The Stiltwalker

February, 2013.  We are visiting the town of Pátzcuaro, in the state of Michoacán in south-central Mexico, looking for fine artisan crafts for Chiripa. The following story recounts what we saw on a prior visit to this same place. We did not see the stiltwalker on this trip, but the blind man was still playing his concertina.

In Patzcuaro, there is a blind man who plays his concertina near La Casa de Las Once Patios (the House of the Eleven Patios). He plays almost every day, and has done so for years. Indeed, he may be playing at this very moment. He sits on a little stool, with his back against one of the adobe walls that frame the cobblestone alley. The walls have stood for centuries, despite rain, poverty and earthquake. 

 

The Cobblestone Alley

At night, you can watch the moonlight stream down the alley and over the cobbles. From open doorways, warm light pours out onto the moonlit steps. A dim incandescence from rusting street lamps washes down the walls. Gentle figures, in straw hats and hand-woven shawls, linger next to the doorways.

But on this day we were standing in the alley in the heat of the afternoon. The rounded cobbles were warm and the old buildings cast welcome shadows. We stood in the shade, against a wall, and watched the blind man ply his trade. An old woman, who might have been the blind man’s mother, sat across the alley and mumbled occasional words of encouragement or advice. We did not understand her words, but the blind man did. He nodded and, from time to time, murmured a response.

Haunting Music

We dropped a large coin into the open box. The blind man picked up the coin, sniffed it and smiled. “Gracias, senor.” He leaned into the worn concertina, grimaced, worked hard at the fingerboard, and squeezed out a haunting melody from long ago. His foot tapped on the cobbles, and the little stool creaked in rhythm.

As we listened, a strange figure turned the corner and climbed up the alley toward us. He had a painted clown face and carried long poles over his shoulder. He moved briskly, and with purpose. When he reached a point opposite the blind man, he scrambled up a high stone porch that overlooked the alley.

Steps Leading Up to the Stone Porch

His painted expression was kindly – neither happy nor overly sad. And beneath the paint, as best we could tell, was a decent and kindly human face. A canvas bag was slung around his neck. He wore long, heavy-soled, laced and rubberized boots – more suited to an arctic expedition than to this subtropical place.

He wasted no motion. He leaned the long wooden poles against the wall and opened his bag. And then, with the utmost care, he prepared for his intended mission. From out of the bag he pulled the tools of his trade: an impossibly long pair of red and white striped pants, a whistle, a set of juggling batons, and assorted lengths of rope.

We could now see that the poles were stilts – impossibly long stilts that extended for yards below their foot rests. The stiltwalker swung the stilts into position, and then tied himself to them. He wound a length of rope around each foot, and another around each leg. He drew the ropes tight, and knotted them securely. There could be no escape. The stiltwalker surely foresaw the possibility of a catastrophic fall, yet with deliberate premeditation he bound himself irrevocably to his fate.

Lifting one bound leg, and then another, he poked the impossibly long wooden stilts into the leg openings of the impossibly long striped pants (held at sufficient distance by a long stick), then pulled on an attached cord to hoist the pants up his extended wooden “legs.” Rolling from side to side, he pulled the pants past his hips, and then cinched them around his waist. He slipped into his vest, slung the bag and juggling paraphernalia around his neck, adjusted his red cap and bow tie, took a deep breath, worked his way to the edge of the high stone porch, set his narrow wooden “feet” on the uneven cobbles far below, pushed himself away from the security of his stone perch, and stood to his full extended height.

The Stiltwalker Stands!

What a sight! The stiltwalker now looked down on the cobblestone pavement from a height of nearly two stories! He waivered a bit, got his bearings, pivoted slowly until he faced the lower end of the alley, and began to walk! He started tentatively, swaying stiffly from side to side like an old and arthritic giant. But soon he gained momentum and began rocking toward his fate with graceful, fearless, colossal strides. His pant legs waived like banners with each enormous step, their motion synchronized to the blind man’s haunting lament. Oh, the courage! The resolution in the face of death! It was enough to make us weep!     

Gigantic Strides

Borne by our small human legs, we caught up to the stiltwalker sometime later, in the central square. There was some kind of civic event underway, and the stiltwalker was part of the spectacle. He towered above the tiny creatures that gathered below him, yet he seemed strangely alone and vulnerable -- an isolated, far-seeing, almost Lincolnesque figure – fulfilling his duty despite the danger from the children who swirled violently at his feet. Not once did he falter, or drop his juggling batons.

Tall and Alone, Juggling with Fate

When the sun was going down, we again found ourselves in the alley by La Casa de Las Once Patios. The blind man was still there, playing a sad tune on his concertina. The stiltwalker was there, too. But this time he was unbinding himself from his stilts and packing away his public persona. When he had returned to human size, he climbed down from the high porch, threw his long artificial legs over his shoulder, and walked briskly down the alley toward us. As he passed, we clapped spontaneously. “Bravo! …Bravo!” we hollered. The stiltwalker cocked his head, tipped his cap, turned the corner and was gone…. - JM

The Mysterious Island

February, 2013.  We are travelling in the highlands of Michoacán, in south-central Mexico, looking for fine artisan crafts for Chiripa.

Pátzcuaro, in Michoacán, is one of our favorite places in Mexico. Part of its charm is the nearby lake that has nourished people and other wild things for many centuries. The island of Janitzio thrusts upward from the center of the lake, like a Mexican version of Mont St. Michelle. In the evening, the distant lights from the island seem beautiful and mysterious. At such moments, the island seems like a place of legend that is beyond our earthly reach. 

Lake Patzcuaro, from the Island

In our many visits to the lakeside town of Pátzcuaro, we had never before visited the mysterious island – partly, I suppose, because we were afraid of being disillusioned.  But on this beautiful Sunday afternoon, we decided that the time had come to penetrate the mystery. So we took a taxi to the lakeshore embarcadero from which tour boats embark, bought round-trip tickets at the ticket booth, and climbed on to one of many long wooden boats docked along the shore.

We were not alone. It turns out that on Sunday afternoons the island is visited by hundreds, if not thousands, of Mexican tourists (we saw few, if any, fellow gringos). On this afternoon, the atmosphere was fun and festive in an unpretentious working class way. Musicians carrying well-worn instruments climbed aboard with us and, in hopes of collecting a few pesos from fellow passengers, began wailing old-time Mexican tunes – at once jolly, romantic, mournful and fatalistic.

Music and a Festive Atmosphere Onboard

The excitement mounted as we cast loose from the dock, and edged out into the water choked with floating plants.  “Now THIS is living!” one of us smiled.  Soon we pushed through the floating greenery and out into the muddy, shallow lake, which produces delicate whitefish as well as tiny fingerlings like smelt (you can order the tiny fish, crispy-fried or with green tomatillo sauce, in local restaurants).  Along the shore, we could see the ruins of ancient Tarascan towns that had thrived centuries before any Europeans arrived in this place.

The Island of Janitzio

As we moved out across the lake, we gained a better view of the island and the huge statue that rises from its summit. The statue is of José María Morelos, a Catholic priest who became a leader of the Mexican War of Independence against Spain (Morelos was executed by Spanish authorities in 1815). Morelos is a much-loved figure in Mexico, and justifiably so. But, from an artistic perspective, the statue (begun in 1933) is a bit harder to love. It is a rather cold, inhuman monolith – looking somewhat like a graceless Statue of Liberty with a clenched fist, or an odd combination of Lenin and militant Buddha.  But it certainly dominates the landscape.

Statue of Morelos

As we drew closer to the island, we caught sight of fishermen paddling colorful fishing boats and wielding the traditional butterfly nets that have been used here throughout the ages. Today, however, the fishermen seemed to be fishing mainly for tourist pesos.  They surrounded the incoming tourist boats like a sort of naval escort.  And after a brief fishing “performance,” they pulled alongside the tour boats with hats outstretched. 

 

Fishing with Butterfly Nets

Passengers cheered and waived as tour boats passed each other in their race toward the island.  At last we docked at our destination, and stepped ashore.  Tourists are the life-blood of this isolated place, and it shows.  A steep cobblestone walk leads from the boat dock to the summit of the island, where the huge statue is perched.  There is little to do but take the pilgrimage to the top. 

Fish Fry

Along the way, pilgrims pass dozens of little restaurants, snack stalls, and shops hawking humble souvenirs. There are crispy fried fish, blue corn tortillas frying on comals, and stews bubbling expectantly in pots. There are no global brands here – no Starbucks to be seen -- just hundreds of small local operators trying to fish a few pesos from the stream of sweating, puffing tourists. 

Blue Corn Tortillas Frying on the Comal

We hiked up to the base of the statue, but decided not to make the final climb to the upraised clenched fist. Instead, we looked out over the beautiful lake and watched the people enjoying their Sunday holiday. Then, like all the other tourists, we headed back down. As we approached the tourist dock, we saw little fish drying in the sun atop overturned fishing boats. We also passed the garbage scow that is used to collect the island’s garbage and ferry it to the mainland.  A well-fed rat nosed around nearby.

Fish Drying in the Sun

On the trip back, the passengers on our tour boat were more subdued. Their Sunday holiday was coming to an end, and tomorrow they would have to return to their jobs in Mexico City or Morelia. Children clutched their toy fishnets and leaned against their mothers. The warm sun was getting lower in the sky as we left the embarcadero and hailed a taxi to take us back to our hotel.

For us, at that moment, the fabulous Island of Janitzio had temporarily lost its mystery. But if ever we are lucky enough to return to Pátzcuaro, we will again look across the lake as the sun falls behind the mountains. And, in that twilight moment, we will again see the island and the great statue rising in all their distant glory – surrounded by mysterious lights twinkling in the blue darkness. - JM

Real Mexican Hospitality

August, 2012.  We are traveling in Mexico, searching out fine artisan crafts for Chiripa.  We are now in the beautiful colonial city of Puebla.

Puebla Street

Miguel Paredes has a lot of skeletons in his closet: amusing and mischievous little skeletons made of clay and wire. The skeletons appear in all kinds of garb, and act out all kinds of scenes from ordinary (and not so ordinary) life. The skeletons remind us, in a fatalistic but most humorous way, of ourselves. They are big favorites at Chiripa. Miguel is constantly inventing new things, like this skeleton Jack-in-the-Box:

Miguel with Skeleton Jack-in-the-Box

Miguel has a whimsical sense of humor and a love of invention. He also has a deep love of art and humanity, and a profound appreciation of Mexican culture and traditions. He has painted the walls of his house with beautiful murals, representing religious, historical and traditional themes. The house is filled with fine artisan crafts from all over Mexico.

Miguel, with small friend, at home

Miguel lives in Puebla, Mexico, with his charming wife Liliana and his son Daniel. The family operates a tiny retail shop in the city, where they sell skeleton figures and other items made in the equally tiny workshop behind their house. Miguel and Daniel are the artisans (Daniel, who just turned 20, is also studying ceramics and painting under a renowned master craftsman from the village of Azucar de Matamoros). Liliana does the many other tasks needed to manage the family business and household.

Daniel, Miguel and Liliana

On our last day in Mexico, Miguel, Liliana and Daniel invited us to their home for a special seasonal meal of Chiles en Nogada (chiles with a special filling made of nuts and other ingredients, and covered with bright red pomegranate seeds). Liliana prepared the special meal to mark a saint’s feast day, as well as the 20th birthday of son Daniel the following day. We were honored to share in this special family feast.

Chiles en Nogada

The mid-afternoon meal began with a savory bowl of fresh home-made vegetable soup, then on to the rice course and the Chiles en Nogada. This special recipe is made only at this time of year, when the chiles and other fresh local ingredients are available. We were already stuffed when we moved on to a dessert of special fruit gelato, homemade custard tarts with chocolate and fresh fruit, and then fresh local plums and coffee. It was all we could do to stand up from the table.

Homemade custard tarts with chocolate and fresh fruit

Miguel and Daniel were recently invited to demonstrate their work at the Day of the Dead exhibit at the National Museum of Mexican Art in Chicago. They were eager to pick up their visas in the nearby town of Cholula that afternoon, so we went with them. They took the opportunity to show us around Cholula, which is reputed to be the oldest continuously inhabited city in the Americas.

Cholula has many churches, and one of them is built atop an enormous pre-Columbian pyramid that is reputed to be bigger than the great pyramids of Egypt. In 1519, Cortes destroyed Aztec temples here, and put the city to the sword as part of his campaign to conquer Moctezuma’s empire. 

Cholula church built in 1552

We visited one of the churches built by the Spaniards in 1552, shortly after a disease epidemic had decimated the indigenous population. Miguel pointed out a whipping post, just outside the church, used to inflict punishment on native residents who failed to conform. This Spanish church had already been standing for more than 70 years when the Pilgrims landed in North America. But the indigenous American community had called this place home for far, far longer. - JM

Amiable guides, ancient place

A Valentine to Oaxaca

August, 2012. We are in the City of Oaxaca, in southern Mexico, searching out fine artisan crafts for Chiripa.

Oaxaca rooftops

We love to walk the streets of Oaxaca, one of our favorite cities in all of Mexico. 

Oaxaca is sophisticated, but down to earth, and inhabited by charming people. 

A Day on the church steps, Oaxaca

We love the morning mist on the mountains, the afternoon sun and shadow, the cool evenings, the friendly light of the food seller's stall after dark.

Food vendor and customers, Oaxaca

We love the green cut stone of the buildings, the echoing church bells, the museums, the old monasteries, the elegant courtyards, and the daily grit and clamor of the market.  

Textile Museum, Oaxaca

We love the cobblestone streets and sidewalks, the street vendors, the students, the shopkeepers, the balloon sellers and the roaming mariachi bands. We love the giant papier mache puppets and the families strolling together. 

Oaxaca Street

We love the smells of coffee, chocolate, peppers, fresh vegetables, fried tortillas and roasting corn. We love the crowded sidewalks in the market district.  We love the flat nasal shouts of the bus conductors, calling out destinations. We even love the belching, rumbling, swaying, rundown buses that are often named (like fishing boats) after saints or loved ones.  

Market stall, Oaxaca

Everywhere in Oaxaca, proud and graceful people are working hard to make a living. People are building, hauling, cooking, counting, sweeping, selling, and playing music in the streets.

Street musician and green stone.

Oaxaca

Thank you, Oaxaca. - JM

Santo Domingo at Night

Nicodemus

August, 2012.  We are in the city of Oaxaca, in southern Mexico, searching out fine artisan crafts for Chiripa.

At the corner of Mina and J.P. García, in the market district southwest of the central plaza, there is a little shop that sells tin and other artisan crafts. Nicodemus, a gentleman of 81 years, has operated the shop for over half a century. For most of those years, he worked 6 days a week (he closed the shop on Sundays to spend time with his wife and family). But since his wife died 9 years ago, he now spends every day in the shop. He feels at home there.

Nicodemus is a retailer, not a maker of crafts. But he is an artist in his own way. He knows what it means to run a shop in good times and bad. Untold thousands of craft pieces have passed through his hands, and he knows exactly what size box he will need for the many pieces we buy. He stores his boxes near the ceiling, and pulls them down with a long wooden pole. He wraps the craft items expertly, and fits them precisely into the box he has selected. The box is exactly full.

Nicodemus and Chiripa friend

Nicodemus is charming and courteous, and not at all pushy. He moves gracefully around his little domain, despite his 81 years. He knows where everything is, and he wastes no motion. He loves to talk about his business, including the good old days when he was selling “tons” of crafts to Japanese buyers who trusted him to arrange complex orders. To every purchaser he gives little handout sheets describing interesting details of Oaxacan history and culture.

Nicodemus had little formal education, but by hard work managed to send all his children to school. His children now have good jobs, and Nicodemus lives with his son. On one wall of the shop there is a large poster, marking the 50th anniversary of the business. The poster features a picture of Nicodemus, and is inscribed to Don Nicodemus (a title indicating great respect) by his loving children. 

Although Nicodemus has operated his shop for over a half century, he does not actually own the building in which it is housed. On the day we were there, the landlord called about the rent payment. Nicodemus told him that the rent was on its way. - JM

Change Comes to San Cristóbol

August, 2012.  We are traveling in southern Mexico, searching out unique and beautiful local crafts for Chiripa.

San Cristóbol de las Casas is an old colonial city in the Chiapas highlands. In this place, the past is everywhere. Our hotel, for example, was once the home of Diego de Mazariegos, who led the Spanish invasion of Chiapas in 1528.  But the local indigenous culture is far, far older than that.

Old Church Door

San Cristóbol de las Casas

The industrial city of Tuxtla Gutierrez is just an hour or two away, by bus. But it is much harder to get to San Cristóbol from other metropolitan areas, as we rediscovered on our 11-hour bus ride from Oaxaca. New federal highway projects may reduce the city’s isolation, for good or ill. But for now, San Cristóbol is still somewhat off the beaten path. 

Off the Beaten Path:

Sleeping Dogs in San Cristóbol

In San Cristóbol, you are just about as likely to hear people speaking a Mayan language as Spanish. And while most Mexicans (like all of us) now wear clothing that has been mass-produced in Asia, many Mayan people here still wear traditional dress that has not changed for centuries. The indigenous people make the clothing with their own hands, using local materials (although we were told that cheap "knock-offs" are now entering the commercial market). 

Fine Traditional Embroidery

For the indigenous people, clothing is an expression of community rather than individuality. Mayan women from the same village wear the same style of dress, much the way members of an athletic team wear the same uniform, except that these traditional "uniforms" are not made by Nike. They bear no corporate logos, and they do not change with the latest fashion trends.

The Changing Streets of San Cristóbal

We first visited San Cristóbal in 1987, and were last there in 1999 (just a few years after the Zapatista uprising). Much has changed since then. The place looks more prosperous. There has been a lot of new investment. There are more cars. There are walking malls lined with pizza and other fast-food restaurants. There are trendy coffee shops and bars. There are retail shops selling expensive things for tourists. There are people staring at smart phones, and waving their fingers over them. 

The current atmosphere resembles, in some ways, a fashionable ski resort. To us, this is a little unsettling. But much of the old San Cristóbal remains.

Colonial Church on a Rainy Afternoon

There are the beautiful old colonial buildings. There is the clean and bracing morning air, and the special light. There are colorful markets, selling local products and crafts. Above all, there are the indigenous people who make San Cristóbol a truly memorable place.

San Cristóbol Street Scene

We spent a lot of time in the local markets. We found amber jewelry created by craftsmen in the village of Simojovel, in a remote area north of San Cristóbol. We found woven and embroidered table linens, purses and more. We had fun talking to vendors who were selling crafts from their home villages. When we climbed back on the bus, for the return 11-hour night ride to Oaxaca, we were packing lots of beautiful crafts and memories.  - JM 

Old and New