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--An American Living Abroad
November 30, 2003
$1 = about 11 pesos
On the weekend of November 1st a few of us teachers went to the city of Uruapan, a 2 ½
hour bus ride south of here. Being observed throughout this region that weekend was Dia de los Muertos (Day of
the Dead), which is when locals hold parades and ceremonies and eventually congregate in the cemeteries where they
drape elaborate flowered wreaths over the graves of their departed loved ones. Many of them stay up all night,
some getting more than a bit drunk. We hung out in the village square until a massive thunderstorm drove us off
the streets and indoors, searching for a place to warm up and dry out.
The next day I jumped on a local bus with Bill, a twenty-four-year-old teacher and philosopher of sorts who'd come
here after a stint in the Peace Corps in The Gambia of West Africa. Our destination was another fun to pronounce
place - a waterfall called Tzararacua. Both Tlazazalca and Tzararacua are names that have emanated from the culture
of the indigenous Purepecha people who developed Western Mexico's most advanced pre-Hispanic civilization and who
steadfastly maintain observances such as Dia de Muertos. I also see them in the markets selling produce they've
harvested in outlying communities and hauled into town.
Cascada de Tzararacua lies twelve kilometers outside of Uruapan and requires a short but fairly steep hike down
to where the Rio Cupatitzio drops thirty meters into a pair of deep pools flanked by lush vegetation. It was an
ideal setting for relaxation, reflection and deep discussion while listening to the roar of the falls and watching
Monarch butterflies flitter around. To get back to town we opted to hitchhike rather than to wait for a bus. Once
we'd strategically positioned ourselves along the highway we looked up and instantly noticed that we'd better get
a ride pronto or we'd soon be drenched - a major storm was brewing and moving in fast. Not two minutes before an
absolutely raging deluge commenced, a taxi pulled up and offered us a free ride. Surging through the torrent he
finally dropped us off on the outskirts of Uruapan, whereupon a car occupied by a guy and a gal offered to take
us to the main bus station - our destination.
For the next half hour Bill and I were forced to repeatedly fend off extremely aggressive homosexual advances,
about as relentless as I've ever been subjected to. He was clearly drunk or high and just wouldn't let up, leering
at us and asking us the same leading questions over and over again, i.e., "So…when exactly are you coming
back to Uruapan?" If it hadn't been pissing down so badly outside I would've insisted they pull over and let
me out! It didn't phase me in the slightest that he was gay, it was his insistent badgering in the face of our
obvious heterosexuality that irritated me…and Bill. And to make it all even more uncomfortable, at one point they
veered down a side street and stopped at a house. When the guy went in I thought, "Oh swell…this is the part
of the story when he comes out with a gun and we both get robbed, as well." I suppose if I'm going to hitchhike
I shouldn't complain, but we let out a massive sigh of relief when we could finally pop open the car doors at the
station.
Two weekends later I headed off with four other teachers to Morelia, the capital of Michoacan and a well-preserved
colonial city with a rich history. In fact it was renamed in honor of one of Mexico's most significant and beloved
heroes: Jose Maria Morelos. Born in the town, then named Valladolid, he was a priest who eventually became one
of the most important figures in the struggle for independence which arose in the Central Highland area in the
early years of the 19th Century.
Officially founded in 1541 by Franciscan friars, Morelia has remained over the centuries an essentially Spanish
city in character. It's been declared a "national monument" which bars any new construction that doesn't
perfectly complement the older style, with arches, baroque facades and walls of pink stone (trachyte) the dominant
theme throughout. At its center is Morelia's crown jewel, its massive cathedral which boasts two soaring towers
(70 meters each), said to be Mexico's tallest. At night its elegant presence, elegantly lit up, dominates the skyline.
Nearby is the Plaza de Armas with cafes under graceful arcaded portales (porches) where you can sip your cappuccino
and people watch.
It's a gorgeous city by any criteria one might possibly have. Block after block I walked with each turn of the
corner revealing another exquisite street, building, plaza, or park with bubbling fountain. Everywhere you turn
there's something special and here are my particular favorites. Close to the cathedral is the Palacio de Gobierno,
a former seminary that has stunning historical murals you shouldn't miss. At the east end of Madero Ote (the main
street) is El Acueducto (the Aqueduct) with its 253 arches - built between 1785 and 1788. In this area are Fuente
Las Tarascas (a striking fountain) and Plaza Morelos, plus Santuario de Guadalupe, a two hundred-year-old church
with an ornate mauve and gold interior that almost blinds you with its brilliance.
If you're into churches this is the place to come to. Not since Krakow, Poland have I seen so many and been so
impressed, and yet so repulsed, by the squandered wealth that's been devoted to glorifying God. In some cases the
decorative aspects are way, way over the top. Bill and I entered one church near the attractive Jardin de las Rosas
(Garden of the Roses) and he perfectly summed up my impressions by muttering, "I feel like I'm inside a wedding
cake!"
There are numerous museums and I checked out quite a few though my limited Spanish diminished my appreciation of
them. Most are free but despite this budget helper, in general Morelia is a bit pricey: it was the first time I'd
paid as much as 20 pesos for a cappuccino in Mexico and meals can be very expensive. Some restaurants do offer
the affordable "comida corrida", which is a set lunch special costing about 25 pesos. The best food value
I had while in Morelia was breakfast at Panaderia Trico (Valladolid #8) off the southeast corner of Plaza Melchor
Ocampa: 42 pesos for a hearty, delicious meal with all the industrial strength coffee I could pour down me. And
it's a swanky joint to boot, with starched collar waiters who dote on you, plus a great view of the cathedral.
While walking around, on a sudden whim Bill and I hopped on to a local bus that came by, not having any idea where
it was headed. Not caring, we just wanted to explore. The bus was packed with what appeared to be rural folk and
after meandering the streets for some time it eventually headed out of town and up into the hills. Once it finally
emptied out Bill tried to talk the driver into letting him drive, but to no avail. Its route ended on a terribly
bumpy road in a little wisp of a dumpy village that overlooked barren terrain with sorry looking shacks perched
all around it. This place was a far cry from the opulence and grandeur of Morelia.
Bill got out and pissed in the bushes while I tried in vain to explain to a guy I'd just met there that we weren't
really lost, as he'd presumed with all reasonable logic. After about thirty minutes there a different bus pulled
out and slowly gathered passengers as we neared Morelia, my favorites being a trio of women, three generations,
toting fully laden milk cans - no doubt destined for market. Sitting alongside me they cast parallel profiles of
plain countrywomen; their hands on each other's knees, silent and unsmiling, all living a hard life gracefully,
each enduring this resolute path with uncomplaining perseverance. I couldn't take my eyes off of them.
On our one evening in Morelia our little quintet from Zamora took in some entertainment at Pena Colibri (Galeana
#36), a popular venue featuring a varied format of traditional music. It was crowded but comfortable and attractive.
There were three acts, including one featuring La Danza de los Viejitos (The Dance of the Little Old Men), which
if I understood it correctly was created by the indigenous Purepecha to make fun of their Spanish colonizers. The
participants were all decked out in matching, brightly colored costumes and masks and wore heavy shoes, which made
quite a noise when they stamped their feet in unison to the music. It was great, well worth the forty five-peso
cover charge.
This past weekend I spent four days in what was for several centuries the wealthiest part of Mexico: the neighboring
State of Guanajuato. The riches pulled out of silver miles have produced the remarkably beautiful and fascinating
cities of Guanajuato and San Miguel de Allende. That'll be my next story.
Until then… hasta luego,
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Peace,