blood and bats

 

In yesterday's post, I introduced you to the Aztec's Templo Mayor.


Like most monumental buildings built before the conquest, it is interesting.  But because of its scale, it simply did not connect with me.  And I was a bit disappointed. 


The Aztecs are one of history's most fascinating people.  A warrior nation so steeped in its own pride that thought it could rely on its diplomatic skills to buy off an inferior invading force.


I did not find any of that in the pyramid temple.  But I did in the neighboring museum.


Most of the items found at the site were either offerings to the gods or implements used in ceremonies.  And a wide variety there was.  Enough that we now have a very good idea who the Aztecs were at the time of their defeat.


There is always a danger of turning a very complex people into comic book pagans by emphasizing the gore associated with human sacrifices. 


But there is plenty of gore in the museum.  Or the memory of gore.  The type of thing that would stir the soul of any eight-year old boy.


An altar wall of skulls -- right out of Indiana Jones.

Or a sculpture disc of a goddess sliced and diced by her brother.  Some archaeologists believe that the decapitated and limbless body of sacrifice victims were tossed down the pyramid onto this disc.

And no Aztec museum would be complete without the skulls of real live (at one time) sacrifice victims.

Some things even look as if they were mundane.  Like this prototype of a children's Saturday morning cartoon -- that just happens to be one of the knives used to sacrifice humans for the appeasement of the gods.

And here is a statue of a victim of one of those knives -- with his skin flayed off and viscera visible.

I suspect, though, this human skull used as a mask would be almost every boy's favorite museum piece.  A handy container for Halloween candy.
 

But the Aztecs also created items of great beauty.  Like this very human pottery offering.

 

If this piece had not had a label, I would have sworn it was Greek.  Mycenaean, I would have said.  The detail is exquisite.

 

Or this large shell sculpture.  An artist put a good deal of his time and personality into creating it.

 

But this jug may be my favorite.  Not only because of its color.  The design is simple, but it connects with the viewer at first glance.  And glances right back at you.

The Spanish learned a good deal about the Aztecs from the nobles they did not slaughter.  But we can probably learn as much about them through the works of their own hands.


Hands of a human scale and skill.
 

sinking in history

"Poor Mexico, so far from God and so close to the United States!"


I was pleased to discover Porfirio Diaz probably never said any such thing.  The first part of that sentence verges on just silly.


There are few people on the planet who attempt more to press God to their collective bosom.  That is true today.  And it was true before the conquest.


If you don't believe it, just take a look at the Zócalo.  Plopped right there is Mexico's love letter to God -- the city's cathedral.  Or, as the Mexicans would have it -- with their love of lengthy names: the Metropolitan Cathedral of the Assumption of Mary of Mexico City.


The place is immense.  The oldest (if you count its earlier and smaller versions) and largest of any cathedral in the Americas.


Because it took over two centuries of work to end up with the building we see today, it is rather an architectural dog's dinner.  You can find almost every Mexican architectural style -- just looking at the facade.


It has that look of a faded beauty who has grabbed the most convenient articles for clothing as she dashes out the door.  A scarf.  A table cloth.  The welcome mat.  It would be a stretch to call it anything other than big.

And the interior is more of the same.  Gold leaf.  Soaring naves.  Mobs of statues.  It often looks less like a place of worship than a collection of kitsch -- or the stage of some long-running Broadway hit.


But you know my prejudices.  I prefer places of worship with whitewashed walls.


That is not the Mexican experience.  The candles, lights, incense, and fancy priest costumes found a friendly home in Mexico because the Indians were accustomed to such flummery.


If you look in the back yard of the Cathedral, you will see why.  When the Spanish toppled the last Aztec emperor, they immediately set about destroying Aztec culture -- including its major temple -- the Templo Mayor.  They decided the Aztec place of worship would be a great site for the new cathedral.


Archaeologists have now uncovered an amazing time capsule of the glory that was once the Aztec Empire.

The temple sat atop a pyramid.  The Mexican pyramids almost universally were symbolic of mountains.  This one was no different.  It was supposed to represent the mountain where the chief Aztec god (Huitzilopochtli) was born. 


The Aztec gods (like their Greek counterparts) had human personalities.  And some very flawed personalities, at that.  Huitzilopochtli killed his rebellious sister, dismembered her, and tossed the pieces to the bottom of his birth hill.


All of that would play into the practices of the Templo Mayor -- where humans were sacrificed, their bodies tossed down the pyramid.  The skulls of enemies were then displayed on an altar.


And, of course, the priests were attired in finery that could have earned them the front line in any Vegas show.


All of this in an attempt to cajole the gods into keeping the sun and rain to shower blessings on their crops.  The Aztecs were convinced that if their priests did not get the rite just right, nature would turn on them.


The Spanish put an end to the human sacrifice, but moved the rest of the pageantry inside.


Or, at least, it is inside for now.


When the Spanish began dismembering the Aztec culture, as we know from our boat visit, the capital stood on a canal-webbed island in a major lake. 


The Spanish were not Venetians.  The canals and lake had to go.  And so they went.  Filled in by by bit until the central part of Mexico City appeared to be solid land with very solid buildings on top of it.


Of course, it was an illusion.  Just like the man who built his house upon sand, Mexicans are now paying the price of Spanish hubris.

The cathedral, like most of the central city, is sinking into the old lake bed.  Engineers have bought a bit more time, but the cathedral will eventually collapse.


Perhaps centuries from now, a group of archaeologists will piece things together and wonder what the big church and the templo beside it had in common.


A lot.

poling in public

When I return to Mexico City, I will give the boat rides of Xochimilo a pass.


The people of Mexico City love the place.  They often show up in groups to celebrate an event and are poled about in long covered boats – to the sounds of mediocre (if they are lucky) mariachi and vendors of beverages, scarves, rugs, and who-knows-what.


To my surprise, most of the people on our bus tour thought this was one of the highlights of the trip.  I really did not get it.  I still don't -- even after thinking about it.

 

Most of us remember from our history classes that when the Spanish arrived, they discovered the capital of the Aztec empire, Tenochtitlan, was built in the middle of a lake in the Valley of Mexico.  Several other lakes were part of a vast network that joined parts of the empire.


When I first heard that story, I thought of Tenochtitlan as being an island in the lake.  It wasn't.  It was much more than that -- a series of small islands divided by canals.  The Aztecs not only lived there, they farmed there.  (You can see the canals in the model.)


You can still see the remnants of that massive inter-lake system in Xochimilco.  The islands were formed by driving sticks into the lake bed.  Fill (garbage, dirt, excrement) was then dumped into the staked area to create an island.  A particularly fertile island.


There are still farms on this canal-crossed area.  And often the only way to get from one island to another is by boat.


Here is the sad part.  The canal system -- and the ecosystem associated with it -- has been dying since the 1950s when water was pumped out to feed Mexico City’s needs.  As a result, the water level of the canals is dropping – even with efforts to pump more water into the system.


I found all of that interesting.  Learning about the canals and the people who lived there was new to me.

 

But what made it less than enjoyable for me was being crowded onto a long boat to sit around a table that left little mobility.  I had no trouble with the people.  They were pleasant.  But it was crowded.


We were then boarded by musical pirates disguised as a mariachi band.  I say disguised because they looked like a mariachi band.  But they certainly did not sound like one.  I suspect some grade school was missing its entire teaching staff for the afternoon.


What they lacked in talent, they tried to compensate with volume.  It didn't work.


We were then plagued by a flotilla of Liza Dolittles – to be replaced by merchant after merchant of every imaginable trinket  All available at almost any street corner in Mexico City.  (I would like to see a story one of these days about the fellow who supplies all of these vendors.)

Anyone who has read my blog knows I am a big defender of the free market system.  And I applauded each vendor for amazing persistence and initiative – in principle.


But, for me, it was just a bit too much.  I suspect I was starting to feel the effects of my approaching bout of stomach explosions.


I love boats.  I loved the history.  I was enthralled with the people working the fields – mainly plant nurseries.  But I would not want to relive the experience.


At times I wish I could be more like the residents of Mexico City who truly love the place. 


When they come in groups, they will often hire a series of boats, tie them together, and have a great time.  It may also be a way for them to pay homage to the Indian side of their heritage.


OK.  I got that out of my system.  It was the only less-than-satisfactory experience I had on the trip.  And I feel a lot better for turning lose of it.


Now, let’s talk about the things that will bring me back to Mexico City. 

swimming with the fish

I am awash in clichés.


What can be said about Mexico City that does not verge on doggerel?  Bustling.  Massive.  Vibrant.


All true, but what do they convey that is unique from any other big city?


Carl Sandburg could wax poetic about Chicago by turning it into “hog butcher for the world” and “city of the big shoulders.”  Gertrude Stein just gave up on Oakland by describing the “there” that wasn’t.


I have no such poetic allusions for Mexico City.  But I do have some conclusions.


Mexico City will draw me back – if only to spend more time looking at its art and attending its museums.  It offers enough culture to keep me interested for several more short trips.


And those trips will need to be short.  Mexico City is so crowded you can almost feel the adrenalin streaming down your leg into the pavement. 


I suspect one of those ancient Aztec gods is still being nourished with the life blood of tourists.  Maybe that is where all that vibrancy comes from.


All of that access to culture comes at a cost.  And I do not mean ticket prices.  They are quite reasonable for a city this size.  It is the expense of getting to and from the culture.  And living in this city – even for visits.


A middle class existence does not come cheap in Mexico City.  The general estimate is that it costs about 50% to 100% more to live there than in my little fishing village.


But Melaque certainly does not have what Mexico City has on offer.


In the five nights we were there we visited:

• the huge main plaza (the Zócalo) and the main buildings around it, including the cathedral

• the Templo Major, the core city’s main Aztec archaeological site and the associated museum

• a wonder of Art Deco architecture (the Bellas Artes) where we saw a performance of Mexican folk dances

• what was once the leafy village of Coyoacan, and is now part of greater Mexico City

• the Frida Kahlo Museum – with her highly-overrated art

• the canals of Xochimilco – not surprisingly on a boat

• the Chapultepec castle – home of Mexico’s chief executive from its first post-Independence emperor thorough a series of assassinated presidents to a second emperor and then more presidents until Revolutionary fervor resulted in a less regal home for the current freely-elected heads of state

• the world-renowned (and deservedly so) anthropological and archaeological museum

• the still-mysterious ruins of Teotihuacan, that baffled the Aztecs and still tickle the Disney fancy of busloads of tourists

So, hold on to your sombrero, we are about to paint the town red.  Even if that is a bit redundant considering the politics of the city’s mayor.

magpies in the nest

She wasn’t beautiful.


But she had the advantage of youth. 


Probably in her late 20s.  Enough to get her into the noticeably attractive category.  Farmgirlish with a milk complexion that had not been tainted by the sun.


None of that immediately caught my attention, though, as she crossed the Zócalo in front of my camera.


What did catch my attention was her hair band.  Purple sparkles.  With cat ears.  The type of accessory you would expect to see on an 8-year old girl.  But her plunging decolletage proved otherwise.


Obviously, a tourist – in that getup.  Hello, Kitty meets Miss Kitty.


I went back to taking photographs of the major buildings around the plaza.  After all, I needed pretty pictures of Mexico City to share with you.


When I looked up again, there she was beside me. 


“Excuse me.  Could I look at your guide book?”  “Of course,” I said, trying to find a socially neutral visual point between her hair band and cleavage.


I was correct about her tourist status.  Yorkshire.  On her way home from a sojourn in Australia.


Because I have never met a stranger not worth chatting up, I launched into a lecture concerning the buildings surrounding the plaza.  She opened my guide book and tried to direct my attention there.  But I was on a roll.


I must have looked like a combination of Don Quixote and his nemesis, the windmill – and there was some question of who was tilting at what.  Arms flailing.  Pointing here and there.


On one of my pirouettes, I noticed a fellow standing nearby, but just out of arm shot.  I thought he was merely being cautious.


When the interest of my new-found audience started to wane,  I told her to keep the guide book.  I could get another.  After all, she was only in town for a few days.  She might find some use for it.


That seemed to surprise her – the gift, that is.  But it made me feel as if I had done my good deed for the day. 


As I was walking away, I turned to wish her a pleasant flight home.  She was looking at the fellow who was standing behind us.  And he was shrugging.


Only then did it occur to me what had just happened.  I was almost a bit player in a classic three-party pickpocket scheme.


I was the mark.  She was the plausible diversion (required by criminals and magicians).  The bystander was the talent.


I have warned friends over the years of this bit of urban guerrilla warfare.  And I have seen it work in Rome and Barcelona.  Come to think of it, it was successfully used against me two years ago by a group of children in Cihuatlán.


But knowledge is only the first step to wisdom.  In my case, I know that being distracted by secondary sexual characteristics can often lead to trouble.  Even so, I willingly jumped on the ride.


Had it not been for my shameless exuberance, I could easily have lost more than my lunch in Mexico City.


But the Yorkshire lass was a perfect metaphor for Mexico City.  The place is not really beautiful.  But it is attractive and has its own charm.  It can even be engaging.  With just a soupçon of danger that keeps the jaded interested. 


I initially had hoped that I could manage to stuff my visit to the Tortilla Grande into one post – maybe two.  But I could not boil it down that far.


So, for approximately the next six posts,  I will attempt to relive my five nights in Mexico City.

down by the old tropical stream

Today was supposed to be the start of my tales from Mexico City.


I had the first installment all queued up.  After all, you have had three days of appetizers from the Guadalajara airport.


But this is a current events blog.  At least, current events for me.


Having recovered enough from my "intestinal disorder," I have started venturing away from the hammock -- in short bursts.  One of my first tasks was to rejoin the battle against the leaf cutter ants. 


The other night I hit them with a powder that wiped out quite a few.  The nests on the malecon look like the trenches of Verdun.


But they keep coming.  I found two new nests inside the perimeter tonight.  But my main concern was checking out the activity on the malecon.  There is a garden out there they love to attack.


Sure enough, the ants had returned in force.  While battling away, I ran across two unexpected animals.


I guess the first is not so unexpected, you have met it before in pass the buck fever.  It was out looking for an ant sandwich, and seemed to be a bit disturbed that the only ants it found were piles of carcasses.  (You can see the fruits of the slaughter in the background.)

But I think I have now answered the mystery of the snake's identity.  Because the yellow bands do not touch the red, this fellow is not a coral snake.  I have no idea what species it is.  But I have somewhat confident what it is not.


Unfortunately, the fact that it is perfectly harmless (and, more than that, helpful), will not lengthen its life span.  It lives in an area where it can be spotted easily.  And it will soon be large enough that most maguey will not provide adequate cover.


That is too bad.  But we live by the code of "bruised heel, bruised head" around here.


But my friend the snake was not alone.  I found the trail of ants and started dusting them.  Until I nearly put my hand down on this nasty fellow.  The small claws are a dead giveaway that you do not want to be stung by this little beauty.


In the two years I have lived here, this is the first scorpion I have seen on the prowl outside.  (I have seen two inside my apartment, and I guess that should be a little more disturbing.)


This guy did not get a pass.  I could have left him be, but I had no desire to be gardening one afternoon and discover his little day-time hiding place.


Having dispatched the scorpion, shown grace to the snake, and nuked the ants, I was ready to head to bed.  I said good-night to my pal the crocodile, whose red eye in the laguna was watching my antics -- and headed to bed.


Now, wasn't that better than a trip to the city?


Either way, you will get to hear both tales. 


Mexico City calls tomorrow.

stax up

"But if life were only moments,
Then you'd never know you had one."


I like that Sondheim couplet because it captures one of my great weaknesses.  When interesting things start happening, I expect the next moment to be even better than the last.


After the English and Mexican acts in our playlet, I would not have been surprised to see a topless Angela Merkel ride through the terminal on a unicycle while juggling a chain saw, a bowling ball, and Nicholas Sarkozy.  In fact, I was half expecting it.


And that is the problem with anticipation.  Life will never quite live up to what we expect.  Ever.


But it does not mean we cannot enjoy what does occur.


When Frau Merkel and her amazing unicycle failed to show up, I finished my meal.  I realized I had told told part of our group I would meet them.  And the time was fast approaching.


But before I could undergo the siege of airport security, I decided to take a quick rest room break.


Because I did not need a stall, I asked the attendant if I could place my backpack and a bag containing my flight snack (a tube of Stax -- a shameless Lay's rip-off of Pringles) on the counter.  No problem.  He even stood guard for the fifteen seconds I was gone.


I washed my hands, grabbed my backpack, and rushed out of the bathroom.  The attendant looked a bit surprised.  The fact that he expected (and deserved) a tip did not occur to me until I was headed to security.


About the same time I realized I had left my snack bag behind.


I pulled a couple of pesos out of my pocket and headed back to the rest room.  Just as I rounded the corner, I cartoonishly screeched to a halt.  The attendant was standing there, the Stax tube in one hand, and chips in the other -- just about to drop one into his mouth.


We looked like the Mark Brothers in the mirror scene from Duck Soup.


Both of us with our mouths open.  We simultaneously pointed at the other.  And started laughing.  The whole thing was absurd.


He had found a way to get a tip -- thinking I was long gone.  And I had a fitting finale to this playlet at the airport.


It makes me wonder what wealth of material I might find if I just flew more often.