An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 4

Semana Santa in San Miguel
By Cherie Magnus

I can’t think of a better place for a practicing Christian to be for Holy Week than San Miguel de Allende–except maybe for Rome, but I’ve never been there, and here I am in Mexico. (Who knew?)
Even for those not Christian or Catholic, the cultural expressions of this, the holiest of times on the Christian calendar, is an amazing experience in San Miguel.

The week is so packed with things, that it actually starts on the preceding weekend, one week prior to Palm Sunday when there is an all-night procession from the church at Atontonilco to San Miguel (17 k), carrying the celebrated, venerated and beloved El Senor de la Columna.

Made out of corn meal, orchids, and other exotic materials rather than carved from wood, so it’s not so heavy and looks more lifelike. In the Mexican bloody tradition, this statue of Christ after being whipped, is pretty graphic. But Mexicans really get into the Passion, and maybe the violent reality of their religious art help them to feel their religion more.

Then the Friday before Palm Sunday is the Day of Our Lady of Sorrows, and families and communities work all night creating beautiful altars in their homes and windows, and in the many neighborhood fountains scattered around town.

I was lucky in that the family owning the building in which I live created the most beautiful one I saw right in my own entryway. There are certain symbolic requirements to these altars, and the one made by Jorge and Sandra had everything: purple pots of growing wheat, white lilies, statues of Mary weeping at the foot of the Cross, bitter oranges, purple and white flags, tons of fresh chamomile, white candles, and then most amazing, a purple carpet made of sawdust with different designs stenciled in natural sawdust.

The whole family, friends, tenants, and maids worked for hours creating this altar in the entranceway and on the sidewalk in front of our building. Then at night people visit the various altars and are given frozen fruit ices and hot rice pudding. And the next day they were all gone, taken down as quickly as they were put up.

The jacaranda trees here cooperate and bloom in perfect purple timing with the color of Lent, unlike the trees in Los Angeles where I am from, which get dressed in May. In San Miguel it seems divinely coordinated with the holy season.

The next night happened to be my birthday, and in a weak moment I had invited lots of people to a party. I heard the best tamales were made by the cloistered nuns in the convent, but when I went to order some in the church at the little curtained window, the sister told me that because of Santa Semana they were not cooking. My friends and I partied up on the and ate the tamales I had bought from the tamale lady in front of the Oratorio, and drank cerveza and generally had a fine time. Unfortunately the only dancing was by me and Adrian, a young Mexican artist who had spent some salsa time in L.A. But the music was great (my CDs from Cuba), and the gringos and Mexicans all mixed together in both languages and so I became 39, again.

Palm Sunday at St. Paul’s Anglican Church, which I attend, was very nice, and also very familiar, since the liturgy is so similar to the Lutheran. However I couldn’t help but feel the Mexicans were doing it up so much better. In front of every Catholic Church (and believe me, there are a lot in this town!) and on the Jardin were artisans who had woven elaborate designs out of fresh palm fronds–flower baskets holding purple flowers, shields, angels, crosses, bouquets–as many designs as there were designers. The palm art were all about 14″ or so high, cost 5 pesos (50 cents), and many people took them home as bouquets after the service.

By contrast, at St. Paul’s we were given dinky little skinny palm leaves about an inch wide that felt quite lacking as we processed into the church. Why not make a deal next year with the Mexican artisans to sell their designs in front of the gringo church too?

The Blood of Christ and Blood and Sand

Wednesday in the late afternoon a crowd gathered in front of the baroque Oratorio. The sun was setting, colors streaked the sky and turned the acolytes’ white garments rose as they waited patiently with their incense, tall candlesticks and golden crosses at the top of the church stairs. Behind them were a hundred women of all ages in formal black, from cocktail dresses and sequins to simple cotton, some carrying their shoes as well as symbols of the crucifixion.

Two little girls yanked on my sleeve and we started a conversation, and I took their pictures. Sisters there with their father, we admired each others’ clothing and exchanged names and ages (they were 7 and 8). Oh if only my Spanish were better!

Way up high in the tower were more teenaged boys in white, fooling around while waiting for the time to peal the huge bells.

Finally the traffic was stopped and the procession began, with angels and Roman soldiers and solemn drummers and THEN when the beloved statues were hand carried on flower bedecked litters out of the church, I couldn’t help but catch my breath. Men in crisp white shirts and formal black slacks carried Christ with his cross, but it was WOMEN who carried the others—Mary, Magdalene, John, Veronica—tiny women all in black, most barefoot, with the heavy wooden stretchers over their shoulders. There wasn’t a cleric in sight. This was a people’s procession.

So when the crowd fell in behind the procession as it wended it’s way up the hill and on to the Stations of the Cross, I cut out and ran over to the Biblioteca’s theater where “Jesus Christ Superstar” was just beginning. Afterwards I found myself drawn back at the Oratorio, just in time to see the procession return to the church. There had been a downpour during the movie, I had heard it on the roof. Now two hours later the procession was damp, weary, still proud. Even more of the ladies in black were barefoot, but the teenagers wore their high platforms with pride after hours of walking the rough streets of San Miguel. The little girls in white still held forth their bread, the prom-queen angel still held out her full tulle skirts, but everyone looked tired. Then up the hill in the distance appeared the moving lanterns, candlelight progressing slowly in the dark, lighting the way for the venerated statues. By the time the last of the procession entered the church, I was emotionally exhausted, and I turned to the picnicking families, the candy and tamale vendors, the balloon men with relief.

Holy Thursday I attended a gringo lecture on “Rabbits, Eggs, and The Blood of Christ” And then I visited the churches, which were all open as is traditional this night. One is supposed to visit seven, but in San Miguel the churches are so many and so close together I actually did eight in short order. People file quietly in, pray, touch the statues, receive manzanilla flowers, a roll of bread, a purple palm cross for a donation at the many tables set up by teenagers in the sanctuaries. There is a great suspense in all the churches, altars are covered, people are awaiting the Eucharist, the bread and wine.

The town was jumping, packed with tourists and residents, no one was home. Some shops were open, singing poured out of the cantinas’ swinging doors, there was no place to sit in the Jardin. Vendors were selling everything everywhere. A friend from Canada invited me to join her group at Mama Mia’s for drinks, but I just wanted to go home alone. I did flick on the tube, though, and almost every channel had Bible movies or film of Holy Week parades and appearances of the Pope.

But all of this pales in comparison with Good Friday. There were three processions, the last one in the evening consisting of hundreds and hundreds of participants, including two choirs and a real orchestra with accordions, violins, and lots of dark brass, carrying their music stands. All of the women litter bearers wore black with white gloves and black lace mantillas, the men all in black suits, white shirts, and black ties. A real funeral cortege, men wearing hats along the sidewalks were asked to remove them, and the crowd watched the procession with respectful silence, even the children. Right before the arrival of the glass coffin with the body of Jesus, little girls spread manzanilla over the cobblestones, and the air was fragrant with perfume as the flowers were trod upon.

Nothing mechanical or electronic, no Animatronic giant moving floats, only people power, and it was powerful. This was the church brought out into the streets and into the lives of the people.

Saturday, instead of the Blood of Christ, there was blood and sand at the bullfight arena in the center of town. A charity event to raise money for the orphanage, it seemed somehow a fitting activity for Holy Week. Though averting my eyes on occasion, I had to appreciate the color, courage, and grace of men and beasts in the ring. At night the churches held candlelit Easter Vigils, but I went dancing at la Cava de la Princessa with a group of crazy artists from Calgary.

Easter Sunday is the day that life-sized effigies of Judas, other bad characters, and politicians are strung up in front of the government buildings along the Jardin, and blown to bits one by one at noon after church services. It’s a great catharsis and a fitting end to an intense week of passion, emotion, blood and death, and resurrection.

About this author: With degrees in English, Dance, and Library Science from UCLA, Cherie has published many articles in professional journals and magazines. Her solo travels to Europe and Latin America have inspired several pieces published in Skirt!, PassionFruit, Moxie, JourneyWoman, Dancing USA, GoNomad, Open Spaces, Porthole, The Cusco Weekly, the-vu, and various online magazines. She was the dance critic for the Cerritos News in Orange County, California before moving to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She is currently at work on a novel situated in France, when she’s not out dancing. Follow her blog at http://tangocherie.blogspot.com/

An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 3

Auto Mexico
By Cherie Magnus

After a mind-expanding long day with ghosts, pyramids, and mysterious ancient art in Teotihuacan, our little tour group cruise along the Autopista with just two hours to go before hitting San Miguel de Allende and home.

Gene, an archeologist from the University of Texas, Jaime, our Mexican guide/driver, and me, a transplant from Los Angeles, are basking in the afterglow of history and art when the ´95 Oldsmobile’s engine suddenly quits as we tool along in the fast lane. Luckily we are coasting down hill, and Jaime gets it started after repeated tries, and the three of us breathe sighs of relief as the car chugs forward.

Then the engine quits again, and with skillful maneuvering through the trucks and rush hour traffic, Jaime is able to get us on the right shoulder where we roll to a stop.

When the car starts once more , we exit at the next off-ramp and inch into a tiny town that seems to have nothing more than a little tienda, a big cemetery, and, thank goodness, a garage. It’s dark by now, and the mechanic rigs up a light to check under the hood. Three other men and a boy playing with valeros (those 2 clacking balls on a string)–and Jaime, of course–watch him do it. Gene and I observe the animated discussion and gesturing of all six of them through the windshield.

Gene mumbles in the back seat that the problem is a speck of dirt from bad gasoline clogging up the fuel filter, but the committee under the hood thinks it’s the fuel injection. They fiddle with that, the sparkplugs, and the engine–which before had a smooth and quiet idle–now sounds like a threshing machine. When they give up on the front, they jack up the rear and change the filter. Gene and I are still in the car as it lurches upward. The street is totally black but for the light bulb on a cord dangling from one man’s hand.

I have to go to the bathroom. Gene says that he doesn’t want to sound like a chauvinist, but I am the only woman here, so I shouldn’t get out of the car. I have no fear, but I can’t imagine any toilet anywhere near. So I stay put.

Gene had forgone a fabulous lunch at the La Gruta Restaurant in order to see more of the Teotihuacan pyramids, and even though I had been plying him with snacks from my bag, I worry about him. He seems to have low blood sugar or something. I thought there was nothing left, but I find a tangerine from the previous night’s Posada. He gives me back half and I give half of that to Jaime out the window. Jaime retains an air of cheerfulness and confidence. Because I had taken a previous tour with him, and because of our wonderful day today, I’m not at all worried about how we would get back to San Miguel. Jaime will take care of us. He’s young, but smart and inspires confidence. At least in me.

Not so with Gene. He frets about the different mechanical possibilities of the car trouble, and tries to figure out plans B and C if we are indeed stuck. He has good reason to worry as he is scheduled to leave tomorrow for Texas at 6 a.m.

Finally the car won’t even start, it is now after nine, and all six surrounding the car agree no more can be done tonight. Gene and I confer that we think there are too many cooks under the hood. Jaime talks to a tow-truck guy who is flat bedding a car to Queretero, half way home for us. But we would have to sit inside the car on the truck. Gene and I don’t like it, but we say what the heck and get out of the Oldsmobile, stiff after so many hours of sitting there. But the driver reneges, it seems it is illegal to do that. One of the kibbitzers then agrees to take us up to the Autopista toll booth. By this time, Gene and I don’t ask any questions, we just get in the car with Jaime.

Up at the toll gate, Jaime talks to the policeman parked in his unit, I guess he was explaining why we were up there. Then along comes a bus marked “San Miguel de Allende.” Jaime flags it down, and–a miracle–the bus stops. We run, and climb on board. Incredulously sinking into seats, we can’t believe our luck: very few buses to SMA at all, and we got one! We flagged down a bus on the autoroute and it stopped! Gene and I laugh, only in Mexico!

At Queretero, everyone but us three and a snoring guy across the aisle get off, and a woman carrying a decorated snack tray gets on. Jaime hops up and takes orders from us, water for me, Coke for Gene (the sugar thing, I think), and Coke and chips for Jaime. We all debate about telling the sleeper we are at Queretero in case it is his destination, but no one does. Almost immediately on the road again, Jaime asks me for a plastic bag, which he uses in the back of the dark bus as a urinal, and then tosses out the window. The cars behind the bus must think it’s raining. My problem isn’t so handily solved and I try not to think about it.

When we drag off the bus at last in San Miguel, Jaime finds us one taxi and he takes another. Kisses all around, handshaking, muchas gracias. adios.

Gene and I agree as we part at his hotel that the pyramids were incredible, but our car trouble was a fascinating Mexican experience of its own.

About this author: With degrees in English, Dance, and Library Science from UCLA, Cherie has published many articles in professional journals and magazines. Her solo travels to Europe and Latin America have inspired several pieces published in Skirt!, PassionFruit, Moxie, JourneyWoman, Dancing USA, GoNomad, Open Spaces, Porthole, The Cusco Weekly, the-vu, and various online magazines. She was the dance critic for the Cerritos News in Orange County, California before moving to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She is currently at work on a novel situated in France, when she’s not out dancing. Follow her blog at http://tangocherie.blogspot.com/

An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 2

Heart of Fire
By Cherie Magnus

Dear Ones Back Home,

When I searched the Internet last summer for a San Miguel apartment, I only had five requirements–reasonable price, quiet, accepts Phoebe the Cat, no more than a fifteen minute walk into town, and a wood-burning fireplace. I soon found one which had everything on my list (well ok, not the inexpensive rent part.) God bless the Internet.

Some landlords in my search told me via email that it´s not P.C. to burn wood here because there is so little of it and so their fireplaces are gas or they don’t have them at all, only electric heaters. But I rationalize that a few logs from dead trees burned to help me keep my sanity is less damaging to the S.M. environment than a big American car driving around El Centro and I had left mine in L.A. Or a gringa run amok!

A fireplace is important because I live alone (except for Phoebe) and I know from past experience that a real fire is a living presence and company on lonely nights. I stare into it, adjust the logs, watch the color of the flames, smell the soul of the burning wood. Gas logs just don´t cut it for emotional warmth. So I reserved the apartment for the winter, and enjoy the occasional log fire those nights when I read or study Spanish. But in the middle of January the cold snap hit, with two days of icy rain. Hey, I´m from L.A., I know what it´s like to be cold in the house during the winter.

But one small fireplace to heat a whole apartment on several levels when the temperature is below 35? Sure, I know people have lived here for thousands of years without heat, but they perhaps became acclimatized. After only a couple of weeks in Mexico, I wasn´t.

When I asked my landlady for a small electric heater to use in the bedroom and the bath, she refused on the basis of the electric bill, and had the gardener bring in more wood, lots more. At the same time, the gas ran out and I had no hot water or cooking facilities. So now as I write this I am sitting (with Phoebe on my lap, she who never saw fire until we moved here), my feet on the hearth, and am enjoying the flames and embers for more than aesthetic and emotional reasons. More in touch with the reality of what is primarily important. I need the fire to warm my cold body–as well as my soul.

And another of my requirements, the one about the 15 minute walk to town? I got that too, but didn’t know it is 15 minutes straight up! Which now is OK, too, because my body is in better shape and I can eat all those enchiladas and guacamole with impunity! And the hike keeps me warm.

Warmly yours (at least for the moment)

About this author: With degrees in English, Dance, and Library Science from UCLA, Cherie has published many articles in professional journals and magazines. Her solo travels to Europe and Latin America have inspired several pieces published in Skirt!, PassionFruit, Moxie, JourneyWoman, Dancing USA, GoNomad, Open Spaces, Porthole, The Cusco Weekly, the-vu, and various online magazines. She was the dance critic for the Cerritos News in Orange County, California before moving to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She is currently at work on a novel situated in France, when she’s not out dancing. Follow her blog at http://tangocherie.blogspot.com/