Each year for the last five, I have taken a brief trip to Mexico in
May orJune to check in with my Huichol friends, to plan for the fall
pilgrimage, and to buy crafts for my farmer’s market booth. Though
this year’s trip was on the late side, the summer rains had not yet
started, and the dirt roads would be passable. Cloud cover made the
temperature cooler than I expected it to be. Once installed in my
usual hotel in Tepic, overlooking the central market and a small
square where the city busses load and unload, the very center of the
city, with masses of people walking through day and night-school
girls in short dresses and young women in tight jeans getting instant
cell phone recharges, lumpy old fruit and tamale sellers, young guys
looking cool in twenty different styles, middle aged men with cowboy
hats and woven bags, kids straight off the rancho with their bathed-
and-slicked-for-town look, and Huichol and Cora men and women walking
purposefully to their destinations--I made arrangements to rent a car
for one day only, to make my village visits; since I had flown
directly to Tepic from Tijuana, rather than to Puerto Vallarta, I
didn’t need a car for the usual long drive to Tepic, and I could take
care of my city business walking and riding cabs. The rental
franchise owner, Fortino, a giant of a man, his pot belly pushing
against the belt of his shorts, delivered the car to the hotel, wrote
out the contract and encumbered my credit card in the hotel lobby.
The next morning I headed out after a quick coffee at Barragan’s
menudo stall inside the market. I didn’t want to eat because I knew
Federica would make food for me. I’ve been going to the stall long
enough and infrequently enough to notice that the girl attendants are
starting to look womanly; their hair is always pulled back from their
smooth brown faces, and they are always serious and businesslike,
undoubtedly on orders from their boss, Barragan, or his wife, who is
constantly chopping up the tripe for the morning soup. I was
departing just after dawn to see Joaquín and Federica, in hopes of
beating the heat; a fine mist was falling as I left Tepic.
Joaquín’s family seemed unprepared for my crack of dawn visit, having
expected me later in the morning, but they quickly recovered and
welcomed me warmly. Daughters Emma and Delia were at home, and
Delia’s little son Victor. Delia is the warmest of the girls, with
real affection for Sandy and me. When my son Jacob joined us in
Mexicoa few years back, they really hit it off; she might have ended
up a daughter in law under different circumstances, and I wouldn’t
have been sorry if she had. Her little son Victor is a happy sturdy
boy. He brought over two plastic horse toys, and we played with them
enjoyably for a long time, until I acted as though I might strike his
horse with mine. He backed away suspiciously then and kept his
distance after that.
Their son Mario’s house was being built on the property, right at the
entrance, on a stone foundation, while he continues his military
career. Their daughter Laura’s house was virtually complete, down
the hill at the lower edge of the compound. There was a pile of
block and a foundation trench dug for Pachita’s house, but no
construction, since Pachita had changed her mind about coming to live
with them. I had talked with her a month earlier and had asked why
she had decided not to make the move. She said she hadn’t liked the
way they had talked to her.
“What did they say to you,” I inquired. “Ask them,” she said.
I did ask, and Federica told me that Pachita was angry because she
had wanted them to sell the building materials and give her the
cash. They had refused, because the money used to buy them was for
the express purpose of building her a house, and as far as she and
Joaquín were concerned, that’s the only way they intended to use it.
We chatted comfortably about many things—village news, the children’s
activities, farm and animal events--until I was called to breakfast,
a feast which included river fish, freshly made tortillas, eggs from
their hens, and a wonderful red sauce. We made plans for our
November pilgrimage, which needed to begin after the first Sunday of
the month, because Joaquín holds two positions in the village
government now, judge and commissioner, and town meeting, which he
must attend, is held every first Sunday. We agreed on the weekend
following the U.S. presidential election.
He had only recently returned to the village from two weeks in the
Huichol sierra. At first he only spoke of where he had been, as
though it had just been an excursion. I asked if had stopped at
pilgrimage sites while there. Only slowly did he reveal the reason
for his sojourn. A woman in the village, whose family was from
Guaynamota, had asked Joaquín to locate her father, who had gone off
on foot across the gorges from Guaynamota, along with two relatives,
to make offerings at a sacred site in the sierras. The relatives had
returned without the old man, and she was worried. Joaquín made
inquiries along the way, and ultimately arrived at the canyon where
the offerings had been made. There, he saw vultures circling, and
when he made his way down, he found a skeleton shrouded in the old
man’s torn clothes. He notified the local authorities and returned
to tell the woman of her father’s fate. By the time he arrived, the
woman had already left for the sierra.
Joaquín’s mother, doña Basilia, came up to greet me. During our
pilgrimage vigil in February, she had not been able to see through
the lies being fed to her about Joaquín and Federica by her other
daughter in law, as she had in previous years, and that incompletion
added a sour note to the night in the desert. Now she was having
spells of weakness, and Joaquín and Federica were having her sleep in
their room, so they could monitor her in the night.
Delia had made five beaded necklace pouches for me, which I will sell
as cell phone holders at my farmer’s market booth. I brought with me
many strands of tiny size 15 beads, along with hair-thin beading
needles and sterling silver earhooks, with which Emma will make
earrings for me to pick up in November. Joaquín had made four
excellent new yarn paintings, two of which I bought, and Federica
offered embroidered purses, one of which I took with me. They had
expected me to spend the night there, but I wanted to push on over
the pass to see Pachita in her village, so I regretfully said my
goodbyes and bumped over the stones and ruts to Las Pilas.
I had not notified Pachita of the date of my visit because I wanted
to see the actual state of affairs at her home. Ominously, as I
arrived in the village, I saw that the huge ancient ficus in the
village center had died and been chopped down. At my arrival,
Pachita quickly prepared food for me; she had a fire going on the
floor of the kitchen, only partially vented by a small window.
Fermín had burnt out the stove in one of his illegal attempts to tap
into the power line, after electricity had been cut off due to lack
of payment. Their water reservoir was cracked and couldn’t hold
water. The corn crib was slowly collapsing. The outdoor kitchen had
no roof and was unusable. Her dresser was all chewed up by
termites. The metal roof, held down provisionally, clattered
whenever a breeze came up. Other than that, everything was fine.
Fermín was there, working on his yarn paintings and his schemes, and
on his efforts to circumvent those who were trying to thwart his
schemes. As always, he was cheerful and optimistic and didn’t seem
the least bit bothered by their living situation. I had made up my
mind not to say a word about the state of their place or about
Pachita’s change of heart, despite my feelings. Perhaps my failure
to say anything, when I would have been expected to complain,
bothered Pachita, for she seemed to withdraw internally as the
afternoon wore on.
Fermín undoubtedly wanted me to buy yarn paintings from him, but he
thought I would be arriving the following week, and he hadn’t
completed any of the backgrounds of the paintings. I was happy to
make the long bumpy ride out of there and back to the highway and
Tepic, in time to return the car and watch the Lakers and Celtics
play one of their championship round basketball games in my hotel room.
The next day I made my purchases from the Huichols who sell their
wares near the market, and from the shop I frequent, where I have
developed a relationship with the owner. She had a couple of José
Benítez yarn paintings for me, as well as two by an interesting young
artist named Sixto Minjares de la Cruz, who does vibrant and
beautifully colored and composed traditional works as well as semi-
abstract modern work. On the street I was also able to find a small
yarn painting by Teresa Rentería, whose lyrical and nuanced work I
had bought on previous trips. I packed everything up, using the
bubble wrap I had brought with me, and the tape and cardboard which I
acquired in Tepic to protect the yarn paintings. The next morning I
arrived at the Tepic airport in time to make additional purchases at
the Huichol shop there. By late afternoon, after an uneventful
flight and a surprisingly quick border crossing, I was home.
