Captain's Log: Viernes Santo

I didn't really understood what they meant by a Catholic country. I mean Christmas was mildly excited with the posadas (the re-creation of Mary and Joseph's search for shelter, if you will), piñatas, atole and visporas (scarily-close proximity fireworks). But Holy Week is another story. Besides masses every day and the daily traffic jam due to saintly processions or the occasional brass band practicing. People are relaxed, school is out and people are traveling, family comes to town, family goes out of town. It is a beautiful time. I didn't give much thought to the Holy week celebrations until the Good Friday shebang was thrown upon me. I woke up Friday morning and went to my adoptive mothers house, everyone was up and getting ready for the big procession. Now I had hear that in the downtown of the town and the centro of the colonia where I live host a Good Friday procession. Great. I thought a bunch of over-righteous zealots with their candles lit condemning the sinners. I was wrong to say the least. I went ahead of the fam to catch a glimpse of the procession, camera ready. I took the 15 minute hike straight up into the foothills intent on intercepting the procession before they left the church. Halfway to the church and I hear a most curious sound: coconuts falling out of a flatbed in the rain. I round the corner and am overcome by a cavalry of Roman soldiers and hundreds of followers (the horses the coconuts and the bare feet on cobblestone the rain). I quickly jump out of the way as to not get run over by the caped riders. I snap a few pictures as I move to the gutter. After the cavalry passes, a most realistic Jesus passes, wielding a giant cross, tunic, barefoot and wearing a crown of thorns. Two "thieves" tied to logs follow with two dozen soldiers whipping them every step of the way. The soldiers become teenagers wielding spears, flanking an army of white robed, barefoot, masked figures wielding equally giant aquamarine crosses. Followers find themselves intermingling the white clad figures, singing, praying and documenting the occasion (see video). The procession lasts about two hours, and ends up at the neighborhood church. At the church we encounter another slew of weeping women, Pontius Pilate, more guards and three crucifixes. When Christ and the thieves reach the "stage" they are tied to the crucifixes and promptly hoisted vertically into the air. The dialogue is then recreated, and Christ speaks from the cross. Pretty darn powerful. At this point I was drenched with sweat and decided to get a tamarind flavored raspado (bagged shaved- ice) and took a perch to watch the people pour out of the courtyard. Much different from the services back home. Now I think I know what they mean by a Catholic country.

Candido and the Money Pit

Another fellow elementary school teacher extended a most alluring invitation: a mountainous hike to have a picnic. How could I say no? So I show up at his humble adobe at eight in the morning and we packed the essentials: one camera, one 3L Coke, 1kg. tortillas, 2kg. ribs, salt, 10 hot peppers, 2 onions, a comal, a machete and we're on the way. I must digress. On the way back from the butchers Maestro Javi (as he is called, second picture down, with yours truly) starts to tell me how he hasn't exactly visited this mountain in some 22 years and how he hopes to remember the trail and whatnot. Now I'm always up for an adventure so why not? Here come the part where he's telling me about when he was a kid and he had to go up the mountain in the wee hours of the morning to get firewood with his trusty burro, when we spot Candido. Candido is one of the village drunks. He is walking on the side of the road in a most sweaty cowboy hat wearing work boots tied shut with wire. Maestro Javi instinctively pulls over and asks what he's doing. Supposedly he's on the way to help someone with some cement pouring or something. Javi looks at me and whispers that Candido knows the way. We lure him into the van with talks of free ribs and pulque, he quickly climbs in. We drive to the foot of a most steep mountain and park outside of a pulquria. Now pulque is a most intoxicating nectar, made from the maguey, a type of agave. The pulque regrettably has the consistency of semen, but a deliciously sour taste. We order 2L to go and are on the way. Damn, it was a long way to the top, the 15 degree climb was filled with boulders, cacti and dried leaves, the perfect combination for slippage. After twenty minutes of hiking we come across a most giant hole (Last picture). Nearly 2m wide and almost 3m deep, there was only one man who could explain: Candido! In between swigs of pulque he explains that two weeks back a rancher saw fire coming from the very spot. Now the Mexican culture is mighty suspicious and seeing plumes of fire in the mountain is certainly not just effect of too much pulque. Thinking it was buried treasure, the rancer hired Candido and a few other drunks to excavate in the middle of the night. Three nights and who knows how much pulque later the rancher quickly realized that the hole was empty. So much for the mony pit, at least we know we know why the giant hole is there. We keep on trudging. after another hour of grueling hiking and who knows how many pulque pit-stops, we arrive at the mesa of the mountain. The fauna has change to a conifer-forest with 200ft. pine trees and mule paths peppering the forest floor. Another fifteen minutes and we're in a clearing, a perfect spot to picnic. We eat ribs (Third picture down), drink pulque and nap in the shade listening to the sound of the wind tickling the pine needles and bathed in the sweet smell of pine tar. After two hours in paradise we decide to make the descent. Only a few gulps of pulque left and we run across a pack of burros, and a few leñeros (firewood gatherers), share some stories and are on the way. Let's just say that the pulque made the hike down the hill a tumble, but we made it (First picture: Candido, dog, liters of pulque) and all in time to grab another few liters before the pulqueria closed. Mission accomplished.

One Neat Shot

"El Zapatitio"
1976 Renault 5
The New Ride

Captain's Log: The Cockfight

I never thought I'd ever go to a cockfight. It's somewhat of a joke in the Northern United States. Here I am, in Northern Mexico state, a gringo who'd never even touched a live chicken, let alone a gamecock. A fellow elementary teacher had been ranting and raving about the wonders of clandestine cockfighting. I just had to give it a gander. Like I said, I'm from Ann Arbor, Michigan what do I know about cockfighting. He invited me to see his house which is also home to some 35 gamecocks in every possible capacity: Mature, young, hens, chicks, wounded, and even a few unhatched eggs. From there he gave me the full crash-course in gamecocks, from how to hold them to how to fight them, the rules of the tournament and the difference in races. Remarkably beautiful animals these gamecocks are! Each race has their own distinct coloration. I helped him choose two pollos (roosters under a year old) who weighed 2 kg. and 1.9kg. respectable to fight. He told me that Saturday there would be a clandestine cockfight in the foothills of a neighboring mountain. I couldn't say no. I get to his house around noon, we crate and load the gamecocks and are on the road by two. After about twenty minutes of braving a most rocky trail, we reach a field. The field is flanked by an array of cowboys, cholos, crooks and I think I saw a pirate somewhere in the crowd. To one side is a small adobe building with some señoritas selling snacks and a most sweaty bandito manning an antiquated scale. They thirty-or-so people are milling about with crates looking for another willing cock-fighter with an equal weight gamecock. When the match is found the betting begins: the stakes are set and off to the amaradores. The amarador (see first picture) has the most dangerous job of the whole operation: he ties the razorblades on the gamecocks. Not only are the razors lethally sharp but the gamecocks are ready to fight. Using a combination of moleskin-like cloth, a small cover and a waxed tread the amarador affixes the navaja (razor, second picture) to the espolón (top-most talon) and its off to the ring. Each amarador has his own box of tricks, about the size of a shoe box, usually intricately carved in gamecock motif. With the rooster tied, the match made and the wager set we were off to the ring. By the time we are ready about sixty people have assembled and are ready for blood. We pass the gamecock to the sueltador (the guy who releases the cocks for the fight) and they're off (see video). This is our gamecock winning the match by a razor slash to the esophagus. Our rooster came out clean, and won us $1500 pesos (most people make less than $1000 pesos weekly). Not to shabby for fifty seconds of battle. By the time we leave the crowd had grown to about 150 people, we had played another gamecock, won $1000 pesos more and were utterly baked by the pounding sun. Another great Saturday afternoon in Mexico.