Monday night I was just dozing off, when the bed felt like it was shaking. At first, in my half daze, I thought is must be a particularly big truck on the street in front of the house, shaking the ground. The shaking stopped for a few seconds and then the house shook again, more mildly and without a sign of traffic anywhere. What I was feeling was temblors.
Popocatepetl must be trying to awaken his sleeping woman again.
I was with Vanessa at the hairdresser’s last week, when the girl’s sister, Ana, invited me to go along on Saturday to a little town up the mountain, then have lunch at a sister’s home. Now I made up my mind a long time ago, that unless something is obviously dangerous, say “Yes” to any invitation, otherwise, you never know what great experiences you might miss.
So I needed to get up early on Saturday, “dress for cold and hot” (whatever that means), and get to the opposite side of town, find a house I had been to once (which looks like every other house), to catch a ride to the town Tetipac (pronounced Te tee PAHK). We had to get going early because it was a good 45 minute drive to the top of the mountain and beyond — beyond all the towns I am familiar with, beyond the state park, Cerro del Huixteco (more on this in a future post), through the trees and the chilly air, and down the other side.
San Juan & Tetipac, Mexico
Now if Taxco is at 5600 feet or so, Huixteco has to be near an ear popping 7500 and the top of the peak around 8000 or so. We were high, that fact made very obvious when as we were heading down the other side, parts of the road had washed away and we had a commanding view of the town waaaaaaaaaaay down below as well as the tableland and mountains in the distance. 
As we had gone up, up, up, we then started down, down, down, curving around and around — whether due to the curvature of the mountain or to switchbacks because of the steepness of the terrain, I was not sure (probably both.) At last, we reached the town and snaked our way steeply through the upper regions and down into a main business area hugging the side of the mountain. We turned left at an intersection, and immediately ground gears to crawl up the steeply pitched street and parked. The parking spot was at such an angle that someone had to hold the door as I tried to heave myself out of the back seat without falling back in.
Safely out of the car, we then, walked still further up another steep grade to the top of a driveway, and you guessed it — what goes up has to go down, down, down, and down some more where at the bottom we crossed a stream on a couple of warped 2×12’s to come to the entrance of the house where the service meeting would be held.
We and three people from the house next door climbed a set of stairs into the lower patio area of what used to be a very grand casa with a nice landscaped yard and a pool (it is still a nice house upstairs, but the pool would make a better sunken garden at this point.) At this hour and altitude, I became very aware of what cold meant as I shifted uncomfortably on the cold cement, trying to find a sunny spot to warm my toes.
Soon, some others came, then more, and when there were about 20 or 30 of us all milling around, a brother got up on the steps above the group and said a prayer. Not speaking Spanish very well, I thought it was time to go in the field, but when I grabbed my bag and stood up again, lo and behold, breakfast was being served! I was offered coffee (the weak Mexican kind), tea, tortas (sandwiches), and rolls. I had eaten before I left so I accepted a cup of hot tea (to warm my toes) and found it sweeter than any sweet tea served in the deep South.
Up, up, up
After everyone had eaten, the food was packed up, the brother said another prayer and we were off, two by two — down the steps of the house, down to the stream, across the wooden “bridge” and up, up, and up the steep driveway to the top. I was breathing heavy (not used to this altitude nor the “can barely stand up” steepness,) but if the 87-year-old pioneer sister with a cane could make the grade, I was determined to do the same!
Now Mexican service is a little different than that of the US. Since there are few real blocks and lots of little callejons (alleys) to get lost in, everyone works house over house as a herd (or is that a flock?). Most of the group went down the steep incline to the main residential street and started working up the mountain; nine of us sisters were sent down a dead end road and then were to connect with the main group when we were done.
“So how does this work?” you say, since most Americans have trouble working house over house when there are just three people!
Well, the whole group walks along the street, and when a door to a house is found, two people peel off, knock and holler “Buenas dias!” and wait to see if someone comes to the door or sticks their head out a window above.
Not-at-home
(I still sometimes do not know how they know a house door from a garage door from a closed business since in these places most of the doors are solid corrugated iron gates that look more like garage doors. One thing I do know is if it has a padlock on the outside, no one is home.)
The rest of the group walks on, repeating this procedure (sometimes at doors within a few feet of each other) until they come to an alley or a fork in the road, then a 10-15 minute discussion ensues to determine if the alley is a real callejon with houses on it that should be worked or if it is even part of the territory to be worked, and if so who is going to go that way. The brother in charge, who is trailing the last members of his flock to be sure none get lost or left behind, usually arrives and reassigns groups of people to go each way.
On this particular day, the sister I was with had a good call at the first house (also the location of a tienda, a shop – but in this case a metal box, with sides that open to vend novelties, snacks, and necessities; think of the food carts on State Street or at a carnival only without wheels) which meant that everyone else worked the dead end and then went to the main street and started following the other group up the mountain street. That left us dead last in the flock, walking and walking up the steep incline in the hot sun until we caught up with the rest of the group, deep in discussion over which way to go. Getting that straightened out, we walked and walked and walked up some more either finding no one home (found out later most of the town was at a funeral) or being behind the rest of the group, attempting to make it to the front where we might actually be able to call on a house (a flock of geese come to mind.) Then we came to another fork in the road.
87 year-old pioneer (with cane)
As we waited and discussed whether we should take the side street (callejon) even steeper up the mountainside, where there may or may not be a house, or the calle (street) that seemed to continue on a gentle slope heading down, a man and his wife came down the callejon (so there were houses up there). I seized the opportunity to try out my presentation in very limited Spanish and when I had no more words to use, the sister helped out. The man took the magazines and answered the question about whether anyone else lived up there by pointing to an old man, with one leg, one crutch, and a pile of firewood on his shoulders as he started down a “callejon” (more of a dirt path short cut down the mountain) into town. I dare you to try that on two good legs without any firewood!
Sombrero Mountain
Nobody home today, so, on we went down the relatively gentle road, past the cow pasture and an amazing view of Sombero Mountain – so named because it looks like a giant sombero, until we came to the main road into town, far above where we started. So on we walked,down, down, down, past the city monument and the fountain welcoming you into town, past the washed out road with white rocks indicating not to drive there, past the first few houses and businesses, all visited by other members of the flock, well ahead of us, past the house on the rock (No, not that one!) until we came to what appeared to be the main (and only) intersection in town where everyone was gathering for break time (which means, find a place in the shade and if you can sit on something do so.)
It was not long before the car and the combi that had given everyone a ride over the mountain, appeared, loaded us all up, then took us down, down, down some more where the real center of town was located (you know because the church is located there along with a small square of businesses), past the weekly market stalls to a house in the lower section where we were invited to lunch by a sister and her daughter. They served everyone the most delicious mole (both red and green), friole tamales, and rice. Mmm mmm good!
Blue bear with red and green mole.
Service group, Tetipac, Mexico
Now, if you are wondering how you keep track of placements and not-at-homes in such a far flung, rustic place that may or may not have house numbers, well, you don’t. The territory is worked every week or two, so if you miss them this week, there is always next week and somehow all the sheep are found.
In Mexico, Christmas Eve and Day are a time for family. Since the whole country has at least two weeks if not a month off school and work this time of year, the whole family comes from far and wide to gather around the dinner table on Christmas Eve and share Christmas Day together, for the most part quietly. The children may receive a small gift or two, mostly from visiting relatives, but Three Kings Day (January 6) is the big gift day for them.
Called Epiphany elsewhere, this is the close of the Feliz Navidad season that began on December 12 with the Festival of Guadalupe. The tradition holds that this is the day (12 days after Christmas) that the three kings (wise men or magi) arrived to present gifts to the infant Jesus.
So,imitating the gift giving of the three kings, Mexican parents present gifts to their children (and each other) on this day. The night before, children set out their shoes and in the morning they are filled with small gifts, (The children of Latin America, as well as Spain, receive their gifts from the three kings rather than from Santa Claus) though now days the gifts may appear under a Christmas tree.
It is interesting that in other parts of Europe (Russia and other Orthodox lands for example) that Father Christmas comes on January 6; that date having something to do with the change to the Julian calendar.
Three Kings Day is celebrated with the eating of a special bread, Rosca de Reyes (wreath of the kings). Baked as an oval, the loaf represents a crown and is decorated with colorful dried fruits and candies to symbolize jewels.
Rosca de Reyes
A doll figure is hidden inside, representing hiding Jesus from King Herod’s troops. (You might recognize this tradition as part of Mardi Gras celebrations when kings cake is served.)The person who gets the slice with the doll inside must host a party on the dia de candelaria (day of the candles or candle mass) on February 2. (More on that in February.)
Another Mexican tradition was also upheld, as I was awakened at midnight by firecrakers and cherry bombs going off in the callejon (alley) behind my house.
With my English group broken up and everyone going different directions, Vanessa to a little town to the East of Taxco, Sarah and Lili to a little town in a westerly direction, I have been immersed in Spanish “en todo.”
I don’t care what the language courses say about learning a language the way children do — by hearing it spoken; it does not work well for me that way. (Aren’t there studies that show that a child’s gift for learning language via the spoken word tends to disappear about age 5 when they begin to learn to read? ) I need to see the words, not just hear them.
For me, learning a language is very difficult when there is no one to give me an explanation of the word, even something as simple as “This is that.” You can use visual clues for animate objects (table, chair, door, etc.) but what about things you can’t touch (feelings or ideas)? How do you explain or understand the rules of the language (“I…” verbs end in o, or the difference between feminine and masculine articles – an important concept in Spanish that makes no sense to an American who only uses a, an, or the.)
Adult language is filled with concepts and ideas, the untouchables of the world, and it can be very frustrating not being able to truly communicate. Do you think this is why 2-year-olds tend to throw temper tantrums? I remember talking with Ezrah about that age, and having trouble understanding her pronunciation. She just kept saying the same thing louder and louder. Finally I said, “Saying it louder does not help me to understand, try saying it slower.” She did and I understood, and her frustration melted away.
Can you read this?
I am learning more each day. Everyone tells me I know “much Spanish” and congratulates me. But what I know is words; what I do not know, at least not yet, is how to put them together to truly communicate. I am like a 3-year-old, “I want this” or “I go there.” Or, I ask one word questions. Sometimes I manage to make myself understood, like when I asked for two sided copies at the copy shop, but any pride I might feel that I made myself understood disappears in a cloud of disappointment (and yes, frustration) when the next encounter I am not understood at all.
Perhaps I am doing OK speaking my “baby talk” however listening and understanding is another thing altogether. I might get the gist of the conversation or it might just be a tangle of words, speeding by like a freight train, with no comprehension on my part. My brain hurts so I have decided I need a little English break. I am making plans to visit several different towns (Cuernavaca, San Miguel de Allende, and Puebla) in the next few weeks where, in each, I will enjoy not only a change of scenery but also an oasis of English speaking hosts that will benefit me spiritually as well as emotionally and intellectually.
Stay tuned for the travelogue. Then it will be back to Spanish for the duration. Working on my power verbs!
Youth counts down until midnight to celebrate the arrival of a new year. Maturity counts down until midnight to celebrate the time that they can finally get to bed. –Andrew Peloquin
If you are one of the mature ones reading this you know how true those words are. The traditions for welcoming in the new year are not that different in Mexico than in the States, except they are a little more random, unregulated, and engaged in by crazy drunks with firearms and no designated drivers.
Being in the center of town, I was treated to quite a sight at midnight as fireworks filled the night sky. And when I say filled, I mean filled.
From the Christo statue at the very tippy-top of town, to the Guadalupe church a little lower, to the small church near the center of Taxco, to the other side of the mountain at the Mission, to the top again at Hotel Montetaxco, fireworks exploded in a 360 degree arc from my balcony. In addition, people in the streets shot off fireworks and bottle rockets of their own which whistled, popped, and lit up the sky with at least a few strayed dangerously toward neighbors houses into the wee hours of the morning.
Of course, all this activity had the dogs howling and at least one car alarm going off. It was quite a cacophony that has this “mature one” seeking a good night’s sleep!
Sweet dreams everyone.
I have been told “It never rains in December,” or January or February, for that matter. And yet there I was with a family way up on the mountain and the tin roof started to ping, ping ping. The daughter rushed outside and brought clothes in from the line just as the ping, ping, pinging turned into a steady roar, so loud and furious that we could not hear each other speak. So after a few minutes of arranging a few buckets, they opened the window so I could see the rain coming down in sheets, shrouding the next mountain in a hazy aqua mist. It really was quite beautiful to watch even if we could not talk over the roar. (Imagine what it might be like living under a waterfall.) I had been considering buying an umbrella for the sun, but after this downpour, I think there is no doubt that an umbrella is on my list of must-haves right up there with a sturdier pair of sandals for navigating the cobblestones.
I am in Mexico a full 6 weeks earlier than last year and I’ve noticed that it is cooler and cloudier; the latter greatly affecting the former, you see. In my previous visit, I marveled at how nearly every day was the same. The sun rose from behind the mountains with only a rosy glow, no clouds to reflect its glory. It traveled across a deep azure blue yet cloudless sky, until it set without much fanfare; only rarely a few clouds provided a canvass for the setting rays to wash with color. This year however, I have seen clouds over the mountains in the morning glowing in hues of pale pink to fuchsia to purple and at night deep tangy reds accenting steely blue cumulus puffs. Of course those clouds are where that sudden downpour came from. Ah the glory of creation!
Then there are the other kinds of cats and dogs. I am not sure why most Mexican’s buy dogs. Oh there are house dogs (usually Chihuahua or small poodle mix) as pampered as any US pet but most are just mutts that pace the rooftops barking at every noise, person, or vehicle that goes by (and there are many). There is one on a roof not far away that seems to bark incessantly — you’d think it’d grow hoarse, but no, “Bark, bark, bark, bark, breathe; bark, bark, bark, bark,” all day and late into the night. 
I am sure dogs deter would be thieves, and perhaps, along with the cats, keep any non-human creatures at bay, but they are not pets here, they are just dogs, not to be paid any mind. Many run wild and wander the streets, stealing garbage, and leaving messy reminders that they have traveled that way. When you walk the streets you definitely have to look up for low hanging building extensions (lights, plant shelves, window guards, even roof tops), ahead and to the sides for traffic (here it is pedestrians beware), and down to watch where you step. It can be exciting some days.
This gallery contains 10 photos.
Living in the United States, there are many things we take for granted. Things like a refrigerator and stove in the kitchen, electricity at the flip of a switch, garbage collection on the same day every week, hot water flowing from the tap, or even running water itself. Those things may be common in a country like ours but in most of the world they are not.
Here in Mexico, life is a little more like camping, even inside the house. Most places do not have hot water. If you need hot water for something, you heat it on the stove or grab a bucket and put an electric heating element in it until the water reaches the desired temperature. Then you take the bucket into the shower, and using a smaller container, mix it with cold water, slosh it over yourself, suds up, and slosh some more to rinse. (It is really pretty efficient — you can wash your hair, body, and underwear all in one fell swoop with one bucket.)
Of course, you could take an ice cold shower if you prefer; many people do.
You may have a refrigerator or you may not; if not, you go to the market more often and make foods that do not require refrigeration of leftovers (one reason I think salsa is a staple here.) You may have a stove with an oven even, or you may have the equivalent of a camping stove – 2 burners that run on propane. You buy drinking water in 5 gallon jugs at the local shop around the corner or from delivery trucks. Wash water is a hit or miss affair, however; it comes from the government, neighborhood by neighborhood on some schedule that only they know. To make sure they do not run out (at least hopefully) every house has a tank or two on the roof, so when “the water is falling” they can capture as much as possible to use until the next time their neighborhood is blessed. Many people also install a cistern in their house to store even more water. (I am not sure if, in true cistern fashion, they collect rainwater as well or if this is just an extra collection vat.) Trash collection is dependent upon when the truck goes by, and if you miss it….
Everything here is delivered or hauled away by trucks, bicycle, or pushcart, and each has its own sound so the residents know who/what is coming down the street. It is quite a concert, though admittedly not particularly melodious. Water is announced with a loud, “Agua. Aqua.” The trash collector drives through the neighborhood ringing its bell and shouting “Basura!”on a recorded message over and over until it drives you crazy (but hey, you are not likely to miss them.) When you hear the bell, you take your trash out to the truck (or mule cart in some places) in whatever container you happen to have, and for 5 pesos (about 50 cents) they dump it in their truck and take it away somewhere. (A good deal considering that toilet paper cannot be flushed and there is a lot of human waste in those containers.) Propane is always delivered by truck (reasonable since even an empty tank is heavy). Crews drive around and around each block, filling the air with the scent of propane while honking the horn in 20-30 second increments, followed by the guy in back with the gas tanks yelling, “GAS!” If no takers, they continue up and down each street, repeating the honking/yelling routine, until they find buyers and the truck is empty. If someone hollers out that they want gas, the truck stops right in the middle of the street and traffic does not move until the full tank is off the truck, rolled into the receiving location, and the old tank rolled out and reloaded on the truck; impatient cars and combi drivers usually honking a not so subtle brass (horn) concert the whole while.
Close your eyes and imagine your morning wake up call — “Aqua! Aqua!,” “Clang! Clang! Clang! Basura!” “Honk! Honk! Honk! Gas!” along with the usual cars chugging, dogs barking, and people shouting. Quite a sound-acle, hey!
Now Irma is a classy lady, she has lived here for 50+ years and has all the vendors trained to come to her; water is delivered on Tuesday, trash is taken away on Thursday, and gas comes when she calls. All her needs are cared for like clockwork, well almost. Though she has a cistern and a tank for water on her roof, even she is at the mercy of the city as to when the “water falls.” She lives in an area of more well-to-do residents, tourist shops, and hotels, where water for those tourists should be available but whether due to the holidays, the extra vacationers in town, or some other reason, water “hasn’t fallen in a month” and we are running out.
This being a large, four story house, my “penthouse in the sky” runs on a different water source (the tank) than the rest of the house (the cistern.) The result is that Irma may have water in the kitchen but upstairs, where I stay, there may be none.. And that is exactly what happened on Christmas — the tank ran low so I did not have enough water to run the water heater (another rarity for Mexican households). “No problema,” I think, I can take a bucket shower using the cistern water, but no, the cistern is too low to provide water to the upstairs also. So for 5 days now I have been going down to the ground floor, heating a pot of water to near boiling and carrying it up three flights of stairs (the last one, a wrought iron spiral staircase is the tricky one) in order to have hot water (or any water at all) to wash with.
This morning I awoke to the sound of water falling — and what a glorious sound that is. Ah, the little things we take for granted.
The Zocolo is the center of activity in most Mexican towns and Taxco is no different. There is usually a landscaped, park in the center, with flowers, trees, shrubbery, benches to sit upon, and a “kiosk” (bandstand) for musical and other presentations on special occasions. There is a casual, relaxed fiesta atmosphere about the place — vendors sell popcorn and candy, blow up toys and Mylar balloons; there are artisans selling watercolors, indigenous peoples selling sombreros (hats), colorful baskets, painted leather or pottery, embroidered clothing, and the ever present street urchins with their packs of Chicklets. Of course, a Zocolo would not be complete without a shoeshine chair on every corner. They do a brisk business, too. Mexicans love shiny shoes.
You might find many of these things or their equivalent in almost any larger American city. Madison, Chicago, Austin, Boston, Manhatten, Brooklyn, all seem to have their version, whether in the city center or a central park of some sort. However, only in Mexico will you find a true Mariachi band.
You can tell the Mariachi (the most distinguished of street musicians) from the rest of the bands by their black suits, red ties, and shiny silver buttons and chains adorning their jackets and pant legs. There are usually about 7 in the group — several violins, a viola, a couple guitars (one a bass), and a trumpet or two. They tend to gather at the Zocolo on weekends and in the early evening when people are strolling about, warming up, practicing riffs of new songs, and generally waiting for some lucky woman to come along whose escort treats her to a performance. After the negotiations over price, the band gets off their park bench, and with great aplomb seats the couple and gathers around to serenade her. One song turns into another and then another — like true musicians everywhere, they love to practice their craft.
I recorded video of one song, however I cannot seem to upload it to Youtube in a timely manner so you will have to be satisfied with pictures for now. If I do not figure it out and post it later, when you see me, ask to see the video. It is truly a treat.
I spend most of my time in the central city, though I go up to the zocolo, at times quite steeply, and down to Las Jales where Vanessa lives, another long climb back up. But since this city is built on several mountains, at times I go up, up, up, and then up some more. Such was the case, today, when I accompanied Irma to visit Rosie and her daughters Denise and Rubi in Casahuates in the “nose-bleed” section of town, high above almost everything except the “Christo” (Christ) statue at the very tippy-top.
To get there we take a combi, a micro van fitted out as a taxi. Imagine a passenger van with all the seats removed and replaced by narrow benches, one on each side (behind the driver facing backwards, along the back, and lining both sides).
Plenty of room today
They seat 12-16 comfortably (depending on the size of the people) but have hand rails attached to the ceiling for extra passengers to stand in the middle (if short enough to do so) raising the capacity to 20 or more (however many can or want to squeeze in.) Got the picture? Sort of a sardine can on wheels.
Now combi drivers are a wild lot, somewhat akin to kamikaze pilots but with their wheels on the ground (well, most of the time anyway.) You know this because the ceiling above the driver is filled with icons of Mary and other saints, presumably providing protection from anything bad happening. I think they get paid by the trip because they seem to fly through town, weaving and dodging, stopping just long enough to let passengers on or off, and off they go again, making change on the fly. Perhaps they even wish they had the wings of their kamikaze brethren so they could skip the traffic all together.
Combi rides through town are exciting enough but when they start uphill it gets even more exhilarating — twisting and turning along narrow cobblestone roads designed for donkey carts not cars, weaving around people, stray dogs, front steps, taxis, and other combis with mere inches to spare. There are houses built to the edge of the road on one side and a concrete wall on the other designed to keep you from falling off the edge of the mountain. Though the paint scrapes all along the length of it did not inspire much confidence in me, I have to admit the wall IS still there, and where it isn’t, the view is spectacular, though a loooooooong way down. I digress though —
The truly exciting part is the ride down; it is as exhilarating as any roller coaster at Great America only remove the seat belts! It had me holding on for dear life as every twist, turn, or bump in the road meant sliding off the plastic covered seat, flying out into midair, and desperately scrambling to grab whatever was within reach (which was not, for some reason, the handrails) to keep from landing on the floor. I would, hand over hand, inch myself back to my seat only to fly around the next curve or over the next bump and repeat the process all over again. I guess there was a reason that everyone on the combi had already claimed the undesirable seats (behind the driver where you ride backwards or in the back where you jamb your knees against the wheel well.) Wheeeeeeeeee!!!!
I think it is true, what Vanessa says, that “Mexicans must have special glue on their butts.” How else do you explain how they sit there nonchalantly as I fly?
The Adventures of Blue Bear 