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:
