closely and following my every move. It was a delightful ride, culminating in a picturesque descent into the little community of Acapetlahuayu, shown right.My visit to Guerrero began with a great adventure, three days after arriving, when I accompanied my friend and host Judith to the tiny pueblo of Ixtepec. The purpose of this trip was to work with another young fellow, Zénon, from the neighboring town of Acapetlahuaya to preserve and document ancient Colonial (1570) documents of this region relating to taxes, land rights and religious affairs. I learned that Judith and her partner in the Guerrero Institute for Human Rights fund this civic organization by working for the National Institute for Anthropology and History on projects such as this.
To my surprise and delight, Judith suggested we make this journey on my motorcycle. This necessitated a hasty search for an inexpensive but serviceable helmet. We divided up my protective riding gear. She wore my heavily armored jacket and riding gloves. I wore the pants (of course), my thermal jacket liner and summer gloves. Her cowboy boots offered reasonable protection. I usually do not like carrying a passenger because the intimate responsiveness of the moto is lost when there is another person making their own decisions when and in which way to lean. Judith, however, proved to be a natural passenger, clinging
closely and following my every move. It was a delightful ride, culminating in a picturesque descent into the little community of Acapetlahuayu, shown right.
We parked the bike at the house of Zénon and family and rode up the mountain over a very rough dirt road to Ixtepec in the back of the truck that functions as the local bus. We jammed ourselves in among the other 20 passengers, the shopping bags of fresh fruit, vegetables and household supplies (not available in tiny Ixtepec), the crates of chickens and who knows what else. I cherish these opportunities to be in the middle of every day rural life here in Mexico. The convivial nature of the Mexicans is manifest in such circumstances, as is the fact that their living circumstances are very different than those of middle class America. The gregarious fellow missing a hand on one side and the ends of several fingers on the other was a reminder that farming can be a dangerous business. I remember seeing such injuries in my rural Kansas childhood. I did fret a bit in the course of this hour-long ride when, first, a stop was made for the driver's buddy to take a leak and, then, not long after for the driver himself to find relief. In chatting briefly with the driver at the journey's end it became quite clear why these stops were needed for those in front of the truck, but not for those of us sitting soberly in the back. I think I will ride the moto all the way next time.
Ixtepec is a small community of some 200, usually large, households. As is common in rural Mexico, the community holds its land in common, granting each family its particular plots for housing, planting (mostly corn and
beans) and raising animals. The mountainous countryside is absolutely beautiful, as this picture, with Judith in the foreground, shows.
Zénon, Judith and I were met at the tiny general store by Don Marcelino, the town historian and raconteur, who was also to be our "host" on this first night. It is not uncommon in Mexico for outsiders such as myself to be challenged in the spirit of manly comradeship, e.g., "So, gringo, what do you think of the murderous U.S. bombing attacks on Afghanistan?" As it happens, I think the whole history of U.S. involvement in Afghanistan, beginning with the decision by the Carter administration to make this poor country a pawn in the Cold War, has been and is mercilessly misguided and, fortunately, I have learned how to say so in Spanish. The good Don favored me with some lessons in the indigenous language of the region, Nahuatl. I can now say "kitchen," "basket" and "whore" in a third language. He and I enjoyed jibbing each other throughout my stay and, as I was departing, he expressed his hope that I would return, promising to find me a "good woman," if I did so.
At Judith's suggestion, I had bought a hammock for this journey. However, upon trying it out, I learned it was rather tiny for my U.S.-sized frame, so I offered it to Zénon. Judith and I threw our sleeping bags down on the concrete floor. I have learned to sleep just about anywhere under just about any circumstances on this trip, so found these accommodations quite acceptable.
My understanding of the laws of the cosmos were broadened very early the next morning when it became clear that roosters don't wait until dawn to begin their crowing, no matter what folklore says. They are not "welcoming" the sun at 3 am. Rather, it appears they understand themselves to have the august responsibility to command its rising each day. They begin their labors at this early hour and work assiduously until, finally, they can bask in the glory of their success at dawn. Little do we humans appreciate that without the Sisyphian labors of the cocks of the world, life as we know it would frigidly cease in 24 hours. At 5 am we were treated to a grand chorus of roosters, the bizarre hee-hawing of burros (which sounds like a rusty hand pump being forced back into service), the barking of dogs and, the newest chorus member, the frantic chiming of bells from the church, truly a grand cacophony! Night was over. Ready or not, the day had begun.
The following two nights we were hosted by Don Pablo and his wife, Lorenza, truly gracious people, who also seemed to have the nicest house in town and
one with extra beds, several of their children now living in the U.S. Here is a family portrait of the four of us (Zénon returning to his family in Acapetlahuaya for the night). In the foreground are part of this year's harvest of corn and beans.
No meal is complete in Mexico, particularly rural Mexico, without freshly made tortillas. There is a special cooking facility for this purpose, called a tlecuil (see picture). In homes such as this the wife hand mills the corn into masa, then presses it into tortillas and cooks them quickly for each meal in a large flat bowl-shaped surface (tomal) over a wood fire. They are truly delicious. As was patiently explained to me, there is a correct manner of eating with tortillas, pertaining to which side is up, the proper size into which they are to be torn, and the manner of using one piece to help scoop the food into another, rolled up just so. Some manner of beans is routinely served. In more well to do homes such as this (with some family members in the U.S.), chicken or eggs are an occasional accompaniment, at least with guests in the house. Fresh fruits or
vegetables are rare, as are my preferred drinks: coffee, beer or wine. I greatly enjoyed these friendly, generous meals with Don Pedro and Lorenza, as I did helping them hand shuck corn and beans afterwards.
The way Mother Nature made it, the world is covered with dirt. It is easy to forget this in the First World of asphalt, concrete and manicured lawns. It is hard to forget it in a place such as Ixtepec. With the single exception of that land occupied by the small houses, everywhere is dirt: the roads, yards and even some household rooms are dirt floored, in most cases. In this environment the housewife fights a constant battle to maintain some measure of cleanliness in the living quarters. In a farming community, with few fences, a fair portion of the dirt is itself covered with the by-products of animal digestion. As always in Mexico, it is important to be alert as one walks the pathways. The folks of Ixtepec, as elsewhere in rural Mexico, wear open, usually very worn sandals. Thus, their feet generally look to have been carved from the very earth itself, strong, gnarled and covered with dirt. I am too effete to adopt this manner myself, but it gives a sort of rootedness in Mother Earth that I admire.
The 550-year-old Colonial era documents, a yard-high stack of them, were fascinating to see, with their glorious calligraphy and yellowed parchment. Judith and Zénon carefully brushed the dust and
mildew off each page and organized and annotated the collection. I took high resolution digital pictures of several representative pages for use in presentations on this work. On two subsequent visits another fellow took lower resolution digital pictures of every page in the collection.
On our last day in Ixtepec two pickup truck loads of locals and our little trio were taken to explore the ruins of a predecessor village, San Símon. This village dates from the 17th century and was only abandoned early in the 20th when it was discovered that the salt content of the nearby river was responsible for the frequent infirmities in the community. About the only thing standing today is the skeleton of the Iglesia, of which, of course, I took many pictures. Judith and I could not resist wading in the river on this rather warm day. The water temperature was perfect for skinny-dipping but our inhibitions held us back, despite a good deal of encouragement from our hosts.
We delayed our return to Chilpancingo a day to explore the even more ancient ruin of Oztuma with Zénon. This was an indigenous community before the arrival of the Spaniards, who built their own fortress community on top of it. This ruin, like San Simon, is not maintained by any formal organization. The locals occasionally whack away some of the vegetation with their machetes. What remains today are the beautifully stone-terraced walls, a corral, a small tunnel covering a spring, and the magnificent arch of the Iglesia. Click here to see a few pictures of the San Simon and Oztuma ruins. Zénon led us on the scenic route (three hours of walking up and down the beautiful hills above Acapetlahuaya). The return was another two hours back by the short route. This left me with necessity to break the first rule of riding a motorcycle in Mexico, never do so at night, because of the animals on the roadway and the relatively frequent lack of working lighting on the local vehicles with which you would be sharing the roads. What with a good friend and mother of three on the back, struggling to stay awake, it was a somewhat anxious but, ultimately, safe return to Chilpancingo.