putting the host in ghost

And then there was Real de Catorce.

Before I retired to Mexico, I had heard tales of the mythical village in the northern mountains of Mexico that could be accessed only by a tunnel. It sounded a bit like Lewis Carroll meets J.R.R. Tolkien.

And then there I was. The myth was reality.

What is now a ghost town was a thriving mining city from the late 1700s until 1910 when a combination of the Revolution and some badly-timed underground flooding shut down the operation. Without the mines, there was no reason for anyone to remain in this Latino Shangri-La. So, most of them didn't. Some of them did.

The valleys of Mexico's mountains are littered with former mines and their related haciendas. Over time, many of the reminders of glory have entered the Ozymandias zone -- "Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

"Ghost" town is not really an accurate description of the place -- other than as a public relations come-on. Like a lot of ghost towns, Real de Catorce never truly died. Some people held on over the generations. But much of the town quickly took on a disheveled,but highly photogenic, look.

Eventually, as these things usually go, the outside world discovered this hidden retreat. Along with discovery came foreign investment in hotels and restaurants -- and, of course, gentrification.

Some street corners seem to have what an urban planner would call "mixed use."

It is a bit ironic that one of the reasons for the Revolution was a rejection of foreign investment in Mexico -- the same rejection that was responsible for closing down the mines themselves. And now it has all come full circle.

The foreign investors have returned with their inevitable puns that only exacerbate their sense of foreignness.

Prior to the Revolution, Canadians were heavily invested in Mexican mining. Like most other foreigners, the Revolutionary government expelled them. They are now attempting to return. And that return has caused some resentment amongst a portion of the Mexican public.

A Canadian firm is in the process of appealing a rejected concession for a well-veined mine just down the hill from Real de Catorce. But its appeal seems to be in a different kind of vain.

The Mexican Supreme Court is currently trying to decide whether foreign investment will trump the rights of the Wixáritari who migrate to these hills every year to harvest peyote. The mine has the bad luck to be just inside a peyote protection zone.

You may know the tribe as the Huichol. They prefer their own tribal name -- Wixáritari. In the same way that the Purépecha dislike the name "Tarascan."

We have all seen their work for sale in almost every Pacific beach town. The objects sold to tourists are pleasant enough. But I was really impressed with this piece in the Real de Catorce museum.

To the Wixáritari, the blue deer has special ritualistic place in their culture. Note the stylized peyote buttons on its body -- primarily its neck and its face.

I am not fond of most Mexican folkloric dances. The one exception is the deer dance that transcends several northern tribes. I will sit through sessions of Jalisco mariposas and prancing red-and-white-clad Veracruz dancers to see a brief deer dance performed well.

One reason people kept visiting Real de Catorce during its decline was its Franciscan church. Pilgrims would stream in to ask St. Francis of Assisi to intervene on their behalf with The Creator.

Am I the only person who thinks it a bit odd that the young man who stripped naked in front of a crowd to give away all of his worldly goods before joining the church is depicted here as a crowned monarch wearing royal purple?

Yes. Yes. I know. This is supposed to represent the Francis who now squires around heaven, not the founder of the Franciscans who advocated a life of simple poverty.

If you look at his robe, the gold stitching is actually milagros -- Spanish for miracle. In Mexico, they are metal votives pinned in a church as a prayer request or in gratitude for a prayer answered. Arms. Houses. Legs. Feet. They come in many forms.

But Real de Catorce is more than merely foreign investors, hippie drug-seekers, pilgrims, and disappointed Canadian miners. It is a still-living town partly-filled with Mexicans who may have lived here for generations, and still make their living in the unforgiving hills surrounding the town.

My parents owned a motorcycle shop in Oregon City across the street from one of those Carnegie public libraries that graced many American towns. On the corner, there was a marker memorializing one of the town's favorite sons: the poet Edwin Markham, most famous for his socially-conscious poem, "The Man with the Hoe." 

For some reason, I thought of that poem as I watched this young man head home with his pick slung over his shoulder after a day of digging trenches in the streets of Real de Catorce.

"O masters, lords, and rulers in all lands
How will the Future reckon with this Man?"

Markham, of course, had his own agenda for answering that question.

My answer is that we were off to San Luis Potosi to bring this adventure to a close.