coming of age in chilchota

Travel can disorient as often as it educates.

I was sitting in the patio this morning thinking about my last two trips, and I asked myself very odd question: What countries did I just visit?

The question is odd because I have not been outside of the Mexican border for three months. But I do understand the genesis of the question. The parts of Mexico I have visited this past month and the little tourist village where I live are so different from one another that they could be separate nations.

That is one reason I write these odds and ends pieces. They help me put my experiences into context.

I say "experience" because that is an important word in evaluating this my trip to Zamora and Chilchota.

So, was the trip a success? If I used my northern calculator, I might say "no." After all, I went with two goals in mind: (1) to discuss the theory that the Purépecha and Inca cultures might be related because of commonalities in their language, and (2) to learn techniques for cooking one of my favorite Michoacán delicacies -- huitlacoche.
Salvador Diaz Espinoza, the man with the get-that-UNESCO- endorsement mission, would have been the person with whom to discuss the language connection. (That is him on the right in the photograph at the top.) But, as you already know, circumstances conspired to prevent that conversation.

The same happened with the huitlacoche. My culinary curiosity was piqued by master chef Juan Manuel Cervantes when he described a couple of dishes he would cook for us with the corn smut known as Mexican truffle. That was to be the next day.

That day never came because of the tragic shooting visited upon the Purépecha community.

When we started the trip, Linda, the organizer, made clear we were not on a tour; we were looking for experiences. Based on that expectation, our trip was a rousing success. Both with the Purépecha and in Zamora.

Let's talk about the Purépecha today -- and Zamora tomorrow. As usual, some bits and pieces; odds and ends.

In Spanish, "nana" and "tata" are names of familiarity for "grandmother" and "grandfather." But they mean more than that. In a society where age as honored as a source of wisdom, they are terms of honor.

When the nanas greeted us on our arrival, they treated us as honored guests, showering us with confetti, and dancing us up the hill to their meeting place.

The shaman's wife carried a bowl of incense during our greeting ceremony. I now know why it had the scent of orange and pine. And it turns out other aromas, as well.

While she stood by his side with her incense, tata José, the shaman, offered up a prayer. He wears what is currently-accepted as the traditional wear of a shaman.

I posted a photograph earlier of the women in our group holding pigeons. As part of the ceremony, they each gave a pigeon to one of the nanas, who then released it.

I wish I knew the significance of the birds. But I could not hear the narrative. I am guessing that it was similar to the gifting-the-bird in other cultures.

And here is a bit of cultural contrast. My French-Canadian pal, Nicole, is standing next to the youngest nana.

The Catholic church is the T. Boone Pickens of religion; it is a master of hostile takeovers. In Europe, it simply incorporated elements of pagan worship into its own rites. That process helped ease the pagans into being good Catholics. The word "Easter" is the perfect example. 

The priests did the same in Mexico. Our Lady of Guadalupe, Mexico's patron saint, simply slipped into the garb of the Aztec goddess Tonantzin. The people went right on worshiping her in the same place they had for centuries. There is now a basilica there.

The Purépecha meeting place has its own apparition of Our Lady of Guadalupe -- in the trunk of an old oak tree.

   
It would take a grader blade to spread the irony. We were welcomed with pre-Hispanic customs only to discover this tree contained the image of a restructured goddess worshiped by the Aztec, who were never able to defeat the Purépecha warrior-state. What the Aztec could not do, the church did. History likes its little jokes at our expense.

The rest of our visit was in the village of Chilcota. During the trip, I did not have time to maintain my daily 15-mile walking regimen. But that was partially remedied with this 260-stair climb (at a high altitude for us sea-level dwellers) for a panoramic view of the village.

Just a block away, we visited the bakery I mentioned earlier where breads are baked in a traditional manner.

Kim asked earlier how a cuisine can be protected by UNESCO. I dodged the question. But he may find an answer in the UNESCO certificate awarded to the bakery in 2010.

I have never been fond of any baked goods in Mexico. To be fair, I do not care for baked goods in general. And nothing in the shop changed my opinion. Others in our group liked them.

These bread rings were far more photogenic than satisfying.

Our master chef, Juan Manuel Cervantes, explained the importance of the bakery to Mexican culture. For him, bread and atole are the perfect mixing of Spanish and Mesoamerican culture, and should be enjoyed together.
The baker's widow welcomed us to her patio behind the bake house to enjoy the combination -- bread for dipping in strawberry atole.

On our second day, we spent the afternoon in a series of homes where we watched (and participated in) the manufacture of pottery and other arts and crafts. Cheryl tries her hand here at creating an edge on the piece of clay she has worked.

I always enjoy visiting Michoacán. Even though I live in a rural area, the state of Michoacán seems to be a bit more removed from the timeline we experience on the Pacific coast. The combination of this young man on his alfalfa-laden horse and accompanied by his three dogs was a perfect picture of how a life of simplicity has great pleasures.

  
And that paragraph contains one of the traps tourists often fall into. We tend to romanticize what we see in the countryside and try to amberise it without realizing Mexico has been changing from the day the first human put foot here. And it is going to go on changing. Playing Canut can only erode one's own contentment.

That is why I like this photograph of a Michoacán landscape. I was a bit irritated where the cell tower had been placed. Photographers tend to grumble about such things.

But it was in the right place. Because it is a reminder that Mexico is modernizing. And just as a lot of the Purépecha culture we know today has been filtered through the good works of Don Vasco to allow us to experience the version that survives today, it will continue to change along with the evolution of Mexico.
And it is good to experience it all.

Tomorrow, I will share some thoughts on Zamora.