Getting to the San Lazaro subway station was the easy part. Having already ridden the underground metro several times, I began to feel as if I am a seasoned pro.
After a short two-block walk to the Zocalo, I descend a long staircase into the tunnel system below. The subway tunnels are like a small city in and of themselves. All around me, the well lit hallways are lined with mini shops of all types—food, books, souvenirs, magazines, etc. And then there are the people, crowds of people, scurrying like mice in a large maze, hustling off to their individual destinations.
Following the signs, I am soon inserting a small magnetically coded ticket into an automated turnstile. I hear a click, slide my suitcase under the metal bar, lift my other bags above my head, and push forward as the turnstile allows me to pass.
Walking up to the edge of the tracks, I stop at a yellow line that warns me to go no closer. Soon a speeding train, with a seeming endless long chain of orange cars, screeches past me and comes to a hurried stop. With the sound of rushing air, the doors suddenly slide open and a burst of busy travelers quickly exit, dispersing rapidly behind me. As soon as the rush is over, I feel people closing in behind me, eager to step through the open doors before they close once again. I flow forward with the crowd and moments later I am speeding through a dark tunnel.
A lady who entered the train with me begins to call out in a loudly resonating voice. “Glue … glue … five pesos … two tubes of glue … only five pesos.”
Such vendors on the trains (and even buses) are very common. I can only imagine that they must spend their whole day riding the transportation systems, getting on at one stop, quickly announcing their product in a loud piercing voice, only to exit again at the next stop. These lone merchants sell just about everything from books, household items, snacks, CDs, and anything else that they think someone in a hurry may want to purchase.
Soon, my train comes to a rapid stop. I wait for the hydraulic doors to whoosh open before exiting quickly with a small group of other passengers surging from behind. Pausing momentarily to look up at the signs above, I begin to make my way through a maze of connecting hallways, trusting the signs to guide me. After winding through this maze of tunnels for several hundred yards, I finally arrive at another yellow line, waiting for yet another long orange train, ready to repeat the entire procedure.
Many stops later, as I exit the train at the San Lazaro station, I am in unknown territory. Following the crowd like a lost sheep, I climb a flight of stairs and begin to walk down another long maze, only to freeze in a moment of confusion. As I look around me, every sign I see points to another connecting train, but none of them guide me to a street exit—a street where I hope to find a small Volkswagen bus marked with the words “Route 85 – Amecameca.”
Before I reach a state of panic, a nice older man, who must have observed my confused facial expressions, approaches me, his wife following closely behind. “Where are you trying to go?” he kindly asks.
I explain that I am looking for the bus to Amecameca. He smiles, informs me that I have taken the wrong exit, instructs me to go back down the stairs, take a right, and … blah blah blah. Most of his words sound like gibberish. I begin to feel anxious again.
I must appear totally lost and confused by this point, because this incredible Good Samaritan looks at my empty bewildered face, smiles, picks up my suitcase, and says “Follow me.”
Five minutes later, after winding down one staircase, traversing a short hallway, and climbing another flight of stairs, this kind man sets my suitcase on the tile floor, points to my right, and says “The buses are that way.”
After walking seventy-five yards, I reach another confusing intersection in this ever-expanding maze. In front of me, I see a long hallway with signs advertising large intra-city travel buses, but nowhere do I see any way to exit to the street, where just maybe I might be lucky enough to locate my little “Route 85” rural bus.
Seeing my perplexed look, another young man approaches me, asking if I need help. “I’m trying to find the route 85 bus.” I begin to explain.
“No, that bus is small and crowded—and starts at a different station.” He begins to explain. “Just go down this hallway and take the large bus labeled “Volcanoes.”
I try to protest. “No, I need route 85.” I feel nervous about taking any other route because I am sure I will get lost.
“Trust me.” He replies. “This bus will get you to Amecameca, and is much easier … and more comfortable.”
Only a few minutes later, I have purchased a ticket for twenty-four pesos (less than $2 US) and am seated in a comfortable reclining seat on a large, air-conditioned full-size bus. Within five minutes, the bus backs away from the terminal, and we are on our way.
After about forty minutes, my bus leaves the main highway at a small town called Chalco. Almost immediately we stop to take on more passengers, something we have already done several times before.
“Flashlights … only fifteen pesos.” An older lady calls out in a loud voice.
I didn’t even notice her get on the bus. Realizing my forgotten need for a flashlight, I dig into my wallet and hand her fifteen pesos, eagerly stowing my new possession in my backpack. As the bus stops again, my little flashlight-angel exits, disappearing quickly in the dust behind the bus.
About thirty minutes later, I recognize signs that lead me to believe we must be passing through the small town of Amecameca. As my bus briefly stops at a tiny curb-side bus station, I follow my instincts, gather all of my belongings, hurry clumsily down the steps, and step onto the uneven sidewalk below.
As the bus disappears to my right, I begin to anxiously wonder. “Now what? Am I even in the right town? How will I find Aldea De Los Reyes?”
After looking around to collect my bearings, I notice three small taxis parked a short way down the street. As I approach them, one of the drivers who are sitting in the shade of a nearby building calls out to me. “Do you need a taxi, lady?”
Crossing my fingers and almost holding my breath, I ask with deep anticipation, “Do you know how to find “Aldea De Los Reyes?”
The cab driver pauses for a few moments—moments that seem like hours. Perhaps he is trying to understand my accent, or perhaps he is really not sure of the answer.
“Yes, I think I do.” He finally replies, in a hesitating way that does not instill tremendous confidence in my heart.
My taxi makes a U-turn and speeds out of town headed toward the north. A few minutes later we make a sharp right turn, down a narrow partially paved, mostly dirt road, barely wide enough for two vehicles. After driving about two blocks, I recognize a small church, the same one I had memorized from a photo in my email flyer.
“Yes, that is the church!” I silently exclaim with joy as I give myself an imaginary high-five.
The taxi driver looks confused, asking me where to go from here.
“Turn left right up there.” I instruct him, blindly trusting the instructions that Antonio had given me on Sunday. Two blocks later the narrow dirt road ends at a small brick home. Like a welcome friend, I spy an old plaque on the exterior wall of the tiny home. The words read, “Here in this house, Regina was born at 12:00 p.m. on March 21, 1948.”
The gates are locked and the area looks as if it is entirely deserted. The driver looks back at me with a concerned look. “No one is here.” He begins. “Are you sure you want me to leave you here?”
“Yes.” I eagerly reply. A warm feeling in my heart confirms that I am indeed in the right place.
I look at my watch. It is 11:55 a.m. on Wednesday morning. I am amazed as I realize that I am actually five minutes early. The only question that remains in my mind is “Where is everyone else?”
As I look back on this incredibly easy, faith-filled journey, I laugh at the anxious fear that has tried to consume me for more than a week. An energetic feeling tells me that outside forces provided help and assistance every step along the way. Every time I began to feel lost, a helpful stranger seemed to simply materialize out of nowhere—even providing me with a much needed flashlight.
The thought floats through my awareness, “Was my mother here today, inspiring others to guide me along my way?” My heart vibrates with absolute confidence, saying “Most definitely, yes.”
Welcoming Hearts
Feeling hungry, thirsty, and somewhat alone, I set my belongings down along the side of Regina’s abandoned home, and set off to explore the area. The thought crosses my mind, “What am I going to eat while I am here?”
Turning down a small dirt road near the tiny chapel, I find a small neighborhood market. One wall is lined with a meager selection of snacks, the other consumed by two large glass-faced refrigerator cabinets filled with water, soda, and beer. The center floor space is barely large enough for a few people to comfortably stand. After a few moments, I select a bag of cheese-flavored potato chips, a package of chocolate chip cookies, and a cold refreshing bottle of Coca-Cola.
Soon, I am sitting on a ledge adjacent to Regina’s home. While munching away on my snacks, trying to take the edge off my hunger, I begin to read. Every once in a while, I hear noises, walk to the edge of the home where I can see the street, realize it is nothing, and return to my ledge for more reading.
The worrisome thought crosses my mind, “What if no one else shows up today? What will I do?”
“Just trust and be patient.” My heart replies.
Finally, I hear a few more noises out near the street. I am too consumed in my book to get up to investigate. The book I am reading is written in Spanish. I am deeply pondering words that point out that most traditional “World History” only presents the history of the white Anglo-Saxon ruling-class of Europe. Almost completely overlooked are the rich traditions and history of the native people in the Americas, Africa, Australia, or Asia. For some reason, the rich history and traditional wisdom of these beautiful people seems insignificant, completely ignored.
Moments later, a forty-something Native-American-looking gentleman rounds the corner, finding me sitting on the ground with my back up against Regina’s door. His long hair is a salt-and-pepper gray, tied in a small pony tail behind his shoulder. His large nose has a distinctive native look. He exhibits a slightly surprised look when he first notices me.
“Hi, I am Brenda.” I begin, as I thrust my hand out to greet him.
“I’m Luiz,” he replies.
“Do you speak English” I begin to ask.
“Yes, a little, but I can’t talk now … we need to have a ceremony first.”—at least this is what I think he says.
I watch as Luiz carefully unlocks the door and then utters a quiet prayer before gently pushing it open. Without going inside, he turns around and motions for me to follow him back to the street. I glance down at my watch. The hands read 2:15 p.m..
As I round the corner, I am surprised to see a large tourist-class full-size bus parked on the street—barely leaving enough room for a small car to pass. A group of about twenty five people from Guadalajara gradually climb down the steps of the bus, forming a large circle in the road. A lady named “Tina” comes over and stands by my side, briefly introducing herself.
Soon, several men lower a wheel chair to the ground. As they push the chair around to join the circle, I connect eyes with an elderly Native American woman with long graying hair. Her face is wrinkled and her body weak, but her glowing eyes radiate love, her smile exudes peace. Everyone around treats her with devoted reverence. It is easy to see that she is extremely special in their eyes.
“We call her Sol”, Tina leans over and whispers in my ear. “She is a little sick and weak, and had her foot amputated.”
I look closer and notice that the right leg of her white sweat pants is hanging emptily—but all I really notice is her peaceful look of wisdom and beauty.
Soon, everyone is holding hands in a large circle, an urn of smoking copal incense in the center. Sylvia, the leader of the group briefly welcomes us all. I instantly take a liking to her. I remember Eduardo’s devotion to her as he recently described how he once traveled with Sylvia to South Dakota.
I should probably make a note here that I am altering names as I speak of people. It is not my desire to violate their privacy in any way as I write about my experiences with them—traditions which are very sacred to them.
After Sylvia’s brief words, we take part in what has now become a familiar salute to the four directions, North, South, East, and West. Again, I am confused as we do not honor all the directions in order, and we repeat some of them twice.
Next, Sylvia asks dear sweet Sol if she has any words of wisdom to share. In response, Sol begins to proudly speak of the traditions of her ancestors, sharing stories of their devotion and their wisdom. Everyone listens with the utmost respect as Sol speaks for twenty or thirty minutes.
After several of the women take turns offering prayers, the ceremony takes a different twist. Forming a single file line, with a woman carrying copal incense and Sol’s wheelchair leading the way, we walk reverently across the grass and silently enter Regina’s house. As Sol and the incense pass through each room, the rest of us follow. After returning to the fresh air outside, everyone begins to scatter in different directions—as if they all have pre-assigned roles and tasks, and are eager to begin setting up camp.
After ten minutes of watching, wondering what I can do to help, Sylvia approaches me and says, “I am assigning you to be Abuelita’s helper. Will you do whatever she asks?”
How could I say no?
“Abuelita” is a term of endearment that literally means dear, sweet little grandma. Abuelita puts me right to work. I instantly bond to her. Being perhaps in her late sixties, she is a plump, energetic, joyful, and endearing gray-haired little Native-American woman standing no more than five feet tall. It soon becomes obvious that Abuelita is in charge of the outdoor kitchen—a kitchen being set up under the trees of a neighbor’s home, directly across the street.
Two long wooden tables are arranged in an L-shape, and covered with clean table cloths. Next, three round folding tables are set up and covered in thin colored plastic. Soon, a large portable grill is being hooked up to a large propane tank, and within minutes, small crates of kitchen supplies are being carried from the bus, being hurriedly arranged under the trees with artful efficiency.
I join in as a pack mule, making countless journeys back and forth carrying supplies, large twenty-liter bottles of water, and helping in whatever way I can. Once the bus is empty, the chauffer climbs the stairs, closes the door, and drives off, leaving the once-busy street now quiet and empty.
A spurt of joy twinkles in my heart as Abuelita asks, “Brendita, will you rinse out this pan?” Adding “ita” to my name, indicates endearment and caring. I take this as a great compliment.
Abuelita points me toward a hose. A wall, perhaps three feet tall encloses a five-foot-square pool of greenish-mossy water. The hose runs from a tin roof, ending right above this mystery water. As I open the faucet, a clear stream of water comes from somewhere —all the while my imagination is wondering “Where is this water coming from … and just how clean is it?”
Later, we begin to wash dishes in this same hose water. I just smile and trust that all is well. I am comforted when I see that all of the cooking, and even some of the rinsing, is being done with water from the large twenty-liter bottles.
While some of us work in the kitchen, I note that many of the men are setting up tents in the grassy area below Regina’s house. Everyone is busy attending to their own tasks—no one remains idle.
Shortly before dinnertime, a slight drizzle begins to fall, the skies are looming a dark gray as if a large storm may be threatening.
Within minutes, several men and young boys are pulling large tarps through the lower branches of the trees, tying them securely to provide shelter for the kitchen area and for our food. The storm soon blows over.
As I begin eating, I imagine just exactly what the food might be—perhaps some type of tostada—a hard flat tortilla shell covered with a mixture of hot spicy chicken-like meat. My mouth begins to burn, and I soon note that everyone else has added a type of sour-cream to their tostadas. My continued hunger is more powerful than my curiosity. As I consume seconds and thirds, I discover that the sour-cream definitely helps to lesson the effects of the hot spices.
As dinner ends, several people peel bananas, slice them into thin discs, covering them with cream and sugar. I simply take mine and eat it plain. When offered a greenish-looking thin-skinned tangerine, I too gobble it down with delight.
“Is there a place where I can sleep?” I ask Sylvia.
Soon, after some brief discussion, Sylvia sends one of the men on an errand. He returns with a small one-person tent. Several of the youth help me guide the poles through the loops, as the flat piece of nylon rapidly becomes a safe hideaway just big enough for me and my luggage. I attach the rain-fly while someone spreads out a small shower curtain for a tarp, and we place my tent on top. I am very content as I inflate my small air mattress and unroll my brand new sleeping bag. All my fears have been quashed—I am here, I feel loved and welcome, and I have a dry place to sleep. What more could I ask for?
After dinner, I take the opportunity to sit with Sylvia, Sol, and two other women. I later observe that one or the other of these two women is always at Sol’s side, devotedly attending to her needs. As I talk to Sol, she tells me with a proud smile that she was once a university professor in Mexico City, teaching Theater classes. “I have been an actress, appearing in many films.” She proudly proclaims.
As the evening unfolds, I begin to feel a little like a third wheel. Everyone is busily engaged—either connecting with old friends, or working on important tasks. Struggling a little with the language, I simply melt into meditation mode—almost in a trance as I silently observe the unfolding activities.
With great interest I watch as the men begin to ritualistically build the Temazcal (sweat lodge).
Driving a metal rod in the ground, they carefully rotate a fixed length piece of string around the center pole while drawing a circle in the soil. Then, one by one, these men and boys place exactly sixteen poles. Each pole appears to be a tall thin branch or perhaps the trunk of a small tree—about two inches at the base and narrowing toward the top—rising anywhere from eight to ten feet tall.
Each pole is place with ceremony and reverence. First, an exact interval is measured—approximately two feet. Then, a sharp metal rod is thrust several times into the ground and rotated in a circular motion—creating a small hole in the ground.
A man carrying a coffee can, reaches into the can, pulls out a small handful of crumbled dried tobacco leaves, pauses as if in prayer, and then drops the leaves carefully into the hole. Next, another man waves a smoldering bundle of sage over the hole. Finally, two men grab the next pole, and using the weight of their bodies, they jump slightly into the air as they force the wider base of the pole down into the ground.
About halfway through this sacred ritual, Luiz quietly approaches me. “Brenda, I don’t want to offend you, but do you have a skirt? In this sacred area, we ask the women to show their respect by dressing in a feminine manner. You can just wear it over your jeans if you like.”
“Of course,” I reply, as I return to my tent. My heart swells with gratitude as I remember Eduardo’s words advising me to be sure to bring a skirt for the sweat lodge. Soon I emerge from my tent, not feeling especially feminine while still wearing long jeans and hiking shoes under my skirt. I quietly resume watching the proceedings with fascination and reverence.
By now, the men have begun bending opposite poles together, securely tying them off with twine in the middle. If a pole snaps under the stress of being bent, someone immediately retrieves an extra wooden pole, while the hole is re-blessed with tobacco and sage. Soon the new pole is bent and securely tied, the sweat lodge gradually takes shape.
Feeling extremely tired, I retire to my tent before the Temazcal is completely constructed. Amazingly, I achieve a reasonable amount of rest. Yes, the early morning is quite crisp and cool, but my jacket and sleeping bag keep me snug and warm. Peace and love are my sleeping companions as I excitedly envision tomorrow’s events with the curiosity and wonder of a small child at Christmas time.
Morning Drums
Trying to sleep in a little, I remain in my cozy sleeping bag as long as possible, drifting in and out of varying stages of restful sleep. Suddenly, I hear drums and chanting.
“I’m missing something.” I think to myself as I awake with a start. After quickly changing and dabbing on a bit of makeup, I emerge from my tent, eager to participate. The drumming and chanting have stopped. Looking around, I realize that the drumming was just a sort of alarm clock, telling people that it is time to begin the day.
I begin to walk across the road to the outdoor kitchen, looking for something to do. When I am almost there, I hear Luiz calling to me and waving with his hands. “Brenda, come here.”
As I draw closer to Luiz, I notice that three horizontal rows of young branches have been tied around the outside edges of the Temazcal, and a door has been formed with small bent wood, opening toward the West—but there is still no canvas covering.
As I approach Luiz, he informs me that we are performing another ceremony. He drives a metal rod deep into the ground, perhaps twenty feet due east of the Temazcal. Another man blesses the hole with tobacco and sage. Then, Luiz hands me a yellow scarf, instructs me to form a small pocket on one end, fill it with tobacco, and then tie it such that that the bundle of tobacco is in a small enclosed sack. Next, I am instructed to tie the scarf to the top of the pole, making four knots. Soon, my pole is standing upright in the hole and we move on to a spot due south of the Temazcal.
Another woman repeats the same procedure with a white scarf, following which we repeat the procedure two more times, with two additional women, using a black scarf for the west and a red scarf for the north.
Next, Luiz retrieves a large buffalo head and places it on a mound of dirt, facing toward the doorway of the Temazcal, halfway between the fire pit and the Temazcal. The fire pit is directly to the South, fully prepared with a large pile of soon-to-be-hot rocks, surrounded by large piled-on layers of wood.
Several people then place other items surrounding the buffalo head, creating a type of sacred alter.
People begin to head across the road for breakfast, so I follow their lead.
As I cross the road, I notice that the twin volcanoes are faintly visible through a light misty fog—perhaps ten to fifteen miles away. Luiz walks over and explains that the larger one on my left is referred to as the “sleeping woman” but its name is really Iztaccihuatl. Luiz points out how, from our viewpoint, the volcano vaguely resembles the profile of a woman sleeping. Pointing further south, to the right, Luiz tells me that the other, taller, and more pointed volcano is called Popocatepetl.
As I write about this experience, after the fact, I am amazed to learn from a brief internet search that these two volcanoes rise to the towering altitudes of 17,159 feet and 17,802 feet above sea level, respectively.
The active volcanoes are spectacular, quite a difference from the flat terrain I have become accustomed to seeing in Cozumel. As I look closer, I notice that a faint smoke appears to be rising in a twisting column from the top of Popocatepetl.
Breakfast is already sitting in a large fry pan. I grab a blue plastic plate and fill my plate with an unknown entity. It tastes like corn tortillas, but has the texture of scrambled eggs. Not being quite sure what I am eating, I fill my stomach nonetheless. I remind myself that I need nutrition, and I can either eat or starve. I choose to eat, again submersing myself in a warm blanket of blind trust.
After breakfast, a twenty-something young man—a handsome, wholesome, and incredible soul—retrieves a large cylindrical tube, containing a collection of several flutes. Someone asks him to entertain us, and he joyfully obliges. One of the young women hands me a buffalo-skin drum, perhaps sixteen inches in diameter, and I join in with the festivities.
When the young man runs out of memorized tunes, another young woman begins leading us in traditional songs. All the while, a small group of us continue to provide the booming rhythm. For more than an hour, our small group delights in music and song.
Temazcal Preparations
Around mid-day, I am invited to join a group of women who are creating the crown for the Temazcal. One woman brings a small, bare, wreath, perhaps sixteen inches in diameter, created from a small branch wrapped and tied in a circle using red yarn. This same woman hands a ball of interesting-looking red yarn to Sol. After a few minutes, she retrieves the yarn and begins to unwind it, revealing that every few inches a small piece of colored cloth has been tied into the yarn.
One by one, the women in the circle take turns winding the yarn around the wooden wreath. It soon becomes obvious to me what we are doing. The first quarter of the wreath is tightly wound with red yarn containing yellow scrolls of cloth. As my turn arrives, the cloth scrolls are white. Halfway around, the color again shifts to black, finishing the final quarter with red. These colors match the same four scarves which I helped to raise earlier at each compass point.
Soon, two of the women crawl on hands and knees, through the low open door of the Temazcal. One of them holds the crown at the top, lining up the colors with their appropriate directions, while the other ties it to the wooden frame of the Temazcal. After crawling back through the door, Luiz and one other man then proceed to cover the entire structure with thick, heavy, faded-green canvas.
The reverence and sacred nature in which the Temazcal is treated causes similar feelings of respect to build within my heart.
One question now begins to surface in my mind. “Will I be able to participate in the Temazcal ceremonies?”
Looking around at the forty plus people, I am keenly aware that the inner sanctum of this holy Temazcal could never possibly contain this many people.
Approaching Sylvia in humility, I ask her in English, “Will I be able to participate in the Temazcal ceremony? Is there room inside for me?”
She smiles lovingly, and replies, “Yes, of course. But first, you need to give me a chance to enter with my dear sweet sisters, so that we can laugh together, and cry together. After that, we will open up the experience to any children who want to enter, following which, everyone else who desires will be welcome.”
My heart is filled with anticipation and anxiety at the same time. “What will it be like inside with so many people? … and will I be able to withstand the intense heat?”
Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved
(Note: There is so much that I want to write—and so little time to finish. I am posting this preliminary piece today, running from Wednesday morning to mid-day on Thursday. I will continue writing, and post the remainder as it is finished—probably tomorrow.)