I have mentioned before that Pátzcuaro was on my short list of places to live in Mexico. In fact, four years ago, I came very close to buying a house in the hills above the town.
Being inclined to daydream, I spent more than a few hours at work imagining what it would be like to take a drive around the full perimeter of the lake.
On Thursday, my imagining became a reality. I set aside about six hours to see as much of the lake as I could. Starting with one rule: there would be no rules. Whatever popped into my head, I would do.
The villages around the lake reflect as much diversity as the lake itself. On its face, the lake appears rather uniform. It is not. It is shallow on its south side and far deeper on the north.
The southern shore has vast wetlands that were once the bed of the lake. The northern shore is bordered by mountains that almost rise from the lake. And it seldom seems blue. At its best, it wears Georgia Confederate gray.
I have no idea if the villages are a result of geographical determinism. It may be a factor. Along with Don Vasco’s specialization regime. The varying roots of the tribes around the lake. Or the simple fact that my village is not going to look like my neighbor’s.
I don’t have the answer. I am not an anthropologist. But I am a traveler.
The southern shore has vast wetlands that were once the bed of the lake. The northern shore is bordered by mountains that almost rise from the lake. And it seldom seems blue. At its best, it wears Georgia Confederate gray.
I have no idea if the villages are a result of geographical determinism. It may be a factor. Along with Don Vasco’s specialization regime. The varying roots of the tribes around the lake. Or the simple fact that my village is not going to look like my neighbor’s.
I don’t have the answer. I am not an anthropologist. But I am a traveler.
And travel I did. I started with the western end of the lake -- places I had visited twice last week. The hilltop village of Tzentezencuaro and its dilapidated church. And even more dilapidated bust of Emiliano Zapata.
The former island of Jaracuaro with its nimble-fingered residents who weave hats and other reed products. Years ago, a causeway was built to what was then an island.
The former island of Jaracuaro with its nimble-fingered residents who weave hats and other reed products. Years ago, a causeway was built to what was then an island.
The causeway is rumored to have covered an underwater spring. Without the water feed, the island became a peninsula. But the bridge on the causeway is a great place to watch wading birds, cows, and the occasional net fisherman.
And Tocuaro with its slightly-disguised wood carving shops – especially, masks.
The highway skirts most of the villages. But it passes right through the market town of Erongaricuaro. Because I had spent two days there last week, I decided to drive through to new villages.
And Tocuaro with its slightly-disguised wood carving shops – especially, masks.
The highway skirts most of the villages. But it passes right through the market town of Erongaricuaro. Because I had spent two days there last week, I decided to drive through to new villages.
I got off the highway in Napizaro and Puacuaro to see the only major buildings in the villages -- their churches. The church in Napizaro was the least satisfying. But its origin is interesting.
It was built in 1979 with donations from the northern remittances of the village’s men. And someone tried to give it a modern Spanish look. But it is as uninteresting as an evangelical church in Pocatello.
It was built in 1979 with donations from the northern remittances of the village’s men. And someone tried to give it a modern Spanish look. But it is as uninteresting as an evangelical church in Pocatello.
However, I noticed an odd accessory in the church yard. A tall pole with a small cross bar and a bit of aged vegetation topping it. I saw the same setup in front of the church at San Jeronimo Purenchecuaro.
I do not even want to hazard a guess on this one. Do any of you have any idea of the significance? It is obviously celebratory, but of what, I have no idea.
At San Andres Tzirondaro, I stopped at a junction to see if there was a way to retrace my steps. I had seen a series of small fields, all divided by stone walls. In an odd way it reminded of the hedgerows in Oxfordshire. And I wanted a photograph.
But the road was built to hurry people along on their business – not to cater to photographers. And stopping in the lane of travel was not an option. For people who consider time not to be a life factor, Mexican drivers certainly like to ride the bumpers of scenery-loving tourists.
Rather than retrace my steps, I decided to gain elevation. At the junction, a sign pointed to Santiago Azajo. My road atlas showed no road and my GPS protested that I was driving through fields. It was almost like the start of a Twilight Zone episode.
But there the highway was. A beautiful, newly-constructed road. With shoulders. Even though I only wanted to get a bit above the lake, I was entranced with the road.
At this point, I should point out that my danger alarm started registering -- at a low pitch. Back road. Almost no traffic. Unusual display of expensive pavement.
About another 1000 feet above the lake, I topped a ridge to see something I experienced several times in Greece -- a rather seedy village with a magnificent view. I laughed at myself for being so concerned.
I do not even want to hazard a guess on this one. Do any of you have any idea of the significance? It is obviously celebratory, but of what, I have no idea.
At San Andres Tzirondaro, I stopped at a junction to see if there was a way to retrace my steps. I had seen a series of small fields, all divided by stone walls. In an odd way it reminded of the hedgerows in Oxfordshire. And I wanted a photograph.
But the road was built to hurry people along on their business – not to cater to photographers. And stopping in the lane of travel was not an option. For people who consider time not to be a life factor, Mexican drivers certainly like to ride the bumpers of scenery-loving tourists.
Rather than retrace my steps, I decided to gain elevation. At the junction, a sign pointed to Santiago Azajo. My road atlas showed no road and my GPS protested that I was driving through fields. It was almost like the start of a Twilight Zone episode.
But there the highway was. A beautiful, newly-constructed road. With shoulders. Even though I only wanted to get a bit above the lake, I was entranced with the road.
At this point, I should point out that my danger alarm started registering -- at a low pitch. Back road. Almost no traffic. Unusual display of expensive pavement.
About another 1000 feet above the lake, I topped a ridge to see something I experienced several times in Greece -- a rather seedy village with a magnificent view. I laughed at myself for being so concerned.
The village church is a surprisingly large building with an immense plaza in front of it. Each of the multiple religious figures in the church wore real clothes. I have become accustomed to that.
What I found interesting was that each figure also wore multiple pieces of currency. The only other place I had seen that was at the Santa Muerte chapel. It was a bit unnerving.
While looking for some good photograph opportunities, I ended up in a dead end road with some fields. I started snapping away at the bucolic scene. A plow drawn by horses. Beautiful mountains. Campesinos working in the field. I felt like Monet on holiday.
What I found interesting was that each figure also wore multiple pieces of currency. The only other place I had seen that was at the Santa Muerte chapel. It was a bit unnerving.
While looking for some good photograph opportunities, I ended up in a dead end road with some fields. I started snapping away at the bucolic scene. A plow drawn by horses. Beautiful mountains. Campesinos working in the field. I felt like Monet on holiday.
Then one of the field workers looked at me, stood up, and in perfect English said: “Where are you from?”
For a moment, I thought I was hearing and speaking Spanish.
We talked briefly about his trips north. Where I was from. What I was doing in the village? Was I lost?
And then the rather chilling note: “Maybe you should leave now.”
I do not know exactly what he meant, but I had a good idea. So, I was on my way back down the mountain.
The road quickly took me past Santa Fe de Laguna, Quiroga, and Tzintzuntzan -- places we have visited recently on these pages.
And my impression? I am still infatuated with this lake. Whether it is the sense of peace in the water or the birds or the sheer enjoyment of the countryside, I am hooked.
