Today I am confident. Today I am forging ahead with the righteous blindness of Francisco Pizarro.
Speaking of Francisco Pizarro, let's talk....TOMATOES,,, my God how ripe tomatoes are one of my vices,,,I am sure that have tomato sauce in my
veins,,,, and Parmesan cheese between my toes. The tomato,,,,, a fruit that children dislike except in ketchup or on pizza originated in The Americas. Some claim it for Peru and others for Mexico. At any rate even though this is a story about the discovery of the tomato in Europe. Let's not forget that by 500 B.C. the tomato was being used by the Aztecs in many of their dishes,,,, and the Aztecs were latecomers to indigenous culture in the Americas. The tomato was unknown in Europe until the Spanish encountered the fruit during the conquest of Mexico and returned home with a case of Moctezuma brand tomato puree and a sack of seeds.
The tomato arrived in the "Old World" perhaps in the 17th century. When tomato seeds were brought to Spain and cultivated as something exotic from the New World the small round fruit didn't impress anyone. In France and Italy the tomato was shunned especially by the upperclass who thought it poisonous for its resemblance to deadly nightshade and the peculiar reaction tomato acids had with pewter plates,,, the preferred dishes of the uppercrust. Tomato acids leeched the lead from pewter. However, the fruit didn't react with the flatware of the poor,,, wood,,, so as was often the case with the lower castes, especially poor Italians, the penny stinkers werewell positioned in the vanguard of "nuova cucina". In the culinary history of mankind, the poor are responsible for so much flavor. They recognize a good thing, then seize and exploit the moment,,,,, all before the rich co-opt it and tax it. The poor, especially Italians were genetically selecting and gorging themselves on ripe tomatoes two hundred years before the rich Europeans realized the flavor of red gold.
The tomato was popuarlized first by the Italians,,,who have always known a good thing when they tasted it,,,,mama mia si,,,,and for me,,,, a former back to the lander and resident of rural North America who at one time was up to his ankles in suckling mud,,,,,,,,,cultivating 7 different heirloom varieties of solanum lycopersicum what a journey they have taken those seeds. From the halls of Moctezuma to Maine.
Here's what might have happened 500 years ago. Atahualpa passed his dark hand over that of Francisco Pizarro, the former an illerterate swineherd now conquistador, and some seeds fell onto Pizzaro's palm,,,,,, or Perhaps Moctezuma offered Hernan Cortes, the ruthless notary, a small cotton sack of small whiteish pome. These seeds were of course not for what they searched. They wanted solid ingots as many as they could swallow and then some more. Pizzaro and Cortes may have been distant cousins but they were of one gold plated mind.
We don't know if either Cortes or Pizzaro actually received tomato seends or what they did with them if they had but perhaps there is room for imagination here given the fact that the Italians popularized the tomato in Europe,,, and of course inevented pizza, which in itself has shown itself to be more valuable than all the ingots painfully extracted from the the sweat and bowels of the "New World". Since I live in Mexico let's fly with Hernan Cortes.
The fantasy behind the legend:
Cortes passed the sack of these strange seeds to Andres de Duero, his provisioner. aboard ship , Duero didn't know what to do with small cache so he secreted
them, unforgotten in a jar, where they remained until the return to Spain where a Napolitano ship boy named Mariano Cociarelli stole the jar. Mariano returned to his beloved Napoli just in time
for spring planting. His mother, Gilda Maria, who was not adverse to trying new things,,,for after all she had gone through four husbands,,, three of whom died in fist fights that turned deadly. Gilda Maria planted the seeds, fertilizing them with care and compost, and eccole´ after a month or more a vine became laden with something magical, small round scented cherries. Mama Gilda had the patience to wait until the fruit ripened
and on July 16, 1630 when the first of the crop was firm yet perfect she called to her third idiot son named Pierino to taste this
strange little red ball. Mama Gilda hadn't survived this long without some
cautions built into her character,,,if we lost Pierino well then.....that would be blood
under the bridge. Pierino, a slovenly creature, eagerly shoved one into his cavernous mouth and after
a short mastication slobbered out "dolce, dolce, amabile, sono dolcezzas
mama" and he would have eaten all of the one and only crop of continental europe's tomatoes when his mother slapped him upside the head real good sending him out
of the kitchen.
It is at these moments when bodies cross paths with circumstance history is created, and potential recognized. Those sweet acidy tomatoes had a flavor that dreams are made of. Mama Gilda Maria could already taste the sauce and the infinite combinations. Questo ha un potenziale So she worked her magic in the kitchen using mediterranean herbs, meats, and cheeses. Her family, was overjoyed at the new sensation,,,,salsa di pomodoro Napolitana de Mama Gilda. Immediately she devoted a great portion of her garden to the tomato. Tomato plants came up all about the house, they grew
up the sides of walls, and trees, in clay pots, and over tombs, and soon became a staple
sight in all the Italian countryside. The Italians became immortalized for
their conquering of the world's palate as the Spanish went on to be remembered for having taken a more reviled route. Mama Gildas in all their collective
kitchens about Italy worked their Alchemy. Then finally the tomato returned to the Americas, specifically the USA through the great Italian wave of immigration near the beginning of the 20th century. . Italians came in droves to the shores of New York and the tomato with all the accompanying recipes came with them.
The Idiot Pierino, who lived to the ripe ofd age of 90 exclaimed to anyone who would listen,to have been the discoverer of this food,
now inseparable from Italian cuisine,,,, but let us not forget from where this fruit originally sprouted and how it was first used in the Americas and how it still is an inseparable part of Mexican cuisine.
Buena fortuna! Buona Fortuna!
Friday, November 2, 2018
Tuesday, October 30, 2018
All Drug Olympics
In the past few years there has been much in the news about drug use in sports. There was even a drug use scandal in the para-olympics!! These guys are laying rubber with their wheel chairs. A-Rod got caught up as well a few years ago. Perhaps he was unfairly persecuted by the media and fans for taking performance enhancing drugs. What's wrong with them really anyway? It would certainly be more interesting to watch fastballs clocked at 175 miles per hour knocked into oblivion or foul balls zipping into the stands like ballistic missiles actually killing fans. If atheletes were just let off their chemical leash who knows what the result could be. Michael Phelps finishing the 100 meter butterfly before he starts? Lance Armstrong winning his 38th consecutive Tour de France at the age of 88? How about the "Bot-athalon" , a new olympic event, where atheletes compete in a superhuman one day event. First 300 mile run across the Gobi Desert, a 500 mile bike jaunt up and down K-2. finishing with a little swim from Indonesia to Mindanao. How about the Heptaminol Deep Diving Challenge where atheletes dive into the Marianas Trench to retrieve colored ping pong balls? Whose got balls I tell ya.
I read about the Balco "clear" (undetectable) testosterone sport scam and Floyd Landis's doping detection and loss of his Tour De France title. From all this an idea was spawned. Why not conduct an "open" Olympics. This has potential. Let 'em ingest whatever they want. We will have swimmers leaving wakes you can surf in. High jumpers leaping, porportionately, like fleas over tractor trailers piled three high. Forget the marathon,,,,26 miles,,,pooh,,,,75 miles with an Amana 10 cubic foot freezer tied to your back. This alone has great sponsor potential. Instead of the freezer, a similar weight in cases of Coca-Cola. Javeliners shooting the spear like a bullet through steel plates. Sprinters racing high speed trains. No one can imagine yet the human potential,,,,let alone the ad revenue,,,, or the ads themselves. An athelete in a lycra suit, his body already laden in testosterone, with a visible erection downing a cocktail of hormones. A bikinied beach volley ball competitor, with legs like a bull frog, and a visible beard injecting herself with pint of "Get-A-Head", a powerful steroid.
Perhaps we need new separate halls of fame too in sports. The druggies deserve a break. The Desoxymethyltestosterone Ward Of Fame For The Astronomical. Other Suggestions: The Olympics Sponsered by Nandrolone, Methylhexaneamine, Hydroxystanozolol, and Furosemide. It reads like the ingredients on a box of Vanilla Wafers.
And the crowd,,,sell 'em whatever. A tribe of screaming, drunken, hormoned groupies punching each other in the stands. The first host country?????? It must be desperate or without scruples. At the moment Turkey or Saudi Arabia would be ripe ground,,, and here at home, of course there is Detroit where we could get a one hundred thirty acre convention center for twenty-seven cents and tax breaks for the next 60 years. How might the logo appear? Instead of interlocking rings perhaps a star composed of graduated cylinders?
Tuesday, September 25, 2018
My Brother
My brother is a perpetually depressed fellow. After a few days with him you will feel a numbing sensation in your capacity to understand. He is self absorbed, rarely listening to what anyone says in a social situation. He doesn't seem to be able to answer a question without falling into narcissism. At these moments his eyes shoot downwards and away as he responds,, but never to the question. Any inquiry inspires a trip to a land disturbingly far away from the theme. In addition, all his responses are predictably dark. He is Nostradamos with a Jersey accent. In fact Nostradamos is frequently quoted by him. It sounds like I am describing Donald Trump.
"From the calm morning, the end will come when of the dancing horse the number of circles will be nine."
I'm not sure what the dancing horse and nine circles mean, but the Nostradamos quote he should be repeating is:
"Come the millennium, month 12, In the home of greatest power, The village idiot will come forth To be acclaimed the leader."
He is perpetually rooted in a venerable past when people knew their place and the table was set as if every day was thanksgiving,,,, a never ending delicious feast populated by clever working class people, all with character and humor, posessing a bold "attitude", of presumed ownership. That allowed them more freedom than those lesser folk without connections. My brother draws his meagre happinesses from his personal depiction of the past.There is an animal spirit about him, always rummaging the immediate world about him in a search for scraps that confirm his insecurity. But he is funny and boy can he tell a story.
My brother has been preoccupied with sex since he was nothing but a boy. Throughout his life he has changed women at the same rate that I have changed my underwear. Every "new one" is "the one" yet all his relationships seem to end in failure. My mother treated him, "the middle one", with the most vengeance. Perhaps his sexual needs are a substitute for the love he never received. After all, Satre said, "People don't talk of bread if they have it". His failed relationships with women are rooted in a deep seated confusion about MOM who was part Mary and part Sadaam Hussein. Trapped between a rock and a hard place his confusion may have emerged like a devlish sabateur betraying all the love he might have been able to cultivate in his life. Sweetness turns sour as day turns into night and he looks to the past to relieve the pain.
Here is one of his letters concerning his woman at the time. According to him she was "witholding". He always writes in caps.:
THEY ALL STINK THESE DAYS !!!!! THEY USE THERE CHO CHAS LIKE A WALLET AND THEY HATE TO OPEN IT. CHEAP BITCHES ! BELIZE IS THE ANSWER FOR ME, REMEMBER I TOLD YOU I LIKED IT THERE AND IT HAS NOT SUBSIDED, BESIDES THEY SPEAK ENGLISH AND THERE NOT SPANISH. BIGGEST HIPPO GRITS ON THE FACE OF THE PLANET, BUT THEY CAN'T HELP IT. TALK TO YOU LATER
My response:
You seem upset my friend. What did she do? Long ago women learned to use their vaginas as currency. It helps to prevent violence. It may be that those from certain countries use it better, more flagrantly, and more often than others. Evolution favors the "givens". I mean that given the fact that women are not as powerful as men, evolution has bestowed upon them other magical powers that allow them to get what they want without violence,,, by another form of coercion. They have had three million years to perfect the system.
I told some family members of your dilemma. They thought that the woman was smart to withold. Their side of the argument is quite evident. Hold out for shoes! Personally I find it hard to swallow their methods,,,,those methods are really not needed in all cases. Men don't need to pass life bludgeoning each other with weapons and women don't need to be domestic whores all the time. I hope we have advanced as a society so that we can co-exist without violence and that we can love without having to visit the bank. By the way, Belize, where the upper caste women are all blond,,,,and the beaches too.. It is rife with German infulence, perfect for you,, so we know that all the tractors run on time but sadly there are no stand-up comedians that I have ever heard of.
His response:
AND THE CLOCK IN MY HEAD KEEPS TICKING FAST TO THE END. I NEED TO LEAVE HERE SOON BECAUSE IT IS TO HEAD TRYING FOR ME. ALOT OF PEOPLE DIE OF CANCER HERE AFTER THEY RETIRE - WHO KNOWS. sAY HELLO TO THE GANG .
Stories about him abound. Here is one that illuminates his risks and irresonsibility.
As a boy my brother had three dreams which occupied his will
1 To own a '57 T-Bird
2.To become a pilot.
3.To meet Kirby Grant who played Sky King in a 1950's TV series. He accomplished all three by the time he was 22.
Sometimes it may be better to stretch out your dreams like a slinky.
A long time ago he used to visit me when I lived in the Northeast. I was into goats, chickens, and living off the land,,, as much as was possible. It was summer haying season for me and the weather was just right for the occiasion. My brother wanted to rent a plane and take me up for a ride. He wanted to show his older brother what he had accomplished. I don't like planes and firmly believe man was not meant to fly. I refused. Besides I had an obligation. A little miffed he took off to town and rented a plane from a small airport there, as I began mowing hay. It was a beautiful june day with intense sun,, just perfect for the task. A couple of hours into my work I heard a sound,,, you know when you put your lips together and blow air out with increasing force imitating the Dopler Effect and the approach of a plane. I looked up not yet making the connection between machine and sibling. Dropping out of the sky like Manfred Von Richtofen there came a small plane. It passed terribly close over the field and pulled up abruptly. At that moment I saw my brother in the cockpit. He was so close I could see his individual teeth and the middle finger he flung in my direction. He passed over twice like a crop duster on acid and then disappeared into the vast blue. I just stood there, leaning on my hayfork,, amazed and baffled.
Unbeknownst to me one neighbor angered at this unknown lunatic called the airport to report the incident. Another neighbor on the other side was sitting on the toilet reading a head comic. He panicked at the sound thinking it was the police. He jumped up, I am sure without wiping, cutting down and burning his entire marijuana patch. I found this out from him during a conversation months later. Of course I did not reveal the identity of the pilot.
When he landed my brother was met at the airport by an angry official who banned him for life from ever renting a plane there.
Another great story is the mexican cockfight to which I took him at Aunt Judy's. There are many galleros in the family. Judy, in fact has a cock fighting ring in her hotel. It is a fascination for me because of the blood sport as just an excuse for betting, and the fact that one is not looking over one's shoulder for the animal rights crowd....or the police. Hell the police are in attendance. The only thing for which you must be alert is the drunks who have lost a bundle. Many times people go beserk and start shooting. My brother was drinking and after a bit, when his mind had melted enough that he decided to bet,,,,with the house. There are two ways of betting,,,,with the house or a private bet with another spectator. My brother lost like 100 pesos with the first bet. This did not deter him. He waited and watched. After a few fights had passed he told me he was beginning to develop a system through observation. Like all betting drunks they eventually imagine a fantastical system,,, an order to what they are unable to control. My brother's system was in its infant stages when he bet 200 pesos and won like 170. This lucky streak spurred his blurred newfound confidence. He secretly revealed his trick to me in a hushed tone so the other mexicans about him, who didn't speak english, would not cop the trick. "When the rooster is being held by the impressario before the match and it winks at me it will be the winner", he said. What can one do with this, for when people have thick slices of mysticism in their religious sandwich there's no stopping them from ordering a second helping. He bet 200 pesos and watched his rooster quickly slashed in a flurry of blood and feathers. What does the addict do when the system fails him? He develops another. This time he thought that he noticed that the impressarios that handled the roosters with TLC won. He had a fresh perspective now and all he needed was proof. He sat out the next match to confirm the truth and saw that the pampered rooster triumphed. Daddy's little baby, even if over loved was a pure killer.
A little mexican boy watching the gringo came over to make a bet with my brother. Of course my sibling was bolstered by his new insight into the world of cocks and he was cocksure. He bet heavily when he saw el gallo bien papachado. The match began and ended in three seconds. The roosters came together and lifted into the air becoming like two chinese characters and then the motion abruptly stopped. In the breathless lapse in the action my brother's rooster lay in a pool of blood his crop and side ripped open like a can of tuna. The rooster's last meal was spilled all over the dirt. Two seconds later the kid appeared with a broad smile to collect his due.
You have crossed the barrier into that age when you doubt almost every minute of your life, bro. It is the age of "they nag you by their magazine happiness". You are surrounded by tribes of convivial families with freckled kids in bucolic settings,, and Volvo station wagons,,, and semi spicy meatloaf on Saturday night with the little lady and Melissa and Joshua. It seems so overwhelming and distant,, so you in your sublime loneliness contemplate the hungarian immigrant girl at the donut shop as your perfect little lady at home. She is vulnerable and needs you you think. She is all vapor and fantasy. You are tired of the quotidien neglect. You wallow in self pity but you cannot sustain a relationship because women are just not people to you, they are substitutes for what you think you never had Take the hungarian doughnut girl home and set up shop but soon the hungry pack that has haunted your soul will be barking and she will become doubtful. Then one day when you are at work the plumber comes to the house to fix a "leak", and he will throw in her direction some lubricated compliments because he suspected, after 2 minutes of eye contact that she was "scoreble". This is the circumstance that ever haunts you.
Many lives never attain any recognition outside of a hello from the pakistani 7/11 owner. however you feel especially ineffectual and hollow. Cosmic loneliness is real but how do you combat that or at least overcome the cold dark space. You know that in some relationships there is something magical, perhaps because some people just naturally know how to be "friends" with their mate and never lose the feeling that the sun shines out the ass of their partner. They deny their animal instinct in favor of something greater than themselves. However when you encircle yourself with nostalgia you become cursed. It's sticky and viscous like honey but really not at all sweet. Human organisms have so much trouble arriving at happiness and if they do they rarely stay for long, but they can make it a long term destination by a will to wonder. So many people though just cannot muster that. If this was the intentional design for the universe then the creator really messed up bad. It's a botched job yet there are those moments so simple that we have the power to make into something sublime.
A long time ago he used to visit me when I lived in the Northeast. I was into goats, chickens, and living off the land,,, as much as was possible. It was summer haying season for me and the weather was just right for the occiasion. My brother wanted to rent a plane and take me up for a ride. He wanted to show his older brother what he had accomplished. I don't like planes and firmly believe man was not meant to fly. I refused. Besides I had an obligation. A little miffed he took off to town and rented a plane from a small airport there, as I began mowing hay. It was a beautiful june day with intense sun,, just perfect for the task. A couple of hours into my work I heard a sound,,, you know when you put your lips together and blow air out with increasing force imitating the Dopler Effect and the approach of a plane. I looked up not yet making the connection between machine and sibling. Dropping out of the sky like Manfred Von Richtofen there came a small plane. It passed terribly close over the field and pulled up abruptly. At that moment I saw my brother in the cockpit. He was so close I could see his individual teeth and the middle finger he flung in my direction. He passed over twice like a crop duster on acid and then disappeared into the vast blue. I just stood there, leaning on my hayfork,, amazed and baffled.
Unbeknownst to me one neighbor angered at this unknown lunatic called the airport to report the incident. Another neighbor on the other side was sitting on the toilet reading a head comic. He panicked at the sound thinking it was the police. He jumped up, I am sure without wiping, cutting down and burning his entire marijuana patch. I found this out from him during a conversation months later. Of course I did not reveal the identity of the pilot.
When he landed my brother was met at the airport by an angry official who banned him for life from ever renting a plane there.
Another great story is the mexican cockfight to which I took him at Aunt Judy's. There are many galleros in the family. Judy, in fact has a cock fighting ring in her hotel. It is a fascination for me because of the blood sport as just an excuse for betting, and the fact that one is not looking over one's shoulder for the animal rights crowd....or the police. Hell the police are in attendance. The only thing for which you must be alert is the drunks who have lost a bundle. Many times people go beserk and start shooting. My brother was drinking and after a bit, when his mind had melted enough that he decided to bet,,,,with the house. There are two ways of betting,,,,with the house or a private bet with another spectator. My brother lost like 100 pesos with the first bet. This did not deter him. He waited and watched. After a few fights had passed he told me he was beginning to develop a system through observation. Like all betting drunks they eventually imagine a fantastical system,,, an order to what they are unable to control. My brother's system was in its infant stages when he bet 200 pesos and won like 170. This lucky streak spurred his blurred newfound confidence. He secretly revealed his trick to me in a hushed tone so the other mexicans about him, who didn't speak english, would not cop the trick. "When the rooster is being held by the impressario before the match and it winks at me it will be the winner", he said. What can one do with this, for when people have thick slices of mysticism in their religious sandwich there's no stopping them from ordering a second helping. He bet 200 pesos and watched his rooster quickly slashed in a flurry of blood and feathers. What does the addict do when the system fails him? He develops another. This time he thought that he noticed that the impressarios that handled the roosters with TLC won. He had a fresh perspective now and all he needed was proof. He sat out the next match to confirm the truth and saw that the pampered rooster triumphed. Daddy's little baby, even if over loved was a pure killer.
A little mexican boy watching the gringo came over to make a bet with my brother. Of course my sibling was bolstered by his new insight into the world of cocks and he was cocksure. He bet heavily when he saw el gallo bien papachado. The match began and ended in three seconds. The roosters came together and lifted into the air becoming like two chinese characters and then the motion abruptly stopped. In the breathless lapse in the action my brother's rooster lay in a pool of blood his crop and side ripped open like a can of tuna. The rooster's last meal was spilled all over the dirt. Two seconds later the kid appeared with a broad smile to collect his due.
You have crossed the barrier into that age when you doubt almost every minute of your life, bro. It is the age of "they nag you by their magazine happiness". You are surrounded by tribes of convivial families with freckled kids in bucolic settings,, and Volvo station wagons,,, and semi spicy meatloaf on Saturday night with the little lady and Melissa and Joshua. It seems so overwhelming and distant,, so you in your sublime loneliness contemplate the hungarian immigrant girl at the donut shop as your perfect little lady at home. She is vulnerable and needs you you think. She is all vapor and fantasy. You are tired of the quotidien neglect. You wallow in self pity but you cannot sustain a relationship because women are just not people to you, they are substitutes for what you think you never had Take the hungarian doughnut girl home and set up shop but soon the hungry pack that has haunted your soul will be barking and she will become doubtful. Then one day when you are at work the plumber comes to the house to fix a "leak", and he will throw in her direction some lubricated compliments because he suspected, after 2 minutes of eye contact that she was "scoreble". This is the circumstance that ever haunts you.
Many lives never attain any recognition outside of a hello from the pakistani 7/11 owner. however you feel especially ineffectual and hollow. Cosmic loneliness is real but how do you combat that or at least overcome the cold dark space. You know that in some relationships there is something magical, perhaps because some people just naturally know how to be "friends" with their mate and never lose the feeling that the sun shines out the ass of their partner. They deny their animal instinct in favor of something greater than themselves. However when you encircle yourself with nostalgia you become cursed. It's sticky and viscous like honey but really not at all sweet. Human organisms have so much trouble arriving at happiness and if they do they rarely stay for long, but they can make it a long term destination by a will to wonder. So many people though just cannot muster that. If this was the intentional design for the universe then the creator really messed up bad. It's a botched job yet there are those moments so simple that we have the power to make into something sublime.
Monday, September 24, 2018
Clinch Eye And The Thunder
One day this Red Ford Lobo screeches to a stop in the hotel like a scene from Smokey and The Bandit. I was upstairs in the corridor cleaning cobwebs feeling like my father on a saturday many years ago. I turned, leaving the webs for a second and I could see a terrified girl crouched down on the passenger side floor,her face contorted and pleading. This short round faced guy with a beard exits who looks like Harvey Weinstein.
One of his eyes was fluttering, flicking open then clinching shut. He had spittal emanating from the corners of his mouth. He spoke, snorting his words breathing noisily through his nose. He wanted to know where the owner was. Stupidly I said I was the owner. I should have said that I worked here 15 hours a day for food and a toilet,,,closer to the truth. This mexican tweedle dum was really whacked, god knows on what cocktail. He had that kind of head that if you kept hitting it repeatedly there would be no decernable effect,,,just the ever clinching eye. He started screaming accusations at me then he would jump back into the truck, quickly exit again, eye working open and closed spitting out things like remember this face,,,,pointing to his face. Fucking Spanish,,he grunted, probobly thinking I was Spanish. A group of clients near me dove for their rooms locking the door behind them.
On one of his several dramatic entrances and exits from the truck he stayed inside and seemed to be searching for something on the floor. For a second I thought he may be armed,,,,it all seemed so bizarre. When he exited once again hands empty I asked him to leave and finally he kind of complied screeching out of the hotel, the petrified girl still crouched on the floor. I only hoped nobody was on the sidewalk who could have been hit. Meanwhile one of the maids took his license plate number.
No one knew him nor recalled him being in the hotel before. After thinking about the incident I developed a theory about why this unknown maniac came here in such a tizzy. I betted that he had been refused by another hotel...for similar boorish behavior and was tendering his insult on the route to the next place run by what he perceived as Spanish owners. He must have chosen an establishment where the owners look a little too white to be Mexicans. In fact a few days after the incident I spoke wih my wife's cousin, a hotel manager, he said there was a wild drunk with a young girl in their posada who he refused habitation. I bet my kidney it was clinch eye.
My wife took the search for the identity of clinch eye to heart and found out he is a worthless drunken coke head supported by his brother, the doctor. He spends his days finding and fucking stupid girls who are impressed by large new red truck.
Above our bed is a line of four square skylights. The moonlight at times enters like sharpened blades. Other times we can watch the bandicoots play after they have spent a night filling up on fruits, nuts, and insects. They pass the skylights jumping and running looking like monkeys. Two nights ago a thunder storm rolled in near midnight. I was floating in the netherworld between sleep and awake,,, almost making it to the island of my dreams where the temperature is always perfect and no one is ever hungry. I saw a light through my eyelids like a bomb had gone off, the orange light expanding from a single point into a large circle that filled my eyelid. That was the lightning. Perhaps 4 seconds passed when the thunder shook the night and rattled the house It seemed to be the loudest thunder boom I had ever heard. It took 4 seconds to reveal itself so it wasn't directly over our house. I wondered over whose house it actually was. The rumble trailed off tumbling into the night but it seemed to continue for an unnatural amount of time like a rogue wave that crashes onto the shoreline and just keeps coming right up over the seawall.
Tenancingo and The Empuntadoras
Bernal Diaz del Castillo, a soldier in Cortez's army wrote a chronicle of the conquest over the new world. He mentions seeing in the Texcoco market in 1524: "many sorts of spun cotton in hanks of every color, and it seems like the silk market at Granada, except that there is much greater quantity" (Diaz del Castillo 1956:213-16). The elements were here and being used in indigenous garments. Cotton has a very long history in the Americas. The cotton rebozo is inseparable from the Mexican identity. The reknown Mexican folk artist and friend of Diego Rivera, Dr. Atl, claimed it should be the Mexican Flag.
A rebozo is a collaboration between Two people, he who makes the cloth or paño (the majority of rebozos are made by men in Tenancingo) and another (usually a woman) who elaborates the fringe or punta.
The ikat pattern one finds on rebozos most likely came from the Phillipines. Research seems to show that Mindanao was ground zero for ikat. In Mindanao Ikat means "to tie".
NOTE: Take a look at this paper by Edward Yulo, one of many writings on Ikat patterns in Indonesia.
https://pdfs.semanticscholar.org/8b7d/a788747d8cf4b9a6655856425a4824b7487b.pdf
Most Ikat designs look similar. It's the nature of the technique.
Ikat from the Phillipines on Albaca a platano fiber
Ikat from Tenancingo on cotton fiber
Let me state for the record that no one knows for sure how Ikat rebozos arrived in Mexico or Tenancingo. I like to think it was a love story. Here's what might have happened:
Spanish Galleons carried on a lucrative trade between the Phillipines and Mexico from 1565 until 1815. The galleons, laden with oriental delights left the Phillipines steering their way to the northeast at least 30 degrees latitude in order to encounter favorable winds. After the long trip across the Pacific, the ships turned south upon seeing the first indications of land. The California coast was to be avoided. It was unchartered land and water. On a good voyage the first land seen by the sailors would be the tip of the Baja peninsula. On a bad voyage they could see land much further north up to present day Oregon California border. California was in general dangerous. Expeditions to the coast often ended in disaster. Many never made it to the safe refuge of Acapulco. There were many shipwrecks when weather and unchartered waters did not comply. In 1600, the galleon Capitana disappeared without a trace. Nuestro de Senora Aguda reportedly ran aground on a rock west of Catalina in 1641. Another galleon, Francisco Xavier, may have wrecked just south of the Columbia river in Oregon in 1707. These are just a few. Legends abound about wrecked vessels during the Phillipine Mexico trade route.
There were other foreign dangers as well that plagued travel along the California coast. These galleons laden with riches became a magnet for pirates and coastal raiders who attacked settlements. Sir Francis Drake, a pirate who worked for the English royalty, as well as Thomas Cavendish another privateer plied the coast plundering spanish settlements and attacking galleons. If you didn't die of scurvy on the crossing you might succumb to a looting by pirates. George Compton, another marauder pursued the galleon San Sebastian in 1754. The galleon’s crew purposely ran the ship aground on Catalina Island to escape the picaroons set on destruction and pillaging. Compton, a rather unsavory character along with his barbarous crew captured and killed the surviving crew of the San Sebastian.
After 200 years of theivery the Spanish were compelled to colonize California. A series of forts or presidios were established along the coast. With the presidios, came the California missions.
From Baja the Galleons then sailed south to Acapulco. From this port city, much of the cargo was sent overland across Mexico and loaded at Vera Cruz onto ships bound for Havana, Cuba, where they would join the treasure fleet that sailed every year for Spain. In Acapulco mule trains were assembled that traveled over the knarled landscape passing through Iguala, taking on more gold, then Taxco for its silver. In that era Tenancingo was one of many stops but not to take on more riches but to leave some behind with those who offered respite and supplies for the caravan. The first store in Tenancingo which served this trans-mexico commercial line was founded in 1540 or so in Tepalcaltepec, about 3 kilometers from the present Tenancingo Center. Commercialism arrived early in this pueblo.
Acapulco Harbor Back In The Day
Once upon a time in the Phillipines an adventurous handsome Sama Bajau man with no family ties, named Melchor, signed on as a crew member for a spanish galleon to replace a cook's mate who died in a fight over a flirty tagalog girl while ashore in Mindanao. Melchor was a jack of all trades like so many Phillipinos. One day he might guide a plow,, the next day he was a wagon driver, then perhaps a tax collector, afterwards an attendant to gentry,, for ten years a weaver of cloth,, finally and now a sailor. Melchor's early life was given over to vagabondage however he always maintained a strong will to learn. In his ten years as a weaver on Mindanao he became an expert artisan in the making of ikat cloth on a backstrap loom. An adaptable creature, Melchor was tranquil not at all chatty. From the age of ten when he was orphaned he showed few signs of any real loyalty. His aunt who took over his care was too hobbled with pain to guide him. He ran the streets but his will to learn gave him work and kept him out of trouble.
Melchor, now the sea gypsy made the perilous crossing passing, a lucky one for the wits of the captain and the favorable winds, The first land they saw was Baja California so the galleon sailed south down the coast to the safe harbour of Acapulco. It was march and the Viceroy was assembling an enormous mule train. Melchor saw an opportunity and made the aquaintance of one of the muleteers. He proved himself was a valuable asset for he had a knack with equines as well.
It must have been a sight, hundreds of men, soldiers, and women, more than 350 mules, burros, horses, wagons laden with cargo moving out over the rugged landscape,, passing through Tierra Colorada, Ocotito, up to Chilpancingo, crossing the Rio Balsas at Mezcala. They stopped in Iguala for a week where Melchor balked at the bare hills, heat, and desert climate. Taxco El Viejo was a bit more lush amd agreeable but like many mining towns rowdy and dangerous. The voyage continued over rugged hills but ever gaining altitude the dusty line of men and beasts inching upward to the higher plateau in the center of New Spain, passing the Grutas de Cacahuamilpa then Ixtapan de la Sal and entering the fertile cooler valley of Tenancingo. There the mule train stopped for two weeks to replenish supplies and take a much needed rest. By now Melchor was restless tiring of stubborn animals and convoluted landscapes. Tenancingo was flat with forests and rivers. There were gentle winds and fields being pIanted. It spoke to him like a promise and anyway Melchor was ripe for a change. All that was needed was a sign which appeared in the small adobe pueblo of Tepalcaltepec. It came in the form of a embracing smile from a stable owner Jacinto Lopez's daughter, Lupita. It seemed the young Lupita was prepared for a change as well, and this handsome Phillipino looked Mexican. After the two week layover ended, with spring rapidly approaching, the mule train moved on towards Mexico City leaving Melchor and his budding heart behind.
Courtship was short yet deeply sweet and lasted a lifetime. Roots had finally extended and pegged in the deep soil of this high valley. Melchor began working in the stables but soon found a place with his cherished Lupita in the expanding center of Tenancingo. He fashioned a backstrap loom from scraps of wood and she opened a small tienda.They prospered through hard work and partnership he making fine ikat rebozos and she selling beans and sugar and pulque. Four of their eight children learned the craft of their father and their workshop grew.
History does not hold much importance in Mexico as in many other places wracked by daily strife and rebozo history is also threadbare,, but after speaking with some older reboceros here in Tenancingo I discovered a few could remember that their fathers, grandfathers, and great grandfathers were invovled in rebozos. That covers at least 200 years. If the galeon trade stopped in 1815 well rebozos in Tenancingo may have a much older history.
A rebozo is a collaboration between Two people, he who makes the cloth or paño (the majority of rebozos are made by men in Tenancingo) and another (usually a woman) who elaborates the fringe or punta.
With a punta and without
Weaver
The ikat pattern one finds on rebozos most likely came from the Phillipines. Research seems to show that Mindanao was ground zero for ikat. In Mindanao Ikat means "to tie".
NOTE: Take a look at this paper by Edward Yulo, one of many writings on Ikat patterns in Indonesia.
https://pdfs.semanticscholar.org/8b7d/a788747d8cf4b9a6655856425a4824b7487b.pdf
Most Ikat designs look similar. It's the nature of the technique.
Ikat from the Phillipines on Albaca a platano fiber
Ikat from Tenancingo on cotton fiber
Let me state for the record that no one knows for sure how Ikat rebozos arrived in Mexico or Tenancingo. I like to think it was a love story. Here's what might have happened:
Spanish Galleons carried on a lucrative trade between the Phillipines and Mexico from 1565 until 1815. The galleons, laden with oriental delights left the Phillipines steering their way to the northeast at least 30 degrees latitude in order to encounter favorable winds. After the long trip across the Pacific, the ships turned south upon seeing the first indications of land. The California coast was to be avoided. It was unchartered land and water. On a good voyage the first land seen by the sailors would be the tip of the Baja peninsula. On a bad voyage they could see land much further north up to present day Oregon California border. California was in general dangerous. Expeditions to the coast often ended in disaster. Many never made it to the safe refuge of Acapulco. There were many shipwrecks when weather and unchartered waters did not comply. In 1600, the galleon Capitana disappeared without a trace. Nuestro de Senora Aguda reportedly ran aground on a rock west of Catalina in 1641. Another galleon, Francisco Xavier, may have wrecked just south of the Columbia river in Oregon in 1707. These are just a few. Legends abound about wrecked vessels during the Phillipine Mexico trade route.
There were other foreign dangers as well that plagued travel along the California coast. These galleons laden with riches became a magnet for pirates and coastal raiders who attacked settlements. Sir Francis Drake, a pirate who worked for the English royalty, as well as Thomas Cavendish another privateer plied the coast plundering spanish settlements and attacking galleons. If you didn't die of scurvy on the crossing you might succumb to a looting by pirates. George Compton, another marauder pursued the galleon San Sebastian in 1754. The galleon’s crew purposely ran the ship aground on Catalina Island to escape the picaroons set on destruction and pillaging. Compton, a rather unsavory character along with his barbarous crew captured and killed the surviving crew of the San Sebastian.
After 200 years of theivery the Spanish were compelled to colonize California. A series of forts or presidios were established along the coast. With the presidios, came the California missions.
From Baja the Galleons then sailed south to Acapulco. From this port city, much of the cargo was sent overland across Mexico and loaded at Vera Cruz onto ships bound for Havana, Cuba, where they would join the treasure fleet that sailed every year for Spain. In Acapulco mule trains were assembled that traveled over the knarled landscape passing through Iguala, taking on more gold, then Taxco for its silver. In that era Tenancingo was one of many stops but not to take on more riches but to leave some behind with those who offered respite and supplies for the caravan. The first store in Tenancingo which served this trans-mexico commercial line was founded in 1540 or so in Tepalcaltepec, about 3 kilometers from the present Tenancingo Center. Commercialism arrived early in this pueblo.
Acapulco Harbor Back In The Day
Once upon a time in the Phillipines an adventurous handsome Sama Bajau man with no family ties, named Melchor, signed on as a crew member for a spanish galleon to replace a cook's mate who died in a fight over a flirty tagalog girl while ashore in Mindanao. Melchor was a jack of all trades like so many Phillipinos. One day he might guide a plow,, the next day he was a wagon driver, then perhaps a tax collector, afterwards an attendant to gentry,, for ten years a weaver of cloth,, finally and now a sailor. Melchor's early life was given over to vagabondage however he always maintained a strong will to learn. In his ten years as a weaver on Mindanao he became an expert artisan in the making of ikat cloth on a backstrap loom. An adaptable creature, Melchor was tranquil not at all chatty. From the age of ten when he was orphaned he showed few signs of any real loyalty. His aunt who took over his care was too hobbled with pain to guide him. He ran the streets but his will to learn gave him work and kept him out of trouble.
Melchor, now the sea gypsy made the perilous crossing passing, a lucky one for the wits of the captain and the favorable winds, The first land they saw was Baja California so the galleon sailed south down the coast to the safe harbour of Acapulco. It was march and the Viceroy was assembling an enormous mule train. Melchor saw an opportunity and made the aquaintance of one of the muleteers. He proved himself was a valuable asset for he had a knack with equines as well.
It must have been a sight, hundreds of men, soldiers, and women, more than 350 mules, burros, horses, wagons laden with cargo moving out over the rugged landscape,, passing through Tierra Colorada, Ocotito, up to Chilpancingo, crossing the Rio Balsas at Mezcala. They stopped in Iguala for a week where Melchor balked at the bare hills, heat, and desert climate. Taxco El Viejo was a bit more lush amd agreeable but like many mining towns rowdy and dangerous. The voyage continued over rugged hills but ever gaining altitude the dusty line of men and beasts inching upward to the higher plateau in the center of New Spain, passing the Grutas de Cacahuamilpa then Ixtapan de la Sal and entering the fertile cooler valley of Tenancingo. There the mule train stopped for two weeks to replenish supplies and take a much needed rest. By now Melchor was restless tiring of stubborn animals and convoluted landscapes. Tenancingo was flat with forests and rivers. There were gentle winds and fields being pIanted. It spoke to him like a promise and anyway Melchor was ripe for a change. All that was needed was a sign which appeared in the small adobe pueblo of Tepalcaltepec. It came in the form of a embracing smile from a stable owner Jacinto Lopez's daughter, Lupita. It seemed the young Lupita was prepared for a change as well, and this handsome Phillipino looked Mexican. After the two week layover ended, with spring rapidly approaching, the mule train moved on towards Mexico City leaving Melchor and his budding heart behind.
Courtship was short yet deeply sweet and lasted a lifetime. Roots had finally extended and pegged in the deep soil of this high valley. Melchor began working in the stables but soon found a place with his cherished Lupita in the expanding center of Tenancingo. He fashioned a backstrap loom from scraps of wood and she opened a small tienda.They prospered through hard work and partnership he making fine ikat rebozos and she selling beans and sugar and pulque. Four of their eight children learned the craft of their father and their workshop grew.
History does not hold much importance in Mexico as in many other places wracked by daily strife and rebozo history is also threadbare,, but after speaking with some older reboceros here in Tenancingo I discovered a few could remember that their fathers, grandfathers, and great grandfathers were invovled in rebozos. That covers at least 200 years. If the galeon trade stopped in 1815 well rebozos in Tenancingo may have a much older history.
Probably when muletrains were assembled in Vera Cruz returning with goods from Spain they could have carried elaborately knotted fringes on mantillas meant for Mexico's wealthier criollos.
Knotted fringe of a mantilla from Spain
No one can say from whom or when the first empuntadora in Tenancingo learned her trade. That may always remain a mystery. Originally the fringes or rapacejos on rebozos from Tenancingo were shorter and simpler. Many remember the short triangular style called Punta Español. At some point the fine macrame from the mantilla was adapted onto a rebozo from Tenancingo. Indigenous images and patterns began to appear in the ever lengthening fringes.
Punta Español
Thus the rapacejo of Tenancingo was born with figures of ducks, birds, flowers, letters, hearts, cocoles, arcs, and just plain beautiful macrame.
The empuntadora's craft evolved. She became the person who could raise up a mediocre rebozo and transform a finely made rebozo into something sublime. However as her importance grew her recognition diminished. The weaver garnished the credit and the empuntadora was relegated to the nameles shadows.
In the last few years though a glimmer of light has illuminated the work of certain knotters because they have won some national premiums associated with textiles, but for the most part the empuntadora is still a concealed commodity. Weavers have always taken advantage of her position. This army of craftswomen has always been poor for they plied their craft as a pastime between the hours occupied by family matters. Their creative voice was weak. They knotted out of necessity and were paid a pittance receiving little recognition in the elaboration of a rebozo which really is a collaboration. There was once more than 1000 empuntadoras in Tenancingo.That number is dwindling as are the weavers.
There are more empuntadoras the further out one ventures from Tenancingo center in the the poorer hinterlands. In those regions necessity still rules yet each year it is more difficult to find an empuntadora. Why be paid 10 dollars for a month's work. They can make more working in a papeleria. Their daughters have other interests so the artistic lineage is eroding. Economies and societies change.
The tianguis in Tenancingo on sundays on the corner of 14 de Marzo and Madero offers a window to the past and glimpse of the future. Here you will find sellers of rebozos but the empuntadoras outnumber the weavers. They come to sell their work, and at the same time to buy untied rebozos from the weavers. They add a knotted punta and return the next sunday to sell. It is one of the few ways they can make a little more money. I would guess from my informal survey that a majority of the empuntadoras are from Zumpahuacan, a poor pueblo 16 kilometers from Tenancingo. The trend is disturbing. I have met empuntadoras who have left the art to grow flowers or find work elsewhere. They don't voice it but after pressed they will admit to the economic abuse by weavers. The idea of being a participant in a special worldwide club never was and now isn't enough to sustain. There may come a day when they will not be there for us and the reboceria of Tenancingo will suffer a blow of their own making.
Tuesday, September 18, 2018
The Land
One fine drizzly afternoon my mother-in-law suggested that we go to Santo Desierto. With a few other family members we piled into my Dodge Van, nicknamed the "shoebox" or cajita..As we left the outskirts of Tenancingo we floated upwards on Dodge butterball shocks over the narrow steep serpentine road lined with tall cedars, past the dump, a red dirt scar in the landscape littered with the multicolored plastic jewelry of civilization. Basura, or garbage is a growing problem in the New World. Even though the herbalist in the market ties her bundles with grass the disposable culture in combination with hoardes of disdainful litter bugs decorate the landscape in a perpetual christmastide of flotsam.
We climbed and passed through a forest of encinos, older and well spaced with age, each tree giving the other respect, their crowns widening fans of knarly limbs. Set in the crotches of the limbs were epiphytes or "air plants", those cactus like bunches that live above it all, parasitic actually, with a different set of skills for sustenance and a keen sense of place. The winding road afforded glimpses of Tenancingo below skirted on its perimeter by a quilt of fields.
At the top of this mountain, called Nexcongo, which is a national park, there is a Carmelite convent and a small village, called Santo Desierto actually part of Tenancingo. In the early 1900's, Fray Pedro, the lone ranger Carmelite Monk who watched over the nearly abandoned compound invited some to build houses there. Perhaps he was lonely. He could never have imagined the controversy that developed almost 120 years later when the town near the convent grew into the lower expectations of the 21st century. Now that the pueblo's month long fiesta in July, that was originally supposed to honor Nuestra Señora del Carmen and various guilds in the area has turned into a disorganized drunk fest the spiritual peace has been pirated. "The Desierto", which is actually a lush old growth forest, is supposed to be a place of contemplation,, a place where the ambience makes space for the mind's melody.
Lejos de la maraña auditiva de la ciudad, sin música ni ruido y con múltiples carteles que invitan a no hablar, el sitio es un centro de desintoxicación citadina y una invitación abierta a la meditación.
"El silencio tiene una importancia que a veces no comprendemos, sólo el silencio nos deja escuchar las cosas importantes", establece Miguel Murguía, sacerdote superior del Convento.
"Silence has an importance that sometimes we do not understand, only silence allows us to listen to important things," says Miguel Murguía, Superior priest of the Convent."
In the pueblo, Sol and Victoria beer signs compete for your eye and vendors of Mexican fare including "pulque" abound. Pulque is the freshly fermented juice of the maguey, a large bluish green cactus with arms like tentacles. One taps the sweet juice then ferments it for a day or two until it is mildly alchoholic but it seems to possess "other" dreamy properties. Masons with whom I worked would often purchase some from the pulque girl at late lunch time and drink heartily in order to ease the pain of the hard work. After parking the cajita, we ambled past the lady with the upside down ears and baby teeth who sells tortillas. Two of the young ones in our group decided to stay with the food at the puesto of the upside down eared mamacita, too lazy for the walk down to the convent. The rest wended our way down the cedar lined road passing the stations of the cross encrusted in midget totems of concrete and stone. The white cedars or Teolates are like arbor vitaes in their most preferential environment, tall thick, grand and outsized creating a cool light. They stand at inclined attention,,,,,,,and the sweet angle makes them less military-like. Originally from Mexico, Honduras and Guatemala, the Teolates inhabit temperate and cloud forest. Knarled encinos spotted the hillside whose branches seemed like unfurling streamers captured in mid flight.
At the bottom of the promenade there is an area of trinket vendors, who sell the kind of things everyone liked as a child like trompos, tablitas magicas, maracas, titeres, and baleros de copa. Before the final 200 yards to the convent in a circle of tall Teolates is a gauntlet of food stands that offer quesadillas de hongus, gorditas, pulque and mezcal.
The monastery sits in a natural bowl swathed in trees. Its mossy walls hide all but the terra cotta roofs and two towers, one round and the other square. The cupola of the round tower descends from the top to rose windows, like portals, each set in its own round conical dormer. The flow of the shapes so attracted me for their organic detail. The walls hide the guts of the compound and the quarters for the carmelites. Even as one descends the hill and has a view from an angle above the inner geometry is restricted from view by the high walls. What is hidden beckons to be seen and what is seen beckons to be studied.
We lined up to evacuate our bladders in a little bathroom before entering the monastery. Many indigenous people, with various "looks", Navajo, Pueblo, Polynesians, East Indians, and Lebanese, were on pilgrammages all braids and rebozos. Some children peered from their charcoal eyes and smile, and the adults stared stoically. My mother-in-law, ever the amiable politician banters loudly with everyone. It is the perch from which she wishes to be seen and she always comes off well having the ability to communicate with all classes of people. This is a form of divinity for those that do not abuse it and a form of devilry when it cloaks raw ambition.
We entered the church in silence through two courtyards of terra cotta framed in white walls aged a little yellow,,then through a hall and into the church proper. My mother-in-law seats herself left in the second pew closest to the altar. My wife seats herself to the right on the opposite side. I go to the front pew on the right......three separate souls who play ball with each other's heart. Everyone prayed but me unless really contemplation without structure is a form of praying. My wife speaks with her god while I wonder why there are two Virgin Marys with the baby Jesus, one large and one small.....insurance? It also plagues me to see the speakers of the P.A. system. I wonder when that arrived and why Carmaelites need speakers. I think about why the gold leaf wasn't well laid, why the paint was a little sloppy, the sequence of construction and from where the stone came.It is still for all its retouches a charming church.
The outside of the church seems better than the inside,,,perhaps because the hands of nature that over time caress the more exposed outer layer are more expert in the trade of detailing. As for the inside perhaps over the years various prelates needed to leave their mark inside the lord's house,,really their house, for it always seems to be not the house of the lord but of the monseignor,,,,,so they bought some paint, gathered some souls from the village and with all the questionable taste they could muster decorated. It now occured to me the process that I follow. It is a process of how and why. It is a system of dismantling,,,,stripping apart.
My wife slides over to sit next to me and gave me her benediction and of course I felt myself slipping into the spell and caresses of my own catholic past. We rose and walked to one side of the interior. My wife commented on the door as she has commented on so many portals. She is a woman fascinated by doors,,,,,hopefully also what is on the other side. She made note of the old doors in San Luis Potosi, the large heavy doors of the monastery there. Old doors are time portals that have opened and closed for thousands of hellos and goodbyes, thousands of exits and entrances,,,,,,,revealing views into their interiors that they often very well hide. I doubted that she was aware of this behavior, and I wondered what she would say are the reasons,,,,, old doors are like the people she respects, who are archives of the past that will soon pass into oblivion as we hurtle into an age that regards only the green light urging accleration and transgression without the gathering of the shreds of humanity,,,,,humanity that has marked space and time.
We left the monastery and walked back to our starting point. The upward climb out of the bowl is a strain for my zaftig mother-in-law: I stay with her telling her to count twenty steps and rest. Taking it in measured little bites helps. We arrive at the upside down eared papacita's kiosk and get down to gorditas and quesadillas. A gordita is a thick oval tortilla folded over a filling of fava beans to form an oval slipper which is grilled on the clay metate. When the skin is towards crisp salsa is added and sometimes grated cheese. Mamacita pats, flips, folds, and flops these onto the large clay cooking surface fueled by wood. I sit in the wake of the wood smoke and collect aroma, something that reminds me of the northern woods. I become engossed in the polyglot pilgrams who arrived at this kiosk before us and who are almost finished. They cut slow moving figures with soft voices and dark smooth skin. At the end comes the "count", for each must keep account of what they have eaten. So many of this, so many of that, three cervezas, two pulques,,,,each person responsible for their own consumption.
A healing Shaman told a friend of mine,,"When we are upset we cannot believe what our mind tells us".
I bought some land in El Carmen, on the mountain. and built a stone house there, something unequivocal,, and when I stayed some nights bathed in quiet I would go outside looking towards the silent glowing splendor of Tenancingo and rule.
Sunday, August 5, 2018
Santo Desierto
Santo Desierto
Santo Desierto is a small barrio of Tenancingo perched atop a mountain named Nixcongo southeast of the city. It rests about 7800 feet above sea level. Surrounding the village is a national forest. dominated by oaks and pines. It is more humid there because of the forest cover, like an umbrella over this piece of earth. One can experience what Tenancingo was like before the arrival of man,, cool and quiet broken only by the spell of bird songs. The forest preserves its distinct nature.
There is a Carmelite convent set into the woods that was built in 1799. The monks relocated from El Desierto de Los Leones which is in the mountains above Mexico City. They were trying to escape a colder climate and frequent earthquakes. The climate in Tenancingo is milder but they didn't quite escape the earthquakes. The seismic event of september 19th 2017 damaged the convent and church.
Atop the mountain is a poor village, named El Carmen, renown for its "pulque" a lightly fermented drink made from the semi sweet milk of the maguey cactus. The better pulque comes from higher places. The pulque maguey seems to thrive in altitude. It is a blueish gray green cactus resembling the aloe vera plant but on a much larger scale. It can reach a height of more than eight feet and a diameter of 12 feet when mature after fifteen years. It is like a large green smooth graceful object from another planet. One can imagine that at any moment it will begin emiting music. It is the preferred line plant,,that is the people plant it between properties instead of rock walls. One can "raspar" the plant when mature to extract the sweet honey used to make pulque afetr which the plant dies yet as it sends out babies frequently around its base there are always replacements to maintain your property line and your liquor cabinet.
Making Pulque in "Los Tiempos
Santo Desierto is also known for its Carmelite monastery. A monastery of those priests that operate mostly in silence. We have often visited this sight on Sundays and on the many fiestas held there during the month of July. There is a pilgrammage-celebration for each guild in Tenancingo. And so there is a carpenter's day, a mason's day, a butcher's day, taxi days, a day for those who work cloth,etc. Years ago a procession of carpenters, for example, would begin their trek in downtown Tenancingo and walk the 12 kilometers to the monastery with their banner. That has changed. Now they drive to the parking lot above the church and march the last one half kilometer. There are however many groups and individuals who still make the trip the old way,,,me included.
When I think of these guild pilgrimages my unappreciated sense of humor comes into play. At times I just lose reverence. I suggested to some it would be good to include all the professions in Tenancingo. A prostitutes day (hard workers), a corrupt politician day, their banner in the shape of a clawing hand, an indigenous day when all the bronze skinned people in town push a heavy stone pyramid up the mountain and right off the cliff above,,,,,,,,,. My humor however seems to have the success of a lead chisel.
When not attending one of the masses associated with one of the pilgrammages we visit the monastery to offer a prayer and sit in the cool silence of the church, then afterwards pass another type of time at one of the many tortilla stands. The village of Santo Desierto is a little higher than the monastery. One descends from the village along a road bordered in aged cedar trees down to a corner where are located the majority of the food stands. After the corner one follows a stone path to the bowl in which the monastery is set amidst a forest of twisted encinos (oak) trees. Their trunks are adorned like the pants of mariachis with moss and feathery ferns. Their crowns born atop a maze of tormented branches, sombrero-like, they shade the deep forest. About 200 meters from the food stands as one rounds a bend the beautifully softened octagon shaped dome of the monastery peeks above the surrounding wall that contains and defines its space. The dome is ringedby softly shaped dormers in which are set round windows. After this simple but breathtaking vista one then passes down along the stone wall towards the entrance. During the gentle descent the internal structures of the monastery that were visible from above disappear and give way to the wall on your right and the forest to the left. Here at the end of the path is the entrance that opens to a courtyard with a well used terra cotta floor, gently undulating. One passes another sunny courtyard girded in light sienna walls into the main causeway of the church. and on either side of the courtyard, a magnolia tree. The small space is not decorated with abandon like so many of the other churches. It seems every country priest wants to make his mark. The "Paroquia", the church in the center of the town has recently been indecorously decorated with a blue neon cross, The basilico de San Clemente, another main house of God in Tenancingo center has tolerated the institutional green paint over its stone work. Both are homage to the "unecessary touch". I feel more comfortable in Santo Desierto, a simple quiet space, more comfortable than the other churches in the town. Perhaps because of the rarefied air, or perhaps because there are so few people and no clergy visible. One feels a little freer to wander mentally without the interfering prescence of priests and the threat of sermons.
On one of our sunday excursions we stopped at a tortilla stand in the village on the corner with the lady who sports upside down ears and baby teeth. Here my wife bought me my first pulque. It is a mild alchoholic beverage, but if you imbibe enough it will transport you. Masons often drink pulque at lunch to ease the pain of hard work in the afternoon.
This particular afternoon there was a large group of muchachos at the next food stand about 30 yards away. We paid little attention to them as we ate our quesadillas and tortillas. Except for a loud laugh that ocaissionally pierced our space they were just "there" and nothing more. The pulque however was flowing a river there. At some point in this beautiful afternoon a fight broke out fueled by pulque and the simmering mexican temper that can boil over at any minute. The group separated quickly into those with machetes and those with stones. Australopithicus verses Neanderthal man. Threats and feints flew. One older gentleman, an australopithicus I think, had a head soaked in blood. It came cock hair close to disaster as one Neanderthal flailed the hair with his machete, like a latin american ninja towards an Australopithican who held his rock in the discharge position. I prayed that stone man would not hurl his projectile at iron age man because it would have invited sure retaliation of cutting steel, perhaps deadly. There was mayhem for a moment. Other men in the fray screamed to stop for the sake of the niños, but hovered on the edge of participation in the fray. Their wives, now called to attention, entered the battle field only to be rebuked sternly for their interference into a man's world. For the sake of the niños my ass. No one really wanted the fight to stop and end this romance with death. War is a high built into the genetic material of men. .......if only they could adhere to the philosophical considerations of death and immortality,, but they would prefer to let blood than to allow a discussion. A grandmother, her lifetime sodden with the petty advances of testosterone laden men plodded into the arena imploring the combatents and God to halt, her tired eyes heavenward, as she sprayed holy water upon the fighting ground from her cooking pot and then she would raise her hand to heaven between each dispensation of capital "H" h2O to call upon the "DEAF ONE" resting above in the cat bird seat to intervene. We all stared helplessly at this spectacle the women wanting to depart yet drawn into the potential for harm. We could not leave for the car was situated to one side of the crisis. The lady with the upside down ears seemed unfazed by the open splashing of hormones (ethereal paint ball) and continued making her quesadillas yet with one discerning eye cast towards the pulque fueled contest of restricted wills.
It seemed finally to ease into a mexican standoff, or postponement, men and younger toughs gathering and coagulating into opposing more benign groups, and it is into this pastoral pause we did creep to get to the car. On the way down the mountain we met the always late mexican police, well booted and vested in camoflage, the perfect color for them in the city, those who are highly visible, but always hidden.
This particular afternoon there was a large group of muchachos at the next food stand about 30 yards away. We paid little attention to them as we ate our quesadillas and tortillas. Except for a loud laugh that ocaissionally pierced our space they were just "there" and nothing more. The pulque however was flowing a river there. At some point in this beautiful afternoon a fight broke out fueled by pulque and the simmering mexican temper that can boil over at any minute. The group separated quickly into those with machetes and those with stones. Australopithicus verses Neanderthal man. Threats and feints flew. One older gentleman, an australopithicus I think, had a head soaked in blood. It came cock hair close to disaster as one Neanderthal flailed the hair with his machete, like a latin american ninja towards an Australopithican who held his rock in the discharge position. I prayed that stone man would not hurl his projectile at iron age man because it would have invited sure retaliation of cutting steel, perhaps deadly. There was mayhem for a moment. Other men in the fray screamed to stop for the sake of the niños, but hovered on the edge of participation in the fray. Their wives, now called to attention, entered the battle field only to be rebuked sternly for their interference into a man's world. For the sake of the niños my ass. No one really wanted the fight to stop and end this romance with death. War is a high built into the genetic material of men. .......if only they could adhere to the philosophical considerations of death and immortality,, but they would prefer to let blood than to allow a discussion. A grandmother, her lifetime sodden with the petty advances of testosterone laden men plodded into the arena imploring the combatents and God to halt, her tired eyes heavenward, as she sprayed holy water upon the fighting ground from her cooking pot and then she would raise her hand to heaven between each dispensation of capital "H" h2O to call upon the "DEAF ONE" resting above in the cat bird seat to intervene. We all stared helplessly at this spectacle the women wanting to depart yet drawn into the potential for harm. We could not leave for the car was situated to one side of the crisis. The lady with the upside down ears seemed unfazed by the open splashing of hormones (ethereal paint ball) and continued making her quesadillas yet with one discerning eye cast towards the pulque fueled contest of restricted wills.
It seemed finally to ease into a mexican standoff, or postponement, men and younger toughs gathering and coagulating into opposing more benign groups, and it is into this pastoral pause we did creep to get to the car. On the way down the mountain we met the always late mexican police, well booted and vested in camoflage, the perfect color for them in the city, those who are highly visible, but always hidden.
Below wild mushrooms from Santo Desierto and The day of the carpenters pilgramage:
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