longed to ask them down too, but reneged on the thought. Too often Mexicans will sit back and let us take over. The mix was just right at the moment. Everyone left contento - happy; Esme and Rangel made dates to study songs together. Two happy moms, students Ana and Maria wore broad smiles, and woke up their sleeping sons to reluctantly tread home. I am still trying to figure out how to transfer these songs to my computer for you to listen to!
Guadalupe en Tuito
For many years I’ve wanted to get to the Virgin of Guadalupe celebrations in Tuito, the municipal centre of the 13 villages that makes up this municipality of indigenous reserves. This year I took Joy and her four year old daughter, Anne Marie, now repeat visitors for three years from Calgary; and Dalia, a second year returning student and adventurer who also accompanied us into the mountains in December. Tuito is small despite the 13,000 residents. We checked into the one hotel, a testimony to the few tourists that ever come this way. We went to the church, la iglesia, where all the pilgrims (peregrinos) from each village had ended their pilgrimage (la peregrinaje) (some actually walking the whole or most of the way). Everyone from Yelapa seemed to be there this year. Irma and Ana Rosa dressed in unbleached manta, raw cotton, with pink pareos (sarongs), led the procession. Everyone had somewhere to stay in Tuito as they were all one family.
The town was filled with vendors of a variety of trinkets, dinnerware, hardware items, jewelry, hair fashion accessories. One vendor demonstrated, using a wig, the 40 different ways that a woman could use a plastic-coated pliable wire to wrap her hair. He showed smooth-talking salesmanship that I didn’t think existed outside of TV commercials. Another enthralled a crowd of 30 or more people with his version of the ideal natural diet for Mexicans – making light of the pure carbohydrates and meat diet most had grown up and plump on. They were entertained. He convinced them that his recipe book and diet solution of reverting to the old traditional meals grown from the garden would make them svelte. They bought all his copies. I was drawn to the collection of beautiful machetes and knives (navajas). I found one from Sayula, in an engraved leather scabbard that I had planned to pick up if ever I got to that distant mountain town, not on the way to anywhere. Dalia bought a machete (a long broad blade and handle usually under two feet in length, common in every household in Mexico) which had etched figures of a hunting scene on the blade, for her son. We obviously are women to be treated with respect, if not caution!
Of course, there was food. The hit late that cold evening was the hot chocolate with a local orange liqueur. And for the children there was cotton candy at the mid-way with carousels, bumper cars, trampolines, and other rides that looked like they’d been used non-stop since the 1950s. The surprise to us northerners is that Mexican children don’t go to sleep early, almost ever, and never seem to be cranky. None of the mothers I know even dare to try it! I swear Mexican genes allow for late-night partying.
The highlight everyone gathered for was the castillo. A fireworks, unparalleled in the north, and becoming rare in Mexico. The last time I experienced one was twenty two years ago. A castillo is a bamboo and wood structure, possibly 30 feet or more, of various wheels holding pyrotechnics. As each fuse is lit, one wheel, or usually all matched pairs of wheels, sometimes on all four sides, is set to blast and move in circular brilliance. When one set completes, the next is lit. These continue in patterns, increasingly remarkable for the noise, shooting rockets, and colours. The final sets of blazing wheels at the top actually dropped horizontally from their vertical position to reveal a religious image of the Virgin. Miracles never cease in Mexico! It was followed with a finale of ground launched fire rockets. A friend had complained years ago of the dangers of the fireworks rocketing into the crowd. But from my vantage behind a stone statue of the Virgin I was happy to report there were no accidents.
Then a man who looked as amiable as Yogi Bear arrived playing the tuba, leading his band, gesturing directions with his eyes and his eyebrows, all happy face and nods. All of the wide-awake procession followed in a trance into the church. After a chorus of hallelujahs and continued music, the band played in reverse, or at least walked backwards with the same up-tempo um-pah-pah on the way out.
Easter in Huichol Country
Travel day began with ominous storm clouds, high winds, and even a drop of rain or two. It was Tuesday, time to make a trip to San Andrés de Cohamiate, the Huichol high country and canyon lands they call their ancestral home in the Sierra Madre Mountains northeast of Tepic. I went last year and with patient guides, began to understand their culture through the experience, but wanted to learn more. I was willing to fly for an hour in a small plane over canyon lands and wilderness to get the message. But the Gods were not so willing.
The storm passed, but left strong winds and white caps that by mid-morning stopped most boats and water taxis from going out again. In the ten years I’ve lived here, that’s not happened before. So fierce were the waves, that one of the larger tourist boats, the Santa Maria, was beached in Quimixto and flooded to the second deck
Since the Huichol government does not allow visitors into San Andrés after noon on Wednesday, it was going to be nearly impossible to get there. Rather than abort my experience with the Huichol natives, I headed to Tepíc, where there was a community of Huichol, including my friend, Alejandro Severiano Carillo, a frequent visitor who sells his native art in Yelapa.
The ex-governor of Nayarit donated to the Huichol natives a small hill over-looking the city only a short city bus-ride from downtown, now called Zitacua. I had a dual purpose in entering the village. I wanted to know how their citified life differed here and what their Semana Santa (Holy Week) celebrations were like, in contrast to the mostly pagan rituals at San Andrés. I also wanted to study the yarn art for a friend for his gallery near Toronto. I briefly sketched the events at San Andres in my blog of June, 2007: drinking fermented corn tejuino all-night, returning from a pilgrimage to wirakuti where the peyote grows, taking peyote to commune with the gods, all-night singing and dancing processions in and around the village, and on the very last night they dancing and praying around the cattle which were sacrificed in place of deer.
We arrived at the vendors’ stands at the entrance to Zitacua. There was a twenty foot image of a traditionally dressed Huichol with shaman’s hat. Under its shadow were about twenty young boys and teenagers, blackened from head to toe, wearing black, some in wigs, with bags, amulets, some in drag, many with dolls, teddies, bejewelled, some with clubs.
Then I remembered the Huichol version of the police over-seeing the procession that was the equivalent of the Stations of the Cross that I witnessed in San Andrés. These were the judios. The Jews. They enforced the laws. Their version of the enforcers at Christ’s crucifixion was unique in that they were part jester, or clown, and part crowd control. Could it be they were making fun of the dominant culture by dressing so ridiculously? They ran around the village, at one point they had some of their own tied to a stake in the centre as punishment. I recalled a few friends spent a few hours in the jail in San Andres, for violating some rules. Well, we befriended these overseers, who unlike the normal military in any country, allowed photos!
Through the village gate we came upon an art store and a small plaza with a thatched roof ceremonial house (a caguli). In front of the store, a band played several Huichol tunes on bass, violin and guitar. Here a few men wore their traditional embroidered two piece tunic and pants, and a few women wore the long, voluminous gathered skirts that billowed out from usually comfortably round mid-riffs. In contrast, in San Andrés last year, few were not in customary dress.
I entered the store to view some of the art. There are many exceptional artists who make their craft and sell them at various tourist locations along the coast and in the cities. I was pleased to see the variety of yarn art, as well as an abundance of beaded pictures and jewelry.
For those unfamiliar with yarn art, or arte de estambre, the medium used to paint the board is coloured yarn, a moderately thin thread, thicker than embroidery thread usually. The board used is typically a fairly dense plywood made of a hardwood called coabilla. Occasionally a type of cedar (cedro) is used. More recently they’ve begun using a pine (pino) plywood, which is much lighter to transport and for their foreign markets, much cheaper to ship. The board is covered with beeswax, treated to make it pliable but not fluid. A pointed instrument, traditionally a porcupine quill, is used to push the yarn into the desired designs.
The designs usually depict some scene in the spiritual life of the Huichol, often as seen under the influence of their peyote God. Each image is symbolic of some act of healing by the gods, communication with their gods, cleansing of illnesses or negative energy. Their gods include peyote, corn, eagle, deer, serpents, and the sun among other deities. Shamans preside over most depicted ceremonies using their healing wand, the muwieris, of a couple of feathers tied to a stick. The art looks like you had to be on pretty good hallucinogens!
In Zitacua the Huichol had fasted for 23 hours and by Thursday noon offered us a communal lunch in the caguli, the thatched adobe ceremonial centre. The ladies warmed up food and served it quickly and efficiently to the hungry masses. Dana and I had eaten a huge breakfast with meat and eggs and endless tortillas. The ladies brought out every form of carbohydrate in their culture – spaghetti, tortillas, beans, rice milk, atole (corn meal drink). It was rude to say “no”; one could only say “gracias”. We ate to bursting, and planned to smuggle food out to any waiting dogs.
We met an Irish woman who introduced herself as Marianne. The locals called her “madre” (mother). She was a Catholic nun. She claimed that all the people in Zitacua were Catholic. This occurred in only 16 years since they emigrated from the highlands. Another surprise to me was a group of Jehovah’s Witnesses soliciting house to house on their way through the town. In the caguli, they buried their statue of Jesus under palm leaves. He was to be resurrected on Sunday. I didn’t stay to see which of the major religions won, or how much of their ancestral religion remained. Whatever was certain to be less dramatic than the sacrifice of animals!
I was impressed last year in San Andres by their innocence, caring for each other, friendliness and openess. It was like stumbling into a Garden of Eden. Zitacua’s community was still very welcoming and sharing and caring. However, they were old hands at dealing to a non-native market and were more distant from visitors.
Zitacua is a social experiment that still stands the test of time to see if the benefits outweigh the costs. We’ve seen integration before and to my mind, what is lost is incomparable in value.
In my quest for authentic Huichol art, I didn’t see a great difference in the beauty of their art, but some newer renditions of older themes. The young artists with their renewed interest in old traditions expressed their excitement clearly in their work.
Gender
Spanish nouns have gender – masculine or feminine. My thanks go to Marie, who has studied over the past with me before, for forwarding this story. Is it sexist? Masculine or feminine?
A SPANISH Teacher was explaining to her class that, in Spanish, unlike English, nouns are designated as either masculine or feminine. 4. As soon as you commit to one, you realize that if you had waited a little longer, you could have gotten a better model.
Peace in the World – Jane Stillwater www.jpstillwater.blogspot.com
A student named Jane Stillwater arrived in December, and my returning student Jim told me about this very cool, very verbal great lady he hoped he could study with, even though she wasn’t quite at his level of Spanish proficiency. Of course they studied together. She needed to borrow some internet time after classes, and I was surprised that it took hours for her correspondence. Soon she informed me she had a blog and had no problem raging against the government and its malfunctions. She started her one-woman protest in 2000 with the inauguration of President Bush, and the concomitant war. Since then she’s visited Iraq, Israel and Palestine, Afghanistan and had a first hand view of what the wars were all about. Her blog has been a big hit. She then wrote a book, which she claims just fell from her onto the page. “Anyone can write a book. Just write a page a day, and in one year you have a book!” It’s called, “Bring Your Own Flak Jacket – Helpful Tips for Touring America´s Middle East". This can be bought online through Amazon or Barnes and Noble.
She put me on her mailing list for her blog, and I’ve been reading it whenever I can fit it in. What she’s done is remarkable. She's articulate, concise, charmingly opinionated and very informed. She attended various Democratic nomination campaigns as CNN correspondent. Amazing how she has made such a difference just by putting herself out there. I met people on the boat into Yelapa who worked on Democratic campaigns in Texas and informed me Jane Stillwater was highly ranked on the internet, and had read her “Survivor Puerto Vallarta” series while she was here in Yelapa. Others emailed me about classes, and asked if Jane Stillwater, who wrote great pieces for the online OpEdNews, was still here.
When in a fix, as she can often be (eg. stranded at the Baghdad airport at Starbucks since U.S. Military bureaucracy rescinded authorization for her stay and protection at their visitors barracks), she somehow uses that frail granny frame of hers and her hyper-sharp mind and wit to advantage and sees friends where others would see foes, and news where others would only see a dead-end situation. She’s entertaining, personal and astute in her writings and there isn’t a day that she doesn’t have something to tell us, that cuts through the media boggle. I invite you to check her out: www.jpstillwater.blogspot.com. Her objective is peace in the world, and the strengthening of America. I only hope there are more raging grannies who can do as much to spread the word of peace in this world.
February 16 From Day of the Dead to Walking Virgins - Feb 2008
Feb 14th, 2008
As I publish this months after the events, I realize it's too tempting to have adventures, far better than writing about them. Winter colds (yes, even here in the tropics) and blogger's block have made it even more difficult to publish than normal. As a reward extra fotos. Belated but heartfelt New Years greetings to all! Check out the winter and summer program of my school, Yelapa Englsh Spanish Institute at http:www.talkadventures.com and note the exciting new Spanish on the Road program (first trip described below).
Día de Los Muertos
The Journey - I finally succeeded alter 22 years of trying to return for the Day of the Dead celebrations in Pátzcuaro, Michoacán where I worked in 1986. My friends and former students, Jim and Jen, from Santa Cruz planned to meet me. I rented a car in Puerto Vallarta on October 30th and drove the route through the Sierra Madre mountains through San Sebastian and Mascota. Instead of heading to Guadalajara and the autopista (super highway), I veered east along the south shore of Lake Chapala. I drove about half of the trip in the dark, on a narrow, winding two-lane road. Dogs popped out of the tall grasses, scouting for road kill. The moon was rising dead ahead, guiding my mission. The trees arched overhead and I passed through their tunnel. People are warned not to drive after dark in Mexico, but I was seeing it as its best. I seemed to get a glimpse of their underworld. The spirits that dwell in the shadows in Mexico are very much “alive” and integral to their life as much as death.
Due to my late night arrival, I spent a shockingly cold night sleeping in the Renault Elf. The 2,200 m elevation required constant fiddling with my car heater. I awoke surrounded by crowds at seven a.m. There were trucks of flowers feeding flower stands that were sprouting up everywhere in the street. I couldn’t imagine that many flowers ever being used for one event. Mountains of marigolds were especially prominent.
The History - The pre-Hispanic people’s conception of the universe was one of dualities, Life-Death, two aspects of the same reality. Where one went after death was not determined by how one lived, but by how one died. The lowest plane of their world was the underworld or kingdom of darkness and death. For the Purepechan natives of Michoacan, this underworld was the equivalent of heaven. It was considered a place of pleasure, although it was a place where darkness ruled. The name designating that place was “Pátzcuaro” meaning “door to the sky”, where the Gods ascended and descended.
Centuries ago the ninth month on the Aztec calendar was devoted to the celebration of the dead. They thought the cold winds from the north in this month carried the spirits. After the Spanish colonization, the Gods of Death were destroyed, but not the cult to the dead that both cultures shared. The Catholic Church commemorated November 1st as Dia de Todos los Santos (All Saint’s Day) and Dia de Todas las Almas (Day of all Souls) on the 2nd of November, dedicated to the souls in purgatory.
The native belief is that in the Beyond the dead are given a license to visit their relatives who still live in the earthly world for these days. The Spanish custom was to adorn graves with flowers, leave food offerings including special “soul’s bread”. Bread, fritters and other foods were prepared and eaten upon conclusion of the celebration. In Mexico today, every village celebrates some form of this pagan-Christian celebration in a variety of ways. Each small village around the lake of Pátzcuaro has its own peculiar mix.
The Altar to the Dead - My hotel, San Miguel, had an altar, and even a decorated gravesite, common to every home for the event. There are traditional ways to decorate an altar. First cover the mirrors. Put a glass of water for the thirsty visitor, preferably blue to represent the cold of the dead person. The more candles the better, especially votive candles; gas lamps are acceptable. A photograph should be placed next to a skull cake. Copal and other incenses are placed to scare off bad spirits. A ceramic figure of a dog represents the pre-Hispanic animal xoloescuintles who were the only ones who knew the road to the other world and could guide the dead. All of this should be profusely decorated with the petals of marigold flowers (cempoazxóchitl in Purepechan). The orange color signifies abundance of the harvest, and the sun’s rays which bring light to the souls in the world of the dead. Their scent is to orient the dead person. A little plate of favorite food and other favorite objects of the deceased must be placed at the altar so he can recall the pleasing moments and want to return.
Dia de los Angelitos - In Pátzcuaro and the surrounding villages, the morning of 1 of November is el Día de los Angelitos - the day devoted to communicating and remembering the deceased children. All the towns typically have a very early morning mass and a visit to the cemetery, but each has variations. The entire family decorates the altar, announced with firecrackers during the walk from the godparents’ house, while the procession sings and prays. They prepare traditional dishes such as pozole (corn and pork stew), tamales (corn meal cakes), hot chocolate and the sweet cornstarch drink called atole. They leave sugar candies in the form of angels, and other sweets and toys that their child loved. In some towns this is done the evening of the 31st. On the island of Janitzio they celebrate in the church in the early morning attended only by the mothers and siblings. My friend, Francisco, told me about a village where only the women and children were allowed in the cemetery, the men watching from outside the walls of the cemetery.
My First Noche de Los Muertos - I had been warned about the hour long traffic jams heading to two of the favorite cemeteries of traditional celebration - Tzintzuntzan and the Island of Janitzio. My friend, Jim and I headed in the other direction to Jarácuaro on the night of 1 of November. The town is known for its sombreros and for this occasion its dances, which are held in the town square. The famous dances of Los Viejitos (the Old Ones) - bent over, twisted, but dancing up a storm. The night was very cold, and probably dancing was the best way to keep warm! We were dressed in layers of clothing and toques (knit hats) and patronized the vendors who kept boiling pots of hot cinnamon tea (una canelita) on the go. What impressed me most were the ancianas, the elder women, wrapped in shawls (rebosos) seated in front of candles and food offerings on the cold ground, not moving, keeping their vigil. At 2 a.m. we thought it time to move on to see the less lively participants in the cemeteries.
With my friends, Raul, his daughter and others we crowded into 2 cars and headed to the small neighbouring town of Arocutín. It was a rare site where the cemetery was located at the entrance to the church, overlooking the valley. The long steep road up the hill was lit with torches and there was a big banner, “BIENVENIDOS” Welcome. There were no line-ups and plenty of free parking.
The cemetery grounds were lit by thousands of candles. A huge crucifix of Jesus was made entirely of marigolds, towering about 30 feet above, against the background of the white stone temple. Each tombstone was also decorated with mostly marigolds, and other flowers were placed in various cans and vases. Baskets of food were left at each site. People sat on blankets, huddled around small fires, spending one night with their loved dead ones. No one seemed to mind the flash of many cameras. In fact, the head of one large family, Esteban, offered us una canelita - hot cinnamon tea - and somehow produced enough cups for all. He shared his story of umpteen children, and innumerable grandchildren. Their night vigil was not somber, but surprisingly light. Others were quietly seated at gravesites. We enjoyed the night's magic, and when we could fight sleep no more and were chilled to the bone, we crawled home through the traffic at four a.m.
Hallowe’en - A surprising twist to Dia de los Muertos is the superimposed newer Hallowe’en concept of Trick or Treat. When dark approached my first night there, the children flooded the town square carrying little plastic pumpkins. Un pesito para mi calabacita? A peso for my pumpkin. A few actually were in costumes and carried authentic pumpkins carved. I couldn’t keep enough pesos on me to fill the demand .As a child, I loved the dress up and the spooky mystery of Hallowe’en above all other feast days. It was truly magic and mayhem out there! So I was only too pleased to give them treats which I learned to keep on me at all times. I wasn’t expecting Hallowe’en trick or treaters to to be omnipresent throughout my five days there. They never filled up - five days of endless ghouls is possibly more than one tourist can take.
Yelapa Skunks
I was misled by local nomenclature to think the striped little weasel-like animal, the size of a 5 week old kitten that I caught chewing on chicken bones on my counter was a hurón, or weasel. It was not. After one convincing spray in my office, when I tried to shoo it out, I knew it was a skunk. But it had to be a baby skunk; it was so small and cute! After a little research, and many more photographs, I was able to match it up as a Pygmy Skunk, Spilogale pygmaea.
I’m not the only one confused. The scientific community until recently thought they were in the mustelid or weasel family, but molecular evidence shows they’re in their own family, Mephitidae. This genus, Spilogale, is the most weasel-like of them all.
Supposedly uncommon, they have a limited range on the Pacific coast of Mexico. They’re definitely not rare here in Yelapa. Everyone, it seems, has one under their stove, some even popping up into the oven from underneath. In my house, they’re most often seen checking out food on the kitchen floor or cruising along the walls looking for insects. They’re tiny; body length ranges from 11.5 - 34.5 cm (4.5 to 13 inches). They have a wispy tail tipped in white, and held upright, all 7 -12 cm (3 – 5.5 inches) of it. No two patterns are alike, but it has a black coat with characteristic white markings on its forehead and 2 to 6 white stripes over its back and sides. They typically have young in the spring, and there can be 2 to 9 young in a litter. They’re weaned before 8 weeks, adult-sized by 15 weeks. So in spring these new young are dashing under doors looking for their next meal.
The other local species, the Western Hog-nosed Skunk (Conepatus mesoleucus) is much more obvious. It’s a bigger skunk and you can smell its overwhelming odor almost any night of the week. They have a very white back and tail and a naked snout. This makes digging into holes much easier in their quest for insects and crabs. I have one tunneling under the bathroom and sharing its odours. Maybe it’s courting the septic tank! These are a South American species which has extended its range north into the southern U.S., occurring from the coast to 10,000 ft.
Banana Flowers - Las Flores de Los Plátanos
On my arrival this October, I had a banana tree throw a flowering pod a few feet from my patio. The display of fruiting banana is quite unique. The maroon-coloured hand-sized flower shoots out through the centre of the plant, and then with gravity hangs upside down. The maroon pod sheds each petal as it curls up. Under each is a row of tubular white flowers in a row that attract hummingbirds and bees. Oddly these flowers do not produce fruit and are sterile. The bananas are higher up this central stalk, coming off alternate bracts on opposite sides. Fruit and hummingbirds, a double win from where I sit with my students watching from a few meters away.
A few weeks later I saw a second banana plant with its central maroon flower, and tiny bananas further up.This time I saw large flowers from the end of the banana. I had never seen these flowers before. I took photos and asked Irma and Angel, the owners of this land, if they had seen such a sight. Irma was as delighted and surprised as I was. Angel had seen these flowers, but he didn’t make it sound like it was a common occurrence. I showed my Canadian neighbour, Nicola, the photos of one of “nature’s miracles”. She was delighted and showed Gail, who has lived upriver surrounded by her own banana orchard by 25 years. Gail hadn’t seen it either. I guess you have to be looking at the right time to see it. My review of the banana literature shows my bananas to blossom differently. It’s the small manzano or apple banana; possibly different flowering? Any banana horticulturists out there direct me to a web page, please!
Eva’s Bicycle
Eva and Pedro raised 2 daughters, one of whom lives with them, and her 3 children, Ronaldo 8, Susana or Chicha, 6 and Pedrito, 3. Eva and Pedro have raised them as their own. Homeless children in Mexico are rare. They are cared for by their family, or the community.
Over the years I’ve watched Eva and Pedro, both in their late 60s, as the primary care givers to these toddlers and babies. It’s a difficult feat for young parents, tough for grandparents. It’s tougher for Eva who has chronic ulcers on her lower legs that never seem to heal. She has diabetes which is a very common disease in the native population here in Mexico. Despite her discomfort, she never seems to complain, and there’s always a stream of the other neighborhood kids playing and other adults stopping by to chat. Eva jokes with everyone, in between serving the occasional shopper with items they sell from their store-front living -fishing line, rope, candies and chocolates, a few nails and screws. One day last summer she said, “Dr. Rafa recommends an exercise bicycle for me. He says it will help my sores to heal.”
Well, I was able to buy one in early November, from funds that student nurses here contributed. I’m always amazed at what taxi drivers will allow me to drag home! It was quite a fun evening when the bike was stationed in their living room. Everyone wanted to try it, of course. Eva started the next morning, a half hour cycle and then again in the evening. Pedro was also happy to work out, since it should help his diabetes too. Carlos, another grandson who is a bit large for his age, was actually the first one on it. I checked for a few days and they were still happy. One day she reported, in surprise but still smiling, “My vein burst and I lost two liters of blood! There was blood everywhere.” I was alarmed and called the doctor, who suspected this was an exaggeration. She was fine and continues cycling, but now the bike is set on lower resistance and she does only 15 minutes a session.
She reports at publication that the sores are all healing rapidly and she says, “Estoy mejor” I’m better. I still see the walnut sized blisters on her legs and I correct her, “Estas mejorando” You’re improving. Now she’s taking tablets of Nopal cactus that also work to control insulin levels.
I’ve had lots of students, too numerous to mention who have contributed bags of medical supplies and numerous scopes, autoclaves, blood sugar monitors, etc.. Thanks to all, the doctor’s once long list of urgent needs has been reduced to a few items – the current one is an electrocardiograph. The Yelapa community contributed items for a flea market and raised several hundred dollars. YESI nursingstudents added a few hundred and matching contributions were made by a generous donor. It will take several thousand dollars for the machine, but we’re on our way.
La Posada - Joseph and Mary Search for an Inn
Well, just about any story told by a child is going to be better than that told by an adult. The Yelapa kindergarten kids a week before Christmas staged a live choral re-enactment of Mary and Joseph going door to door looking for a room. Joseph was Alejandro Lorenzo who was supposed to be leading the burro, with the beautiful child-bearing María atop it. He was desperately unhappy for most of their peregrinación or pilgrimage and finally broke down sobbing. Lucky mama was along! There were also some very adorable angels, shepherds and other travelers in their entourage. I was very surprised that anyone could possibly turn these guys away. Although I have to say they could still use some work on their singing!
Then they had a fundraiser dinner and magic show and fire dancer to raise funds for a kitchen to make breakfasts. No one debated the need for a kitchen, and all were too happy to have another celebration with the charming little ones.
Don Capomo’s Quest for Blood
Christmas eve I was called by my friend, Don Strachan, locally known as Bonger Don. (Named thus for the bonger massage balls he manufactures and sells). I had heard he was in California with a very seriously bleeding ulcer. He was now in Puerto Vallarta. The doctors at home misdiagnosed his condition. Instead he had a rare diverticulum of the intestine near the heart. The doctors were going to operate on December 26th. One hitch – there was no blood in the blood bank. We finally figured out what blood he needed (Type O+ or O- blood). Well, I then spent the evening at the Christmas dance finding out who had O blood. Most gringos had no idea of their blood type, and were all drinking. All the Mexicans I met that night and the next day were drinking or drunk, even though all Yelapan natives are type O.
Some of those few gringos who did have O type and were not drinking, had trouble meeting the requirement to not be on any medications. Late at night on he 25th, I thought only religious non-drinkers might be our last hope. The Jehovah´s witnesses were out since they didn’t agree with blood transfusions. The evangelical group, Los Hermanos, was also out since I didn’t know enough of them and it was just too late. I had a rented boat for those donors who were able to make it at 7:30 a.m. the next morning on the 26th. At the dock I met three seminarians who had come to worshop and practice their sermon. I recruited them too. They wanted to go straight to the hospital afterwards to pray for him. A bonus, I thought.
Once there, our numbers were whittled down further by stricter requirements. A woman cannot donate blood one week before menses, during menses and a week after. That leaves about nine days when women are eligible! Apparently the problem is the hemogl | |||||||||||||||||||||||||
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