searching for pátzcuaro

Don Vasco succeeded beyond his fondest dreams.


He wanted to create a P'urhépecha society where the Indians could support themselves.  If he could walk the morning streets of Pátzcuaro these days, his Jesuit lawyer heart would swell.


It seems as if everyone in Pátzcuaro is selling something.  Fruits.  Vegetables.  Fish.  Chicken.  Things I have never seen before and I have no idea what I would do with.

It is all there.  Just begging to be photographed by a tourist -- or, better yet, purchased and consumed by a local citizen.  After all, Don Vasco did not set out to set up a tourist town.  He was interested in commerce and self-sufficiency.


Don Vasco did not succeed in creating More's Utopia, but he came awfully close to forming a branch of the Adam Smith in Action Club.


And I almost missed all of it.


We pulled into Pátzcuaro in the afternoon and jumped into a brief walking tour of the town's historical highlights.


The historical area is quite compact.  There are two plazas.  The largest (Plaza Grande) is presided over by a statue of Don Vasco.  The smaller square (Plaza Gertrudis Bocanegra) is named in honor of a local independence heroine.


Both plazas give the town a sense of Spanish order and tranquility.  Even though they each have their individual personalities, they were filled with people living their lives. 


No bustle like Morelia.  No self-important preening like Guanajuato.  Just country folk getting on with the day.


Pátzcuaro, like every Mexican town, has its usual array of churches.  And there is nothing special about any of them (with one exception).  What is unusual in Pátzcuaro is that there are no churches on the main plaza.  Most Mexican towns place their major church in a place of prominence on the town square.


Not Pátzcuaro.  Apparently, that was another Don Vasco innovation.  He wanted the church to be somewhere other than near the secular power of the city to draw a line between his work and the evil of Nuño de Guzman.


That sounds very romantic.  But I have doubts about its accuracy.  After all, the same Don Vasco ordered a chapel to be built where the last leader of the P'urhépecha knelt in humiliation to the Spanish conquerors.

Pátzcuaro's greatest visual attraction is not its monuments.  After it lost its attempt to be the area capital, it fell back into being a sleepy Indian-colonial town.  The most obvious proof of that are the buildings.  Mostly made of wood and adobe with tiled roofs.


But, it does have its stories.  One of the most romantic is the story of Gertrudis Bocanegra.  She was one of those heroines who pop up in national histories.  Joan of Arc.  Boudica.  Molly Pitcher.


As a supporter of independence from Spain, she provided two sons to the effort who died in the cause.  She continued to support the movement until a friend betrayed her efforts to the Spanish, who then shot her in the Plaza Grande, and left her body to the flies for a full day.


Instead of acting as a warning to others, her bravery inspired the rebels.  Proving that arrogance cannot trump liberty.

She is now honored not only by having her name on the square, but also having the public library named after her.  The library is a converted church.  And there is nothing special about it -- except for the rear wall.  And I will write about that in a separate post.


All of that was interesting.  But it still did not give me a feel for Pátzcuaro's soul.  I had a good feel for what the town had been, but not what it was today.


I got up early the next morning to climb up to a viewpoint, recommended by our guide, to watch the sun rise over the town. 


A fellow blogger often writes about the light of Pátzcuaro.  And he is correct to do so.  Watching the dawn creep over the town bit by bit was better than a Broadway show.

I then decided to see the one church in Pátzcuaro that is unique -- the Basilica of Nuestra Señora de la Salud.  Don Vasco had great plans for the church.  It was going to be his cathedral.  A massive structure with five naves that would proclaim the glory of God.


Those building plans never quite worked out the way he wanted.  The bishopric was moved to Morelia, and the church in Pátzcuaro was left with only one nave.  But it is surrounded by Don Vasco's labors -- stalls where Indians sell their handicrafts.


I attended mass out of curiosity, and then walked down the hill.  I had noticed a church at the end of the street that I wanted to see.  But I never got inside the doors.  Because I discovered what I had been looking for -- the soul of Pátzcuaro.


Just outside the church gate were the merchants I mentioned at the start of this post.  The market stretched for blocks and was crowded with early morning shoppers.


Those of you who live in the Mexican highlands are accustomed to this kind of thing.  We coastal yokels have nothing like it.

Instead of our cull fruit and vegetables, the merchandise on sale was plump and fresh -- and offered the appearance of choice.


I came to Pátzcuaro thinking it might be a good place to spend part of my summer.  After all, it was near the top of my list for places to live in Mexico.


If I had any doubts they disappeared when I had cafecitos with the light-poet of Pátzcuaro, "Felipe Zapata."


For all of his protestations of not being a very social fellow, "Felipe" is the type of company you look for to share a cup of Joe.  Well-read.  Better-spoken,  And intelligently frank.  He managed to put up with my ramblings.


When I decided to move to Mexico, I made the amateur mistake of wasting my time looking only for climate and infrastructure that would please me.  "Felipe" and Jennifer Rose have reminded me that nothing trumps relationships -- relationships with the soul of a town and with its inhabitants.


And I think I could have a summer fling relationship with Pátzcuaro.


Note -- The photograph at the top of the post is not mine.  It is the work of my pal Kim G. of Boston, a frequent commenter on these pages, and found its way here through the good graces of Felipe Zapata.

modern tzintzuntzan

When we left our Michoacán historical narrative, the evil Nuño de Guzmán was being led off stage in chains.  Leaving behind the decimated P'urhépecha society.


Actually, it was the opposite of decimated -- where only one in ten is killed.  Ninety per cent of the P'urhépecha were dead -- through disease, war, execution, or slavery.


Some of the "bad Spanish" tales have been exaggerated to serve political ends.  But not this one.  The P'urhépecha were in terrible shape.

The new bishop (a Jesuit lawyer), Vasco de Quiroga, was a perfect anti-Guzmán to turn the P'urhépecha into good colonial subjects. 


And let's not fool ourselves.  He was there as a colonial functionary.  Admittedly, to do good.  But he was not a liberator.


Don Vasco wanted to remake society on earth while saving people's souls.  He admired Thomas More's Utopia, and believed it could be the basis for restoring P'urhépecha society.  A society that would be peaceful, Spanish, and -- Catholic.

Each village under his care would have a specialized trade.  The villages would then trade with one another.  Creating a larger self-sufficient community.


Even today Don Vasco is revered by the P'urhépecha.  And the results of his experiment are still evident in Michoacán.


Don Vasco assisted the P'urhépecha in building a Spanish town on the ruins of old Tzintzuntzan.  That portion of modern Tzintzuntzan has changed little since then -- except for the hordes of tourists toting off chairs and chests.


Tzintzuntzan's specialty was (and is) carved woodwork.  I did not take any photographs of the woodwork shops.  Frankly, the pieces struck me as being rather pedestrian.  Especially, considering the town's reputation.


But there were some interesting (and colorful) woven reed pieces.  The type of thing you buy your mother-in-law to enjoy watching her figure out just what to do with it.

The only other attraction in town is a Franciscan monastery and church.  The grounds and the buildings are currently going through a major renovation.  And an honored site because it is where Don Vasco began his project.


I have often wondered why Mexico, as a Spanish-based culture, did not use olive oil in its cooking.  The obvious answer is because Mexico is a maize-based culture.


But Don Vasco tried to get the locals to switch to olive oil.  The church courtyard has an orchard of olive trees, the oldest planted by Don Vasco's hand (or at least at his command) almost five centuries ago.  Living proof that Mexico's history still impacts its daily life.


In the photograph, you can see one of the newer olive trees in front of the church.

Modern Tzintzuntzan is an interesting stop, but it was not enough to hold my interest for very long.


So, off we went to Pátzcuaro -- where my interest did not wane.

old tzintzuntzan

On our way to Pátzcuaro, we stopped at Tzintzuntzan on the banks of Lake Pátzcuaro for two purposes:  to see the ancient city of Tzintzuntzan and to look at the handicrafts of modern Tzintzuntzan.

When the Spanish arrived, Tzintzuntzan was the capital of the Tarascan state.  It had a population of 100,000 -- most of the people living in the area of modern Tzintzuntzan.  The political and religious functions were on the hill above the main settlement.

Not much of the political center remains today.  The Spanish took some of the stone to build their own buildings.  The elements handled the rest.  Like most sites, only a portion has been uncovered and restored.

The center sits atop a large stepped wall.  On top of that are five yacatas (platforms) that once housed a temple.  The current structures were built on older structures.  After all, the city grew for over three centuries.

What is unusual is the shape of the yacatas.  The rounded sides and the absence of mortar between the dressed stone is unique in Mexican architecture.  The only similar structures were built in Peru. 


Several pots have been found on site that have Inca markings -- and the P’urhépecha language is very similar to the language of South American Indians.

The generally-accepted anthropological theory is that the P’urhépecha and the Inca traded with one another.  But, there is a more eccentric theory -- that the P’urhépecha are actually Incas who migrated north.

There is a building on the grounds whose purpose is unknown. 


When it was restored, archaeologists found thousands of human bones in the structure.  The building probably served the same the same function as similar public buildings in the Aztec and Maya civilizations -- public or ritual display of the remains of enemies of the state.

I was impressed with the site.  But our visit here was the first time during this series of bus trips that I disliked being on a tour.  When Islagringo and I took our road trip through the Maya sites, we stayed as long at each as we both wanted.  On a bus tour, I could not do that.

I would like to return to Tzintzuntzan and spend more time examining the site.  Thinking through the implications of the Peru connection.

And then I would like to drive over to another P’urhépecha site -- Ihuatzio -- about five miles away.

But that will have to wait for another day.  As will our visit to modern Tzintzuntzan.

mister peabody's wabac machine

I love history.

If you have been reading this blog for very long, you already know that.  But, I love history for a very specific reason.  It is all about stories.

And I am about to tell one of those stories.  To understand the area around Pátzcuaro, it helps to know who its people are.

I have always been amazed at how quickly Hernán Cortés was able to conquer Mexico.  He started the conquest on the east coast in 1519 with about 500 men, 13 horses, and a few cannon.  Barely a decade later, he was establishing cities on the Pacific coast.

We all know the story of how quickly he defeated the Aztecs -- with the aid of Indians who were glad to be rid of Aztec rule.  The destruction of the Aztec Empire made the next step for Cortés a lot easier.

The second largest Indian political organization lay between Mexico City and the Pacific coast -- the Tarascan state of the P’urhépecha. 

In the early 1300s, the P’urhépecha were scattered bands of individual communities.  A tribal leader, Taríacuri, joined the various bands together -- eventually establishing a political entity consisting of the current state of Michoacán, and about half of Jalisco and Guanajuato.  The second largest empire in Mexico.

The largest, of course, was the Aztec Empire.  As was inevitable, the P’urhépecha and the Aztecs became sworn enemies fighting a series of battles -- battles that the Aztecs lost. 


The P’urhépecha were fierce warriors.  But they also had geography and technology on their side.  Their empire was mountainous and they knew how to forge copper and bronze into weapons.

When the reigning king, Tangáxuan II, heard of the defeat and destruction of the Aztecs, he decided to salvage as much of his empire as possible by entering into a peace treaty with Cortés.  Whether that was a wise move or not, we will never know.  But it did not turn out well for the P’urhépecha. 

The Spanish decided the P’urhépecha had far too much autonomy.  And, at this point, one of the most infamous characters in the conquest comes on the scene -- Nuño de Guzmán.  In a melodrama, he would play the role of the top-hatted villain.

Guzmán was appointed as governor of the region.  He treated his Spanish enemies harshly.  But he reserved a particular hatred for the Indians.  With the help of a traitorous P’urhépecha noble, Guzmán overthrew the P’urhépecha political structure, tortured and burned alive Tangáxuan II, and enslaved the Indians he did not kill.

To the credit of the Spanish crown (and that is not saying much), in 1536 Guzmán was arrested, stripped of his offices, and shipped back to Spain in chains because of his reign of terror. 

And, in an almost Zen-like balancing of yin and yang, one of the white knights of the conquest arrived as bishop of the area that same year -- Vasco de Quiroga.  A student of Thomas More, Don Vasco saw an opportunity to do a little nation-building based on More's Utopia.  The Spanish had stripped the Indians of their social structure and economy.  Don Vasco provided it.

The Tarascan state was built around areas that specialized in certain crafts or products.  Don Vasco built on that concept by finding teachers in each craft and then creating a monopoly for each village in that skill.  Such as woodworking or copper forging.  When he died, Don Vasco left a legacy of communities that were self-sustaining.

Tomorrow we will put these pieces to use by starting our journey through ancient Tzintzuntzan, and then take a quick stop at modern Tzintzuntzan.

questions about angels

I have no idea if the poet Billy Collins has visited the El Rosario Butterfly Sanctuary.

But as I stood there last week watching thousands of butterflies fly above me and millions rest around me, I recalled a couplet from his Questions About Angels -- questions people never seem to get around to asking about angels.

Do they fly through God's body and come out singing?

Do they swing like children from the hinges

of the spirit world saying their names backwards and forwards?

Do they sit alone in little gardens changing colors? 

Seeing the Mexican winter home of the Monarch butterflies has never been a big ticket for me.  It certainly was not on my "Bucket" list (if I have one) -- or even on my "B" list.  It might have made my "If you're going there, I won't jump out of the car" list.


I have been trying to recall when I first heard about the Monarchs.  I think it was sixth grade science.  One of the examples of migratory animals.  Swallows heading back to the mission.  Terns flying from pole to freezing pole.

To me, they were simply an exotic insect with a gypsy gene.  Exotic because I had never seen one.  We don't have them in the Willamette Valley.


What I knew I had seen in documentaries.  You know the type.  The Nova specials narrated by a sultry-voiced actress who tells us all about the risks the Monarchs take merely to meet up at the butterfly singles bar.


None of that piqued my interest.  But a visit to the sanctuary was part of our visit to Morelia.  And, at least, it would be a nice hike in the mountains.

Here is the short story.  The Monarchs can range as far north as Canada in the summer.  At some point, a special generation of Monarchs will hatch as fall approaches.  A truly Nietzschean generation of butterflies. 


Each butterfly of that generation will live for eight to six months -- assuming it does not end up decorating the grill of a Peterbilt.  Long enough to head south to Mexico.  Spend the winter.  And fly part way north again.


That generation will never see Canada again.  It will take three additional generations of butterflies in a single season -- most living a few brief weeks to mate and die -- to complete the cycle.


What we were going to see on our visit was the super generation.  Those who had made the full trip and were having a nice stay in Mexico -- just like some of their fellow Canadians on our tour.


The trip was about a three hour drive east of Morelia -- high in the mountains.  But that just got us to the parking lot -- where the local Indians sell food, drink, and butterfly-adorned gewgaws.

But all of that could wait.  We had climbing to do.


About eight of us met up at the entrance to start the trek with a local guide -- who patiently waited for his huffing and puffing charges.

At almost 10,000 feet, with a gimpy right ankle and being seriously out of shape, I started wondering if the hike up the mountain was going to be worth it.


I really have no idea what our altitude gain was or how long it took.  I just know it was a tough climb.


But nature can be kind.  We struggled over a ridge into a meadow filled with more butterflies than i have seen in one spot.  All enjoying a nice bit of nectar.

That was merely the starter.  A few hundred feet on, we saw butterflies gathered around the equivalent of a Kalahari water hole.

The trail ended in a grove of oyamel fir trees.  At first glance, they looked like oaks in the autumn.  A forest of brown leaves.

But they weren't leaves.  They were butterflies. 


Millions of butterflies on the fir needles and the tree trunks.  Butterflies that were in Canada or the northern United States six months before.


And then something marvelous happened.  As the sun played hide and seek with the clouds, the butterflies started soaring.


I wish I could describe the sight.  The local Indians believed the butterflies were the souls of their ancestors returning to their mountain homes.


The analogy worked for me as I stood there with my mouth open like some slack-jawed yahoo. 


The grace.  The beauty.  And the sound.  Like the whisper of seraphim wings.


Take a look for yourself.

I doubt I will ever visit again.  But I don't need to. 


I think I have learned some answers to those questions about angels.

pass the buck fever

When I was in grade school (back during the Punic Wars), my father took my brother and me to a hunting class.


I cannot recall if he thought a gun safety course was a good idea or if the meddling hand of the state had intervened in our lives. 


But there we were.  Learning all about gun safety and respecting the wildlife we were about to put on our dinner table.


Most of the information is a blur -- with one exception.  Buck fever. 


I can still see the instructor telling us that even the best hunter will at one time see the perfect target and be so overcome with excitement that he will be unable to remember how to properly fire his rifle.  I think he called it God's way of preserving beauty.


I wondered if our hunter-predecessors, the Coos, froze up on their bows now and then?


But I saw it happen only once.  With a friend of my father's.  Perfect buck.  Complete brain lock.


That is until Monday night.  I was closing up the house to head off to Mexico City.  I decided to walk through the garden and out onto the malecon to see if the leaf cutter ants were preparing any encroachments.  Like bad boxers, they telegraph their punches.


The ants have established a network of nest openings between the pavers -- leaving large gaps where there once was sand.  In one of the larger gaps, my flashlight caught bright colors -- red and yellow.  What looked like a large colorful worm about 8 inches long.


When I walked closer, I could see it was a black, red, and yellow body.  A snake.  But I could not see the head.  But I immediately knew it was my first sighting of a coral snake or a scarlet king snake. 


I started searching for rhymes.  Was it "Red on yellow, kill a fellow" or "Black on yellow, kill a fellow?" And why do these rhymes have to be so unhelpful?  "Red sky in morning, something something something."


Whatever it was, it was obviously hunting for prey in the cracks between the pavers.  Probably a tasty lizard.


I rushed back in the house and grabbed my camera.  When I came out, it was still there, but it was moving on to search for other prey.  And my flashlight caused it to speed up.


So, there I was.  With bare-toed sandals within inches of the snake's head; balancing my flashlight; remembering phrases like "related to the cobra," "North America's most deadly venomous snake," "high probability of fatality"; and trying to figure out how to turn on the flash while focusing.  And I simply could not remember how to do either.


Snake fever, I guess.


This is the result.  Not very satisfying.  Even when you enlarge it.

The photograph may be blurry.  But I suspect this is going to be one of those memories that sticks in my mind.  It was one of the coolest animals I have ever seen.


It slithered to sanctuary under a treacherous maguey where it was protected by the spines.  Even after I recovered from too much excitement, I still could not get a better photograph.


If nothing else, I learned not to go walking around at night with my sandals.  It very well may have been a king snake.  But the last thing (or one of the last things) I need is to startle a coral snake by stepping on it.


For those of you who thought you were going to be reading about butterfliues today, I promise tomorrow will be devoted solely to mariposas.

third time's a charm

Well, I am off on a third trip through Mexico.  This time to Mexico City.


The group is the largest of the three I have been on -- 42. 


We take a bus to Guadalajara and then fly to Mexico City.  For a stay of six days.


You have already learned that I am not very good at putting together reports while on the road.  And I have not been very good at wrapping up the trips I have taken so far.


But there are a few tales still in the queue for you while I am touring the capital of the highlands.


So, stick around for the tales of butterflies, Tzintzuntzan, and Pátzcuaro.