Christmas Eve at the Mercado

We picked up a few things at the organic market—home-made pasta, smoked cheese, a very nice baguette, some cookies, and a loaf of multi-grain bread. Then we pressed on to the mercado for fruits and vegetables for the next few days. We weren’t really sure what to expect about closures for the holiday, so it seemed prudent to stock up.

Apparently everyone else had the same idea, because the mercado was more crowded than ever, and that’s saying something. It was a real scrum, with people packed into the narrow aisles, almost unable to move forward. We struggled to find carrots, green beans, potatoes, juice oranges, papaya, cherimoya and chico mamey, which we now learn should be called chicozapote. I don’t think the vendors will appreciate the distinction, so we’ll continue to call them chico mamey. Regardless of the name, they are completely delicious.

Here’s a photo, with a mandarin orange for size comparison. There are usually a few small dark seeds, unlike cherimoya which has many seeds.

The flavor has been described as similar to a pear (though I’ve never tasted a pear this sweet), with a slightly granular texture. We first tasted it in Chetumal, on the border with Belize, and the vendor told me it was “like honey,” and she was right. These come from Nueva Italia, in the Tierra Caliente region of Michoacán—lower in altitude, much warmer, and not very safe for travelers. This is where marijuana (mota) is also grown.

After loading up with produce we went to Merza, a small supermarket near the plaza, for a few staples and a bottle of wine to bring to a Christmas party. It was also jammed, but fortunately the management had installed a couple of temporary checkout counters to accommodate last minute shoppers like us.

Being overburdened with weight and pretty tired of the crowds, we hopped on our combi and rode home in relative comfort.

This is the statue of Gertrudis Bocanegra, the namesake of the Plaza Chica (formally La Plaza Getrudis Bocanegra), the heroine of the Independence. She looks like a woman not to be messed with. Nearby were a couple of abandoned cowboy boots. There’s a story there, if only we knew it. And then there was the single white high heel on the floor in the mercado.

Christmas Eve dinner at our house was poblano chiles stuffed with a mixture of bacalao (salt cod), tomatoes, capers, onions, and a bit of chiles manzanas (apple chiles, very picante but also very flavorful), warmed in the oven and served over white rice, with fresh green beans. Bacalao is traditional for Christmas Eve in Mexico as well as in many other cultures, plus we love the stuff.

Ordinarily we eat Mexican style, with our main meal (comida) in mid-afternoon, but on Christmas Eve it was dinner, at night. The poblano was extremely tasty, though the kitchen cleanup was extensive. A price worth paying.

A Taste of the Rainy Season

This evening, around 5:30, we had rain. Not just rain--also dramatic lightning and thunder rolling around the mountains. It was very impressive, I thought, until it started to come down in buckets.

Remember Us?

After writing what I realized was like the dreaded Christmas Letter I decided to delete it. Instead I want to reflect on what the past few years since we've posted to this blog have meant to Mark and me.

We have a beautiful home, many intelligent and charming friends, a meaningful life in a country that, while it's pretty accurately described as dysfunctional, is gracious and welcoming. We are diligently studying Spanish and to our delight and amazement we're actually able to have conversations on the telephone or in person without making too many mistakes. This opens us to meaningful connections with our neighbors (Hilda makes the best tamales every Saturday), chats with the vendors in the mercado, and jokes with the taxi driver who takes me home from the mercado. The weather, the number of tourists in town, the condition of our street (terrible)--it allows us to have a sense of belonging. Not deep but enough.

I for one feel very privileged to have had this opportunity to live in another culture and language. The rich indigenous presence here, seen on the street every day as the women wear their traditional dress, is around us always. Just seeing how women use their rebozos (shawls) to carry children, keep warm, haul home heavy loads, or just decorate themselves, is instructive. The Pure'pecha culture is very much alive and well and by and large the people are very friendly.

We both feel it was one of the best things we've ever done. It's a shame that some people come to México only because the weather is good and the living is cheap. Well, here in Pátzcuaro the weather isn't all that good sometimes--we've had over an inch of rain today and it's not over--and it's not as cheap as it used to be. People who move to Pátzcuaro are a different breed. I remember seeing a PBS documentary in the 1970s about a community of people who lived in Scotland where it's hard to grow anything. One of the members said something that has stayed with me. He said, and I'm paraphrasing, it takes a little crack for the light to shine through. So all of us have that little crack, and that's why we're here.

Future postings will have more photos. But in the meantime, here's one from the fireworks from Dia de Independencia on the Plaza Grande--the figure in the middle is Vasco de Quiroga, Tata Vasco, who is beloved here. Google him--it's worth knowing about what he did here in the 1530s and why people still love him.

Semana Santa (as promised)

"The neighbors of Clavijero Strreet are invited to decorate the front of their houses with purple and white for the Way of the Cross of the Young People's Procession 2011, Friday, April 22 at 11am. Christ lives!"

We'd seen the hand-lettered signs posted around the neighborhood, but we were still unprepared on Good Friday when a procession came in front of the house. The young people from El Sagrario, a picturesque church down the hill in Centro, were re-enacting the Stations of the Cross, or Via Crucis. So Mark got his hat and I grabbed my umbrella, and we followed the rather large crowd as they went through the neighborhood.

Emergency assistance at the back of the procession

We stopped at the back gate of the Ex-Colegio Jesuita, where we waited for about 20 minutes before the gates opened. There, on top of a small mound (that is said to be the remains of a pre-Conquest pyramid) the major personalities of the Crucifixion were already in place. Along the slope were several women in robes, and a man portraying Joseph of Aremithea, with Mary Magdelene much farther down the slope. Several Roman soldiers were on top of the mound with the cross and the young man portraying Jesus was tied to the cross and raised up. Mary and Martha were kneeling below the cross.

A man had been reading from a script throughout the procession, and at this point he asked the crowd to kneel, which they did. The young man on the cross proclaimed  "Está terminado!" (It is finished.), and the reader asked the crowd to bow down; the ones who were able to (some were too old to do that) put their heads on the ground.

At the end, the crowd left in silence, and the young man was helped out by friends, obviously exhausted both physically and mentally by his experience.

Jesus' coffin from the Basilica

That night we attended the Procession of the Crosses, from the churches in town, accompanied by parishioners carrying candles. The procession began in front of the Basilica and went down to Plaza Chica, moved on to Plaza Grande and finally returned to the Basilica. Some of the crosses, from the major churches, were very large and obviously heavy because there were extra bearers who were ready to take over from someone who needed to rest. Following the crosses were images of the Virgin, carried by women. The crowd watched respectfully as the procession passed.

The Hermanos Encapuchados and the Procession of Silence

On Saturday night we watched the Procession of Silence, which to me was much more profound. The Hermanos Encapuchados (the Hooded Brothers) walk barefoot through the town accompanied only by a mournful bugle and muffled drums, and the people watching maintain silence. (Except for one old woman, who was forcefully scolded by another woman, telling her to have some respect and be quiet.) It was quite eerie to see these men, robed and hooded in black or purple, walking slowly through town.

A short video of the Procession of Silence:

By Sunday morning the purple had been removed from the altars of the churches and the Easter season was coming to a close. The last event, for Sunday night, was the annual Burning of Judas, which we chose not to attend (though we did see the spectacular fireworks from our house.) Judas is paraded through the streets before being set on fire. He's stuffed with noisy fireworks which explode as he burns. Maybe next year.

More photos from the processions:

The procession from the Basilica went on into the night

One group of the Hermanos Encapuchados

Solemn women accompanying a statue of the Virgin

Some were not appropriately dressed--is that a corset?

But there are always angels

I Coulda Been a Star!

One afternoon a friend called, asking if we wanted to be in a video to publicize Michoacán that was being shot by a film company from México City. Pátzcuaro and Morelia are in the state of Michoacán, and because tourism has been so heavily affected by news coverage of the cartel wars the state wanted to promote a more positive message.

Our friend said she was crossing Plaza Grande on the way to the mercado a block away when she was pursued by a young woman with a clipboard. Could she appear in a tourism video, and could she ask her other gringo friends if they would also appear? She thought, "Why not? Could be fun." And that's when she called us.


Mark decided that he wanted to go to the movies instead, so after several changes of schedule I met our friend at 6pm. We were transported to the yácatas (the spectacular archeological site) at Tzintzuntzan, about a 15 minute ride from town. We had already been told what to wear--capris, light-colored tops, and sandals. I did the best I could with my limited wardrobe, but when we arrived we were immediately dressed in other clothes.

The production company was filming the Purépecha Fire Dance,and apparently we were to be the enthusiastic gringo audience. Shortly after we arrived, however, we were joined by a young Spanish artist, Jaime, growing the audience to three.

We did manage to catch a rehearsal of the Fire Dance at the yácatas, with young men in ethnic dress chasing a burning ball of rubber in the dry grass around the site. This is the dry season and everything is flammable. Nearby were large patches of burned grass, indicating that rehearsal time had been extensive and sometimes exciting.

Here's a short video--notice how they snuff out the fire ball.

Every time we wandered toward the filming area we were herded back to a small stone building. We shared it with the costume mistress and her collection of costume items, ironing board and steamer, and 6 young local Purépecha women dressed in what I assume were supposed to be authentic costumes. In fact they looked more Hawaiian to me.

We waited. And waited. At one point a representative of the movie company came in to chat, and we peppered him with questions about when we would be filmed. He called the director several times and each time he was told, "another half hour." When the young women took off their costumes and went home we knew things weren't going well. By then we were known as "las turistas," the tourists, and our friend noted that we were now a commodity.

At 10pm we agreed that if nothing happened in the next 15 minutes were were leaving. Jaime said he would stick around for a little while longer, though I don't know how things worked out for him. As we left the director was heard on the radio asking the crew to go into town and find more "turistas." Where he expected to find tourists at 10:30pm in a small town was not our problem.

Fortunately I'd called Mark and he'd come out after the movie to see what was happening--which was not much. So he rescued us and took us home. On the way we puzzled over why it was so hard to film our short scene while we were available. Seemed a lack of coordination and planning, but we concluded it was not our problem.

I love going to the archaeological site because the structures are unusually constructed and spectacularly located. The yácatas stand on an immense platform overlooking  the red tile roofs of Tzintzuntzan and the lake beyond, and it's a blissfully peaceful place visited by only a few people at a time. I love the place, and the opportunity to visit, even though nothing came of it, was a pleasure.

But still.

The Palm Sunday Concurso in Uruapan

Every year on Palm Sunday there is a large artisan competition and market in Uruapan, the second-largest city in Michoacán. Uruapan is significantly lower, and therefore warmer, than either Morelia or Pátzcuaro, and is the center of avocado production in the region. Michoacán produces 30% of the world's avocado crop, and that's a lot of avocados. Something like 40 millions tons a year.

It's about a 45-50 minute drive from Pátzcuaro to Uruapan on a good toll road (44 pesos, about $4), and despite being densely populated it's not too hard to negotiate the streets to get where you want to go. We drove immediately to a parking garage near the main plaza, which in Uruapan is a long rectangle, and headed first to a nearby small plaza where each Purépecha village in the region had set up booths to serve their traditional foods.

Having had only a bolillo with some butter and jam before we left, we were both ready for something more substantial. After cruising the various booths, we opted for a couple of blue-corn gorditas stuffed with cheese and squash blossoms cooked on a comal over a wood fire, with a spoonful of roasted tomato and chile salsa added as desired. The crowds of people happily eating, along with the smoke of the fires, contributed to our overall appreciation of simple, traditional food. Other booths served chicken with mole, uchepos (sweet corn tamales), corundas (tamales wrapped in corn leaves), and various soups.

Then it was time to walk a few blocks to the Fábrica de San Pedro, an 19th-century textile mill operated by an elderly American woman, where we could see the exhibits of the concurso. The Fábrica is pretty run down, with broken windows and derelict machinery, but like most old structures that once were magnificent it was a lovely space to show the beautiful crafts. The concurso displays the best of the best, but only a few receive top honors.

At one point the officials herded us toward the entrance, where the Michoacán governor made a short speech and officially opened the exhibit. He was surrounded by his entourage, but as Mark said there was absolutely no security in place--no metal detectors, no guys in dark glasses and suits with electronics in their ears, no searching of purses and bags.

We bought only two modest purchases for the new kitchen, which we'll leave with a friend rather than taking them home, but we made notes about what we want to look for when we return in the fall.

Then we walked back to the plaza, covered with canopies and filled with vendors. Most of the work is mass-produced

Love is in the Air

As I waited for Mark to meet me in the Plaza Grande after his Spanish class earlier in the week, I was amused to watch a pair of pigeons in the midst of their pre-mating ritual. A female, slim and sleek, walked in a zig-zag pattern from one side of the sidewalk to the other, closely followed by an amorous male. He was literally inches behind her, and they were walking very rapidly, their little feet a blur. She didn't seem to be paying any attention to him, though she knew he was there.

While she looked very trim, he, on the other hand, had fluffed up his neck feathers and was crouched low, almost dragging his spread tail feathers on the ground.

When Mark arrived I was laughing and feeling a little sorry for the male, who kept getting interrupted by passers-by who broke up his efforts to win the heart of the lovely female.