Going Down to Mexico, Part 5
The interior of the Basílica de Nuestra Señora de la Soledad (Our Lady of Solitude) in Oaxaca
As I reflect on this trip, I wrestle to explain the spiritual journey I was on. How did I come to share in Miguel’s mission to witness God’s love? How did I reach a point where I’d write at the end of a journal entry, “May the Lord be with me”? Like many kids my age (22), I was looking for answers. I was looking for a way to be at peace with myself and live in the world. The poet in me also relished, or was comfortable with, the mysterious and the mystical. Deep in my heart I knew this wasn’t the only path I would follow in my life, but it was the one presented to me at that moment, and I wasn’t going to be so stubborn as to refuse it.
Sunday, January 30, was our last day in Puerto Escondido, capped by the excitement of a school of sardines veering into the bay, glittering silvery as they leapt in the air, followed by larger fish and a flock of terns feeding on them. All the niños rushed down to the shore as sardines and other fish were beached or trapped in shallow pools. We followed them and grabbed dinner – a good-sized sea bass flopping on shore. The next morning we got a ride to San Gabriel Mixtepec, about fifty kilometers north, in the back of a flatbed truck carrying spools of barbed wire. As the truck wound its way up a dirt road into the mountains, it took on other passengers – one with a pig, another with a portable corn miller, a family with two children – until the bed was full. Miguel and I slept that night by a stream under coffee trees.
The next day we got a late start, missing what little traffic there was, and hiked through pine forests, quiet cafetales, and crisp mountain air to the next town. We got a better start the following morning, and a ride from the first passing vehicle, a truck delivering tanks of cooking gas to towns along the way, up into the misty morning clouds, cresting the Sierra Madre del Sur, and down into the Central Valley to Sola de Vega, where the pavement began, and on to San Pablo Huixtepec, where we camped by an irrigation dam under a full moon. At the other end of the broad agricultural plain was the city of Oaxaca, thirty kilometers away.
One ride brought us to the edge of the city, and we hiked the last few kilometers, from the farms on the outskirts to el centro. We tested a seminary for a place to stay that night and were offered sixty pesos and directions to a hotel – our first bed and hot shower in months. Asking around for a camping spot the next day, we discovered a long set of stairs, twenty minutes from the Zócalo, that took us up a hill to an amphitheatre and beyond that a forest. We set up camp on Cerro del Fortín, from which we could look out over the city. In the morning we met the men who guarded the forest, protecting it from households seeking stove wood. They were friendly and let us store our rucksacks in their hut during the day.
Oaxaca offered lots to see and do. The Zapotec ruins at Monte Albán were a short bus ride away. The Museo de las Culturas de Oaxaca gave a good overview of the pre-Columbian Zapotec and Mixtec civilizations. We saw a French movie with Spanish subtitles at the French language school one day, went to a free classical guitar concert another, wandered the city, unwinding at times in one of the many beautiful churches, such as the aptly named Basílica de Nuestra Señora de la Soledad. We hung out at the Zócalo, scrutinizing the tourists and admiring the Zapotec women in their beautifully embroidered huipiles.
A huipil (traditional indigenous tunic) that Pat brought back from a trip to Oaxaca with her friend Sue Martinez in 1974
Every day we stopped at the mercado for a treat of fresh produce or large mugs of café con leche. In one of the small tiendas on the street side of the market, we met Señora Eugenia, who owned a mole shop. (The small containers of peanut butter she stocked first drew us in.) We were attracted to her charm and intelligence, and chatted with her when she wasn’t busy with customers. She sold us a jar of her mole negro and showed us how to use it to elevate a dish of arroz con pollo. Later we visited her home to help repair a chili roasting machine. In her factory, located across the inner courtyard from her residence, all the ingredients – cacao beans, peanuts, chili peppers, onions, garlic, and spices – were roasted, ground, and combined to make this Oaxacan speciality. The aromas and powdery dust merged and drifted in the sunshine slanting through the skylights.
We saw the forest guards only on weekends but got to know them well. We watched one skillfully weave a basket from strips of bamboo, and he let us try our hand at it. We shared our message with a number of them, talking about our experiences: “I once was lost but now I’m found.” Over time, this had become a natural thing to do, and in a country as religious as Mexico, people were receptive and respectful. It was never about proselytizing. I gravitated to the clarity and brevity of the Beatitudes: “Blessed are pure in heart, for they shall see God.”
Miguel and I returned to the issue of taking our separate paths, considering the pros and cons as we walked the city. Acknowledging our spiritual concordance, Miguel tentatively agreed to the proposal. More discussion was needed, but the tenor of the conversation was less heated than that of two months ago. I wanted to make sure the break was clean, positive, and above reproach.
We met two men who offered us information about magic mushrooms, which we’d been interested in since a conversation in Morelia. At their house they showed us photos of derrumbes: psilocybin mushrooms – ten centimeters tall, white stems, phallic black heads, growing in bunches in June and July near Huautla de Jiménez, a Mazatec pueblo about 200 kilometers north of Oaxaca. A strange and powerful mixture of mystical and drunken spirits resided in that house, but they listened intently to our message.
Near the end of our second week in Oaxaca, Miguel came down with a severe stomach flu. On the second day of his fever, he became incapacitated, and I busied myself caring for him. The fever tested Miguel, and in the middle of it he raised the issue of our imminent separation. He chastised me for being self-centered, a charge I couldn’t refute. During the coldest night we’d experienced in a long time, Miguel’s fever broke. The next morning I fixed a hearty breakfast of huevos rancheros (minus some of the chili peppers). As the sun warmed us, we became overpowered by the moment – the return of health and strength, the relief after an emotional trial – and we both realized it was time to part, that this would be a step forward.
That evening, Miguel and I shared a long farewell hug, two tall lanky blonde guys from Austria (well, my grandfather was), one difference being a decade of experience. I packed up my gear and walked to the station to catch the night train to Mexico City. As I waited for the train, I was tested by doubts. I felt the absence of Miguel; we’d been traveling partners for 4½ months after all. But my thoughts also turned to a promise I made to Pat the day I left Iowa City: to return by April 1.
The second class section was crowded, and I wasn’t able to sit down until our soldier guards detrained at midnight. I stretched out, covering myself with my old woolen serape as we moved through the mountain night, the names of Indian pueblos whispered into my dreams. As morning came we entered the Valle de México – irrigated farms became dirty factory sprawls became working class slums became the comparative wealth of el centro. Disembarking at Estación Buenavista, I wandered the area, getting my bearings, stopping for lunch in Parque Alameda, asking around about places to stay. I was directed to Colonia San Rafael, just west of the city’s historic center. Many of its early 20th century mansions had been converted into pensiónes. (See Alfonso Cuarón’s Roma, set in the early ’70s in a nearby neighborhood, to get the vibe.) A sign in a store led me to Serapio Rendon 39 and a tiny room for 25 pesos a day ($1.25) with kitchen privileges for a few pesos more – homey, with lots of families and children.
On Saturday I visited the Palacio de Bellas Artes and marveled at its Art Deco interior and the impressive murals by Diego Rivera, David Siquieros, Rufino Tamayo, and José Orozco. I took a bus to the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, the heart of the student protest movement, where I met a group of architecture students on break from class and talked with them about politics and the student massacre of eight years before. The next day I took the Metro to Parque Chapultepec and spent four hours wandering the magnificent Museo Nacional de Antropología and then strolled through the park:
Everyone goes to Chapultepec Park on Sunday
The Metro line is crammed with
A flood of refugees from the working week
Families lay out picnics on the grass
Babies cry and melt ice cream on their new outfits
Children romp through the gardens
And play futbol around the monuments
Young lovers couple on the sexual merry-go-round
The lonely are not alone
Some visit the zoo it’s so nice
Others evade the cages of despair
They rent boats and row in circles on the pond
For one hour feeding the ducks
Monday, I visited the newly completed Basílica de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe and witnessed the devotion of pilgrims coming from all parts of the country, crawling on their knees the last hundred yards over paving stones to her shrine to petition for help or health. Sitting in Parque Alameda and enjoying my lunch, I was invited to meet that evening with a class of students studying English. Perhaps I’d offer them the message. The city was interesting but too fast and cold and dirty. I was relaxing into traveling solo again, open to the world around me, maintaining a clear-eyed view of my actions.
Glossary
cafetales - Small-scale coffee farms found in Mexico primarily in the highlands of Oaxaca and Chiapas.
Zócalo - Central plaza or square. The Zócalo in Mexico City was built over the ceremonial center of the Aztec city of Tenochtitlan.
mole negro - A marinade sauce that can be traced back to the indigenous peoples of Central Mexico. It can transform a simple arroz con pollo (chicken and rice) dish. Because of its complex array of flavors and laborious preparation process, it’s often associated with celebrations and festivals.