Elvis Live in 'Costa Canada', Mexico

Elvis Live in 'Costa Canada'

March 2011

I'd been vaguely aware of it for some time, but it smacked me in the face the night Elvis played in the restaurant next to our hotel. As usual, the volume was full blast, so we could hear every chord, every word, every 'love me tender.' Apparently he was good – as in he had everyone in the place up and dancing – and certainly we could hear them hooting and hollering and singing along. We'd seen some of them going in – a mostly 60+ crowd, many struggling with the flight of stairs up to the second floor restaurant. Here, that's pretty much typical of the age range, although there are lots of fit, and very fit pre-geriatrics here too.

'Costa Canada'. A little town on the beach that used to be Mexican. Used to be primarily a fishing village, but there are precious few fisher-folk now. The odd guy casting a net into the surf. Not even the touristy sport-fishing boats we've seen elsewhere, lined up along the beach, ready for charter. Fishing's given way to tourism. That's where the money is.

Pretty much all of the Mexicans in town are here to serve the tourists. Restaurants, taco stands, hotels, shops, liquor stores, spas. And plenty of real-estate agents. Much of the town has been bought up by Canadians – and in particular by people from the coast of BC – Vancouver, Victoria, Powell River. They've built monstrous super-luxury homes up on the hill. Private family 'all-inclusives'. Half the year or more they sit empty, but necessarily guarded.

The Canadians come when it starts getting cold up north, and they stay until the weather there warms up, and/or the weather here gets too hot and humid. A lot of them drive down in their big trucks and campers loaded with all of the goodies, motor bikes strapped on the back. The majority bring at least one dog with them, many two, and several more. They take their dogs everywhere with them. On the beach, the first thing they do (the dogs that is) is take a dump. Then they chase the shore-birds for a while. So cute!

It's 'an American town', Canadian style. It's not particularly Mexican. Indeed, I wouldn't call it Mexican at all. Even the Mexicans who are here don't seem very 'Mexican'. Most of them speak English, even when we speak in Spanish. They're much cooler and more diffident than Mexicans we've met in other parts of the country, where Mexican mannerisms – a lovely 'old world' gentility – are still much in evidence. Here they may ignore you, or just get what it is you want and give it to you with a blank, unsmiling face. No 'que lo vaya bien' when you leave; no 'pase un buen dia'. They're jaded, and who can blame them?

But even so... . What I finally have come to realize about this trip, the reason why I have not been motivated to write, as I usually do when traveling, is because here in Mexico I am not experiencing the kinds of exposure to a 'different culture' that usually tweaks my muse. The 'new Mexico', the 21^st century, 30 years of tourism, 30 years of rapid social and economic development Mexico, has created a country, and a culture, that is much the same as our own. The 'flavour' is rapidly fading away.

Especially in towns like this – coastal, snow-bird, sun-and-surf, marguerita-on-the-beach towns. But hey, it's the perfect place to come if what you want is reliably warm and sunny weather, all the comforts of home, and cheap food, liquour and labour. Oh – and Elvis on Monday nights.

Barra de Nexxpa - Surfers' Paradise

March 2011

They're up before us, shortly after daybreak

Surf boards tucked under one arm

They stride purposely towards the thundering breakers

Coastal Don Quixotes

Tilting at the monstrous waves – easily double their heights,

Zig-zagging up to the foaming crests and down into the glassy troughs

Riding if skillful – and also if lucky – almost to the shore,

Or plunging unceremoniously into the bubbling brine

But bobbing up, on-board, and paddling out to try their luck again.

No surfers we

Sedately (but with purpose!) walk the beach

As becomes our age (and as befits our fitness – or lack thereof).

We collect pretty rocks to use as weights

For games of cards on windy afternoons;

Or photographs of stately coconut palms,

Cactii spilling over the edge of a crumbling cliff,

The green and gold of distant hills.

We watch the waves, the surfers and the birds.

Frigates, pelicans and vultures rule the sky;

Herons great and small, egrets, cormorants and ducks,

Stick closer to the shore, congregate in quiet lagoons.

Ever on the alert we examine the tracks left by recent visitors

Guessing whose they are.

Tire treads and human foot-prints are easy,

As well the sharp-toed paws of dogs that so many of our ilk

 – American and Canadian tourists – bring with them.

More challenging are the many birds:

The large three-toed tracks of the great heron

Stepping carefully, stealthily, one foot infront of the other;

The heavy tread of the vulture, its talons dragging from one print to the next.

And the light skittering steps of the little shorebirds

Running to and fro like distracted children. 

I admire the feathery tracings made by crabs

Marking their many forays to and from

Their hidey-hole homes;

When they see me coming, they make a mad dash

And quickly tucking their legs in tight,

Dart into these impossibly tiny holes.

But the most impressive tracks we see

Are those of the great mama turtles

Lumbering up the beach, pushing their flippers into the sand

And dragging their tails behind them.

They dig big holes and lay their eggs inside them,

Then lumber back down and into the water.

Their tracks are straight and purposeful – they have a job to do.

Not so the tracks of their young – they meander every which way

At times paralleling the shore or – more perilous yet – heading away from it.

Can't they hear the surf?  Don't they have some natural instinct

To guide them towards the ocean and, one hopes, a safer place?

There are thousands of tiny turtle tracks

And new ones every morning;

Some right in front of our bungalow.

But we have seen no turtles, big or small;

They must come and go at night.

The waves leave their tracks as well,

Bits of bark and seaweed forming lovely sculpted lines

Along the shore.

The waves take our foot-prints with them when they go,

Reminding us of our transience here,

And our insignificance everywhere.

We hope our memories of this place will last

Longer than our foot-prints in the sand.

Meanwhile the surfers, oblivious to our meanderings,

Sally forth on their boards,

Confident that this will be the wave,

And this will be the ride,

Of which their memories are made.

Millions of Mariposas Monarchas - Beautiful Butterflies!

Millions of Mariposas Monarchas

March 2011

It took us about an hour and a half of steady uphill walking to get there.  Apart from a couple of rather steep sections, it wasn't particularly challenging.  Certainly not as challenging as our guide had let on at the outset, where he recommended we hire a couple of horses.  A half-dozen guajeros, standing in the dusty shade at the entrance to the trail, waited hopefully.  Their horses were neaby, loosely tethered in groups of two or three, saddled and ready to go.  But after weeks of Mexican tortillas, rice and beans, and very little exercise, we felt in need of a good walk.

“Gracias, pero preferamos caminar,” we said, as we ran the gauntlet of expectant cowboys.  They kept smiling (still hopeful), but their eyes betrayed disbelief, as well as disappointment.  “Es muy lejos; mejor con caballo.”  (It's very far; better by horse.)  By our standards an hour and a half's hike, even up hill, is not 'very far.  But by Mexican standards it's well beyond contemplating: fitness hasn't caught on here yet.

Our guide grabbed his horse by the reins and started walking along with us.  “You're not going to ride?” I asked.  “I'll walk for a while,” he said.  As the horse was coming with us in any event, I asked him to tie our day-pack, heavy with water, oranges and camera, onto the saddle.  That done, the three of us started off up the trail.  The cowboys called out in a last desperate chorus: 'horse, horse, horse!'   Our guide shrugged and smiled to his comrades: he was indulging us; they all knew we'd want horses a few hundred yards up the trail. 

With that in mind, two of them swung up into their saddles and fell in behind us.  The worst of the trail wasn't the steepness, but the dust.  The trail was thick with fine powdery dust, and the horses' hooves kicked up at least as high as our nostrils.  The cowboys were keen to stay right with us so they could continue to make their pitch: “horse, horse, horse!?”   We asked them to stay well back, pointing at the horse's feet and saying “dust, dust, dust!”  It was rather like a roundelay: 'horse, horse, horse; dust, dust, dust; horse, horse, horse!; dust, dust, dust!' accompanied by the tatto of hooves.

Our tag-alongs reminded us of our hike, not so long ago, in Tiger Leaping Gorge in China.  For most of  the first day, which involved some very steep stretches, made more challenging by high altitude and big boulders, we were followed by a determined horseman, leading a small horse with a beautifully coloured woven blanket.  Every time we stopped to catch our breath he'd point to his horse and nod.  We'd smile and shake our heads: “no thanks!”  At the end of the day he finally gave up.  The next day's trail was much easier going – almost level.  He knew he'd missed his chance.

We wondered if it would be the same story here.  And sure enough, around three-quarters of an hour into our hike, the two cowboys gave up and headed back down the trail.  Within fifteen minutes, our uphill slog in the dust became an easy stroll through a cool, mixed deciduous forest.   

Just before we reached our destination we started seeing what we'd come for: dozens of black and orange mariposas monarcas – monarch butterflies – fluttered above us, and dozens more rested, sunning their wings, on bushes and trees by the side of the trail.  But this was just a taste of what was to come... . 

Fifteen minutes later, after another uphill climb, we emerged onto a high, wide plain.  It was partly grassed, but largely mud: in the rainy season it becomes a shallow pond.  At the far edge we could see a few groups of saddled horses.  As it turned out,we were the only ones who made the hike on foot that day.  The rest of the visitors had – very wisely if you were to believe the cowboys – hired horses.

Walking to the edge of the clearing we looked out over a small valley thick with vegetation.  It didn't look like much, and certainly we didn't see the number of monarchs we'd expected.  Were we going to be disappointed?  A few tourists were straggling up from the valley, and we recognized one of them.  He was a Canadian who we'd met the night before in the plaza at Ziticuaro.  We'd come to Ziticuaro from Morelia, in southwestern Mexico, just to see the butterflies.  But we didn't know which of the various reserve areas we should go to, or how exactly we were going to get there (bus? combi? Taxi?). When we saw him, in a group with a few other gringos, we decided to take a chance and ask them. Perhaps they'd already been to the reserve and could give us some information.  As luck would have it, we'd picked the right guy: for eight years he and his son have been leading 'Butterfly Tours' in this area.  He was an expert.   

As it happens, not only had we lucked out in meeting someone who knew exactly where we ought to go and how to get there, but he told us that we had also lucked out in terms of our timing.  “The next couple of days will be absolutely THE best days to see the butterflies.  Maybe the best days in a few years.  Their numbers were down last year by at least 50%.  But there are more of them this year, and tomorrow there should be lots.  You couldn't have come at a better time.”  (The next day the local newspaper headline read: 'monarch numbers up by 100%').  We couldn't believe our good fortune!

As we stood talking he pointed out something we'd missed: a tall cedar growing up from the bottom of the valley with thick orange branches: the branches were laden with butterflies.  “Head down into the valley, and you'll see lots.  There's a river down there so they go down for the water.  It is a spectacular day for them.  You aren not going to believe it.”

 As we started down the path we saw more and more butterflies.  The trail was thick with butterfly bodies, some alive, some dead.  Butterflies flapped around our faces, landed on our hands, heads and hats, mated on our pant-legs.  We'd come during mating season, and the males die after they mate.    The females hang around another week or two, and then, en masse, begin their migration north.  But now they were hanging out, feeding, and flying in massive swarms in the valley.  The sky was thick with them.  There were millions of them.  Millions upon millions.  Had the insects been anything other than butterflies, the sight of so many of them would have been alarming (do they bite?). 

But as I witnessed this bonanza of butterflies, this muchness of monarchs, I experienced that wonderful sensation of complete and utter awe – and deep humility – at the power, beauty, and abundance of nature.  At the wonder of one of her many miracles.  Like being in a remote area at night, and seeing millions of bright bright stars twinkling in the infinite universe.  Or sitting on the beach of a wild open coast, watching the relentless pounding of giant waves, grinding rocks into sand, forever.  

What I like best about the monarchs is that we still don't know why or how they do what they do.  Theirs is one of the most complex migrations on earth.  Here's what we do know: the females will fly north from here in southwestern Mexico up to the Great Lakes region of the USA and Canada – a distance of almost 5000 kilometres.  They fly at about 12 km per hour – you can do the math.  They will lay their eggs there, and die.  The eggs will hatch into caterpillars and will feed exclusively on milk weed.  They will pupate and emerge as butterflies in the Great Lakes region.  They stay there to breed, and it is their young, who have never been to Mexico, who somehow make their way back to their ancestors' home.  

How do they know where to go?  What instinct guides their fluttering wings?  An extraordinary sense of smell?  A kind of radar or magnetic force?  A butterfly goddess?  (Madame Butterfly?)  I am  moved by the mysteries of the mariposa monarca.  My world view is jiggled, just a little, thanks to a very beatiful, very small, and very fragile insect.

If you want to go see the monarchs

The best time is mid-February to mid-March.  Early March is absolutely the best.  Head for either Mexico City or Morelia.  From there, take a bus to Ziticuaro.  You can either overnight in Ziticuaro (which has a complete range of hotels and is a quintessential Mexican town), or just go there early on the day you plan to go to the reserve. 

From Ziticuaro you can hire a taxi to take you to the Cerro Pallon butterfly reserve.  You want to go to the Macheros access point.  It is the best one – the one involving the least amount of hiking – for getting to the valley of the monarchs.  Or... you can do the whole thing as part of a tour – with our Canadian friend. 

Although the monarchs are not in immediate danger of extinction, their habitat is slowly being destroyed.  Milkweed is considered an invasive species, and is being sprayed.  The forest in Mexico, although protected, is being logged by farmers and ranchers desperate for a cheap source of wood.  Tourism, by keeping a focus on the butterflies and by contributing to the local economy, actually helps the monarchs.  Just remember to remain silent and tread lightly so as not to disturb these lovely little miracles.

For more information go to:  www.monarchwatch.org  or  www.michoacanmonarchs.org. 

Ode to Zacatecas

Ode to Zacatecas

February 27 2011

Stately and serene, smart and sophisticated,

Festooned with silver from her many mines.

We descend into the depths of El Eden,

The richness of its minerals in stark contrast to the abject conditions of the workers.

So many lives lost in years gone by, many just children.

But no one thinks of them now.

Now, as then, the city is bustling and alive,

Well-heeled Zacatenos in tailored coats and suits,

Beautiful women in colourful, tight-fitting blouses and skirts,

High heels clacking down old cobble-stone streets,

Past ancient stone cathedrals, ornately carved

With angles, saints and gargoyles

Their soaring spires and bell-towers piercing cool blue skies.

Past massive old wooden doors so handsomely carved,

And fitted out with brass knockers – lions, hands, faces;

Through elegant plazas, punctuated with bronze statues of horses and heroes –

One of a mother holding two children by their hands,

It honours the responsibility of parenthood, the contribution made by all mothers.

Through parks and plazas graced by elegant palms and stone fountains,

A delight for small children, convenient baths for the pigeons.

The massive aqueduct that once brought water here to Zacatecas

Another living testiment to the intelligence and industry of the ancestors.

We meander along streets, peeking in doorways, glimpses of family life, small industry;

Through markets heaped with fruits, vegetables, cheeses, meats,

All so fresh and juicey and colourful, they call out to us to buy, to eat.

We squeeze through aisle-ways dripping with clothes, cheap Chinese toys,

Watch Zacatecans busily buying and selling, picking and choosing,

Enjoying the spending of money that newly lines their pockets.

We linger in museums rich with history and art,

Artifacts brought alive through skillful and innovative use of technology.

In one museum, thousands of masks evoke the many spirits

of the many peoples and cultures

That have lived here – restless spirits, good and evil, call out from open mouths,

Entreat us with their hollow eyes – remember us!

We hike up La Bufa to see a massive Pancho Villa astride his fiery mare,

Panting for the altitude, out of breath when finally we arrive at the top, and

Are almost blown away by fierce winds as we look down upon the city,

A jewel set within the narrow band of this barren desert valley.

Zacatecas: we love her not only for her physical attractions,

But for her inner beauty: the graciousness, warmth and generosity of her people,

We take our leave with photos and fond memories

 – and promises of future visits.

Jerez: 'La Ciudad Magica'

February 2011

Return to Jerez

We were so entranced by Jerez when we visited on market day that we came back a few days later for a more extended stay. We chose to stay at the 'La Plaza' hotel, right on El Jardin, partly because it was the only hotel that had a room with windows overlooking the square, and partly because we liked the dueno and his father, with their soft-spoken, old-fashioned courtesy .

From our windows, we could see and hear the goings-on in the square below. In the late afternoons we'd carry a couple of plastic chairs up to the roof and continue our vigil from there, while sipping our pre-dinner drinks. We were the only 'goofs on the roof', and enjoyed the only 'roof-top bar' in town.

Within minutes of our arrival I heard someone yell “Hey Cees-ko!” Presumably he was calling out to his pal Francisco, but I felt like I was in some old western movie: I half expected Pancho Villa to come riding down the street. Looking down from our window, I saw around a dozen taxis lined up on one side of the square. The one at the head of the line took off (slowly). The rest of drivers, who'd been sitting – maybe sleeping – in the sun, sauntered over to their cars, opened the doors, and pushed their taxis a few feet forward. What time was this place?

Right below our window, our dueno has a collection of childrens' rides – a horse, a fire-truck, a car – that provide a few minutes of kiddy delight for a couple of pesos. Several of the rides have accompanying 'music' or sounds: the fire-truck has a particularly annoying recorded phrase that keeps going whether it's in use or not: 'Apagamos el fuego!' (let's put out the fire!). This became my Jerez mantra: I couldn't get it out of my mind.

Wandering around town...

We spent the first few days in Jerez walking the streets, admiring old buildings and churches, wandering into shops, and generally soaking up the ambiance. There's a surfeit of saddle-makers in the town. They make the most beautiful saddles (western, of course) with intricately engraved silver fittings and stirrups, and huge silver pommels. The designs are most often of eagles, Mexico's national symbol, or horses, or flowers. There were so many saddle-makers that we wondered how they could possibly sell all that they made. It turns out that most of the saddles are bought by Americans who come down to Jerez in November and December.

The same goes for the fabulous mariachi suits, dresses and hats we saw being made. We stopped in at a shop where three women were busy cutting and sewing fabric. One of them gave us a demonstration of how the appliques are done. They're made of leather: long strips are sewn onto the fabric, following impossibly intricate patterns of curlicues and zig-zags. Then, using a small pair of very sharp scissors, the excess leather is cut away to reveal the design. The process looked incredibly painstaking. “Mucho trabajo,” smiled the gal brandishing the scissors. “mucho trabajo”.

As elsewhere in Mexico, pastry shops were a dime a dozen. We wandered into one, looking at the wonderful little wedding figures, made of resin and hand-painted. We asked the young woman behind the counter if we could take a photograph of them, and after some discussion back and forth in Spanish, she said: “So, where are you from?” with an accent right out of LA. Like many Jerezanos, Isobel had lived for some time in the USA, but she and her husband had returned to Jerez, where his business was established, and where they felt more comfortable raising their young kids.

Isobel offered to take us to see her home, which was in an area that had once been part of an old hacienda. We went first to what was left of the once regal and rambling hacienda, now derelict and dirty. Startled pigeons flapped up and out of every room we ventured into, stirring feathers, dust and pigeon shit into the dank air. Apparently someone had tried to convert the old place into shopping boutiques, but the venture had failed. Like so many other wonderful old buildings in Mexico, and here in Jerez, it will likely just crumble into piles of rubble, taking its history, and its secrets, with it.

Isobel's house was the smallest and least 'grand' of the half-dozen or so houses that have been built, some quite recently, in what was the 'garden' of the hacienda. But it was by far the one with the most character, and the most evidence of being lived in by a family. Her husband is a collector of anything and everything interesting, and in particular antiquities. The garden was home to a massive old cart, a plough, several bits of pottery, stone and wood carvings, and the usual collection of bicycles and toys abandoned mid-ride by young children who have discovered something more interesting to do.

Inside the house was almost a museum. All that was missing were the cards or plaques for descriptive information. Beautiful pieces of furniture in every room, an old wind-up phonograph and collection of records which still played (with surprisingly good sound quality), a collection of antique sewing machines, irons, crosses, and bits of brick-a-brac everywhere. And in the midst of all this, a none-too-new oven in which Isobel does all of the baking for the pasteleria. Baking sheets, cake pans and muffin tins were piled on a nearby table and chairs.

“I'm the baker,” she said, “and my husband does the decorating.” It was hard to imagine that she baked all of the cakes we saw in their pasterleria right there in her home. And worked there every day, and did all the shopping and deliveries, and somehow found time to home-school the kids. She's one busy gal: “We work every day, from early until late. We have payments to make. But I guess that's always the way with young families.” Indeed.

Week-end action

We noticed considerably more activity in town on the week-end: more people in the park during the day, and definitely more at night. But the real crescendo occurred on Sunday night. People came by foot and bicycle, on motorcycle and horseback, by car and truck. Like the paseos of years gone by, when the townsfolk came out to 'do a turn' around the park, the point is to see and be seen, to be a part of the community.

Groups of musicians collected at strategic locations around the park: 'bandas' with full drum sets, tubas and horns. The music was lively – a la Mexican hat dance – and what they lacked in talent, they made up for in enthusiasm, especially the drummers, several of whom looked hardly old enough to be out after dark. They didn't ask for money; no hats were passed. They played for the sheer joy of playing. At times it sounded like the 'battle of the bands', a competition to see who could play the loudest, and the fastest. It was a classically Mexican, wildly cacophonous event.

We sat on a bench listening to the bands and watching the passers-by, some of whom stopped to dance – a high-stepping polka-like jig. One little boy – maybe four years old – did the most amazing tap-dance. I took a video of him and showed it to him. He was very pleased, and kept pointing at himself and smiling. He was with his father, but came back a few minutes later with his mother, walked right up to me and pointed at my camera. He wanted me to show the video to his mother. We played it several times over. He watched it with sheer delight, pointing to his chest and smiling broadly: “that's me!”

Los Cardos

Jerez is situated in a broad flat valley; pretty much a desert, stippled with nopale cactus, maguey (a larger version of the aloe plant), and the odd bush. To the northwest, not too far away, are 'Los Cardos', an unusual geological formation of rocky ridges that poke up out of the desert like the teeth of some giant creature. We had asked at a tourist office about how much it might cost for us to go there, and were quoted a price of 350 pesos, or around $35 dollars. That seemed a little steep to us, but we had no idea how far away the ridges might be, or the condition of the access road. We decided to wait and see if we could get a better deal.

Our 'deal' came in an unexpected way. On one of our ambles through town we spied a “Tourist Information Centre.” We went in and found a large and mostly empty office, with none of the brochures or maps one might expect – and no visible staff. But in a minute or two a young woman materialized, and asked if she could help. We had several questions – about the opening times of a nearby museum, about visiting various small towns near Jerez, and about finding some cheaper way of getting to Los Cardos. “I can take you in my car,” she said, “for 200 pesos. This afternoon or tomorrow – whenever you like.” Well, that sounded good to us, so we agreed on 'tomorrow,' after we'd checked out the museum.

The museum was the house of a poet, Ramon Lopez Velarde, famous throughout Mexico. It was touted as an 'interactive' museum, and several people had recommended that we go there. I was wondering how a poet's work could be made 'interactive.' It was ingenious. We were first shown into a room with a few benches and a screen. We watched a video montage of old still photos that 'moved' around the screen to create an impression of the artist's life and vision. This was overlaid with the words of his most famous poem, 'La Patria,' an ode to his country, described as a beautiful and sensuous woman. The effect, even without being able to understand all of the words, was very moving.

We then wandered into the various rooms of the house. They were all set up as they might have been when Velarde lived there – living room, study, kitchen, and bedroom. Transcripts of his poems were displayed on stands, two or three of them per room. Under the stand, on the floor, were footprints showing you where to stand to hear the poem. And not just the poem, but the sounds of the room. In the study, you could hear the type-writer clacking; in the kitchen, water gurgling and pots clanking. In the kitchen you could also smell cinnamon. I wondered how all of this was done until I noticed, over each set of footprints, a plexiglass dome over a motion sensor and speaker. Ingenious!

Walking back towards the hotel for some lunch, we noticed a small doorway with the words 'regional museum' over top. It looked pretty unassuming. We poked our heads in and were greeted by a middle-aged fellow who welcomed us with gusto. When I asked if there was an admission fee, he suggested he'd take my camera, and laughed. “No, no fee, because most of the things that are here are just things that people don't want.” This was quite untrue. It was a fascinating place, filled with memorabilia, artifacts, pre-historic bone fragments, arrowheads and clubs, old cameras and machines, all crammed into a few small rooms.

The dueno accompanied us as we wandered through the rooms, pointing things out and explaining what they were and how they worked. He clearly loved his 'job,' and was proud of his 'museum'. When we left he asked me to write something in my 'idioma'. I wrote that it was a fascinating place, filled with things worthy of being in a larger museum, but that perhaps it was best they were here, because here was a man who was so great at being a guide and providing information. I showed him what I had written and translated it for him. He practically glowed with pride and pleasure: I'd made his day!

In the afternoon we went to the place where we'd agreed to meet up with Lorena, the gal from the Tourist Information Centre. She picked up her one year old baby, Bianca, from the local day-care centre, and we jumped into her van. We drove to the outskirts of town where we picked up Lorena's two older kids, Deana and David. Lorena ordered Bianca into the back seat with her siblings, and we were off.

It didn't take long to get to the road to Los Cardos. Although unpaved, the road was in good condition, not at all the rough track we'd been told we'd need a truck or 4X4 to traverse. We stopped several times to take photos of the rocks, like monolithic columns, which in the afternoon light glowed a warm gold. From the top we could see the whole of the Jerez Valley – more peaceful than spectacular.

A word about Jerezano history and customs

One of the best aspects of Lorena's chauffeur and guide service was the amount of information she gave us about Jerez, Mexico and Mexican culture. We learned that Jerez – and Zacatecas – have been and still are, centres of migratory people. “Not much grows here, so many people go to the USA to work. Many families have members in the US or Canada. They go back and forth.” This explains the amount of English spoken by the people in the area, and the cosmopolitan feel that both Zacatecas and little Jerez both have.

Lorena also told us that the reason that there are so many musicians in Jerez, and that they come out on the week-ends to play so loud and long, is that Jerez has from its earliest times, a centre for relaxation and entertainment. “Zacatecas has its mines; Fresnillo has its mines; Jerez has nothing.” But the Camino Real passed through Jerez, and in the old days travelers would come from Zacatecas and Fresnillo, often with pockets full of silver or money, on their way to Guadalajara, Mexico City or the coast. They came by donkey, mule or horse, and the trip might take a day or more. The scrubby desert they had to pass through was full of banditos, and robbery was common.

So when the travelers arrived safely in Jerez, they were ready to celebrate. And the Jerezanos made the most of their talents to show them a good time. Music, dancing, feasting and carousing became the city’s claims to fame. When we were there, there was a series of free concerts in the lovely old theatre. We went twice – once to hear an orchestra, and once to hear a classical guitarist. Both performances were excellent. Not only was the old theatre an architectural delight, but the acoustics were fantastic.

Another historical note was a considerably less happy one. The Jerez valley hasn’t always been the dry and dusty desert it is now. It used to be verdant and green, well treed with tall pines. But when the Spaniards came and discovered silver, they needed wood for their mines, and they cut down almost all of the pines in the valley. Its a common enough story, but always discouraging to hear. How many forested areas have we ravaged? How many once lush places have we turned into desert?

When we asked why the central square in Jerez was a garden, instead of the more usual open plaza, Lorena said that it actually had at one time been a cement plaza. But one of the governors decided he'd prefer a garden, and transformed it into the verdant leafy square it is now. Delightful!

The magical city

Jerez calls itself, and is called, the 'magical' city. We decided that the main magic of Jerez is its people – their friendliness and generosity of spirit, their warmth and their humour. The magic is in their attitudes, especially towards us 'estranjeros.' Perhaps one of the reasons why Jerezanos are so friendly is because there are so few western tourists in either of these towns. We saw only a few in Zacatecas, and none in Jerez. Whatever the reason, we hope the Jerezanos will never lose this most endearing aspect of their civic personality.

Jerez: Market Sunday

Jerez, Market Sunday

February 10, 2011

We 'discovered' Jerez when we were in Zacatecas, an old silver mining town just north of Guadalajara. Our trusty 'Lonely Planet Mexico' described Jerez as a “delightful country town... as Mexican as a tortilla”, and a particularly good place to visit on Sunday, the local market day.

We had already decided to go there when we met Hector, a young man whose family owns twenty-two western wear shops, selling shirts, boots, belts – and fabulous belt buckles, displayed to best effect on waists made large by cerveza and much time spent sitting in the sun.

We had gone into Hector's shop to look for western shirts. We didn't find what we wanted, but talking about shirts lead to other things, and we soon found out that Hector was part of an old, and very large, family from Jerez. He told us they had several more shops there, and encouraged us to go to the Sunday market, and to make sure we spent some time in the town.

A few days later we came across another western wear shop, and were hardly through the door when a young man greeted us, in English, with “Hi! You were in my brother's shop yesterday. I saw you there.” Abraham, known to friends and family as A.B., said he and Hector would be in Jerez on Sunday, and invited us to stop by their main shop.

So on Sunday we hopped a bus and within an hour we were in Jerez. The market ran the length of a wide street. Locals had set up make-shift booths, selling everything from fresh from the farm produce to plastic whats-its, CDs, kids' toys, used clothes and household items.

We were immediately taken with three things: first, the market was almost entirely for locals – we were the only 'extranjeros' (strangers, or non-Mexican tourists) there; second, every second male was wearing a cowboy hat or sombrero and western boots; and third, everyone was extremely friendly – we were given warm welcome everywhere, even though we weren't buying.

On one of the cross streets a man with a donkey and cart was selling 'honey-water' from old ceramic calabashes. It's made from the water of the maguey plant, a larger version of the agave. Both plants are also used for making various alcoholic beverages including, of course, tequila.

We stopped to eat at a busy gordita stand where a couple of women were busy making special tortillas with 'pockets' and stuffing them with beef, pork, chile rellenos, beans, cheese, eggs – whatever you wanted. Declicioso!

After we'd done with the market we wandered into the centre of town – just a few blocks away. The central plaza is aptly called 'El Jardin' – it's a very well treed square with four fountains at the corners and dozens of white wrought-iron benches. In the centre there's a lovely wooden bandstand with a distinctly Moorish style. The benches were mostly occupied, by old men half-dozing in the sun, young couples crooning, and families watching their kidlets run in circles around the maze of paths.

Clutches of young men stood on the fringes of the park, looking tough in a 1940's Chicago kind of way. Several of them had custom-made bicycles – child-sized bikes fitted with super-shiny mufflers, shocks, and side-mirrors. One of their bikes had colourful multi-spoked wheels. I couldn't resist taking a picture: the owner watched with a careful, vaguely malevolent eye. It was humourous to see these wannabe gangstas swaggering down the streets pushing bicycles more suited for ten-year olds.

As promised, several cowboys came by on horseback. Their horses' shoes made a delightful clatter on the cobble-stone streets. We were enchanted – Jerez seemed like such a great little town, just like the Mexico one sees in an old western movie.

We spied a hotel on the square and went in to enquire. The owner was very hospitable, and showed us a room at the front, with a set of doors and some large windows overlooking the square. We told him we'd be back, and set off for another wander through town.

We hadn't yet pulled out the address for Hector and A.B.'s shop, but weren't surprised when we heard Hector calling out an 'ola!' We'd stumbled on 'El Jerezano'. Hector introduced us to his father, also Hector, and his mother Maria. At his father's suggestion Hector offered to take us to his grandmother's home – one of the oldest homes in Jerez.

We weren't sure what to expect – so many of the old haciendas in Mexico are either in ruins or fast approaching that state. As usual, from the street one can see nothing of the house inside. A solid plastered adobe wall punctuated with several big windows, a pair of wide gates for horses and carriages and a smaller door for visitors on foot.

I noticed a black bow over the door and asked if someone had died. Hector said yes, his grandfather had died in November; his grandmother was still grieving. Theirs had been a long and happy marriage with many children. Hector unlocked the door, which opened into a wide open 'hallway' to the inner courtyard, and called out to his grandmother. We were well into the courtyard, when Maria appeared from somewhere in the depths of the hacienda, and welcomed us in. “Passele, passele; bienvenidos.”

The hacienda was beautiful and well-preserved, with museum quality furnishings, and all sorts of things that had belonged to various family members and that Maria had saved. Although she now lives alone, Maria's house resonates with memories. And her children and grandchildren are frequent visitors. As the house has fifteen bedrooms there's lots of room for everyone to come – and stay.

Beyond the first courtyard and through the old kitchen, fitted out with beautiful ceramic tiles, and both old and new fixtures, we came upon a very large inner courtyard and garden, with a pool, an outdoor bar and barbeque area. Off of this courtyard was a massive entertaining room with an equally massive wooden banquet table and elegant wooden chairs. It was all still decorated for Christmas. There was also a separate small guest house, perhaps once used as a servants' quarters.

The place is so grand and has so much character, it would make a fantastic boutique hotel. An old wooden cart near the gate was used in a movie – one could imagine the whole place as a set.

On our way out we stopped in a room just off the front door. This is the 'receiving room' – the room where visitors would first be seated. This was one of the most ornate and beautifully furnished of all of the rooms – truly spectacular.

We were still chatting with Maria and admiring the hacienda when A.B. arrived on his new quad. It's red and shiny and ultra-modern. We said our good-byes, and I took a photo of the quad, A.B. and Hector in front of the main gate of the old hacienda. As they sped off, it was hard not to be struck by the incongruity of the sight – the ultra-modern bike and the old cobble-stone street lined with equally old stone walls and wooden doors. But we are becoming accustomed to this quintessentially Mexican phenomenon, where modern meets rustic and technology transforms antiquity– burro-back campesinos on cell-phones, crumbling adobe houses sporting shiny new satellite dishes.

'Progress' leaves no place unchanged, not even sleepy little Jerez. But fortunately, at least for us, Jerez is not a place where many Western tourists go – there are no beaches, no zip-lines, no hip night-club scene. So it's likely to stay a quiet, laid-back, quintessentially Mexican cowboy town for some time to come.

Foco Tonal, Mexico:  Cosmic Energy or Castillian Quackery

February 11, 2011

I don't know why I felt it so strongly. Maybe because I had been primed by my artistic, and definitely mystical, friend Della, who had shown me her artistic vision of the place – an intensely colourful and evocative visual, poetic and musical piece (go to http://www.dodoland.com/ and click on Foco Tonal, in list on the right hand side). Or maybe it's because, as the guide who introduced us to the place said, it's because I am cosmically in tune. I'm sensitive to cosmic energy; I 'pick it up.'

I have experienced something similar on very few occasions. Once at Macchu Picchu where, having practised months of yoga and meditation for several hours a day, I was in a heightened state of awareness. I had woken up very early in the small town at the base of the mountain and walked up the steep slopes so as to arrive there before the hordes of tourists that came in on buses from Cuzco. I was sitting in silent meditation on the sun-dial, the most sacred spot in that place, as the sun rose. And I felt the otherworldly/cosmic energy then.

Another, more recent, time when I experienced this force was when I was feeling conflicted about whether I wanted to make a mid-life change of career and pursue midwifery. I was in my garden, doing some late afternoon weeding, when I was literally jolted by an overwhelming sensation of being 'called' to serve. It felt almost religious, but as I am not a religious person, my explanation tends more towards the spiritual or cosmic realms.

We went to Foco Tonal with a Mexican woman, Gloria, and her friend Carmen. We were staying with Gloria, at her home in Guadalajara. Carmen was our 'driver.' Gloria doesn't care for highway driving, and Foco Tonal is about an hour away from Guadalajara, on a highway mostly under construction. Carmen has a practical day job, but her real interest is angels. Both she and Gloria had been to Foco Tonal with Della. They were keen to take us there.

When we got there the first thing I noticed was the fantastical castle that's been built by the owner of the property. The Castillo de Juan Ramon dominates the site, lending an air of surreality to the place. I immediately thought “this is ridiculous; it's just a put on.” But I kept my feelings to myself. And I wanted to be open to whatever the place, and the experience, had in store for me.

We had to wait our turn to enter the sunken patio area in the garden where it is reputed that the cosmic energies both emanate from and are received at – like a two-way radio. Two women were in the circle, one right in the centre, standing quite still. After a few moments she raised her hands, and then swept them down over her body several times, bathing herself in the energy.

As we waited, a slim man of middle age, neither young nor old, and dressed in simple white slacks and shirt, introduced himself as our 'guide' to the place. His voice was quiet, and he spoke slowly and clearly, in deference to our limited abilities with the Spanish language. We had no trouble understanding everything he said. He gave us a little history, asked where we were from and whether we had any special objectives to our visit (many people come here for healing).

When the women were done, we watched as they walked, backwards, away from the circle and along the tiled path towards us. Then we took off our shoes, and walked towards the centre. It's like a shallow, sunken patio, around eight meters in diameter, with a wide, low (maybe 0.75 meters high) cement wall around it, a perfect 'bench' for sitting. And so we did.

Our guide went on to explain a little more about the place and its history – who had discovered the exact spot where the cosmic energies flow, who had built the castle, and who comes to this place to experience the energy.

He also spoke about the significance of the seven free-standing cement columns or pillars, each around three meters high, that encircle the patio. Each of them is painted a different, and some quite vibrant, colour. The colours are associated with universal human values: pink for love, yellow for wisdom, green for life, health, and fertility, gold for prosperity, purple for transcendence, blue for protection, and white for peace. The tradition associated with the columns is to wrap one's arms around them, to 'give them a hug,' thereby imbuing oneself with the energy, or properties, of the column.

After he finished his little introduction, he invited us to enter into the middle of the patio, where a circular design of grey and white tiles (around 0.7 meters in diameter) indicate the vortex of the cosmic energies. He suggested I go first. I sat for a minute or two, and consciously emptied my mind of all thoughts, assumptions and expectations. I was prepared for whatever – a ridiculous ritual or an experience of something more ... well, cosmic.

I entered the circle and stood quietly for some moments. Even without speaking I could feel a tremendous energy. It seemed to come from deep within me, and at the same time from all around. According to the tradition of the place, I was meant to say my name, to 'introduce myself' to the cosmic forces. I hesitated, wondering which name I should say. Would it be Jules, the name that all of my family and friends know me by, or Julia, my given name. I chose Julia, and when I said it I pronounced it in the Spanish way, so it sounds like 'Hooleea.'

When I spoke my name, I experienced more than just a simple reverberation of sound. I felt overwhelmed by a sensation of .... what? .... physical, spiritual, cosmic energy. A powerful force that seemed to come both from deep within me and from all around me. I trembled, and within seconds I was weeping, but not for any sadness – or joy. It was like a full-body reaction ... to something I couldn't name.

I stood quietly for a few moments, perhaps a minute, waiting for the trembling and the tears to subside. As I waited it came to me that I wanted to introduce not just myself, but also those closest to me. I said the names of my daughter, 'Amber Rose' (again her birth name) and 'Wilson.' But that didn't feel complete. And so I added the names of my grandchildren, 'Amelia' and 'Benjamin.' For each name I used the Spanish pronunciation (a little difficult with Wilson and Benjamin). I was too overwhelmed to speak more – the trembling and tears, and a sensation of overwhelming weakness, almost like I might faint or fall, silenced my voice. So silently I added all of the names of all of those close to me – family and friends, past and present, alive and dead. And then it was enough. I left the circle feeling a little weak, and very tired.

Once we'd all been in the circle once, our guide suggested we might put any objects we liked in the circle so that they could receive the energy. Of course there's a gift shop at the entrance to the Foco Tonal where one can buy all sorts of religious and spiritual objects, many from different religions, like Chinese money and Buddhist prayer beads, as well as down-right kitschy crap like plastic toys and costume 'jewelry.' Many people put money, or their wallets or purses, in the circle, hoping to attract a multiplier effect.

I have no interest in attracting wealth, and hadn't thought about bringing anything special to this place. But I did have two meaningful things with me. The first was my 'wedding' ring, a plain gold band which in fact was my father's mother's wedding band. She was married on the same day as my husband and me, and the band is inscribed with her and her husband's initials, and the date. I have had it a very long time, and wore it on my right hand for years before I was married, and on my left hand when I travelled, alone, in South America (in a vain attempt to discourage unwanted advances by the ever amorous Latino men). The second was my gekko necklace – a simple silver chain with a little gekko pendant. It's one of my favourites, and gekkos are among my most favourite animals. So off they came, and into the circle they went – right smack in the centre.

The second time I went into the circle, and spoke, this time to invoke the beneficent powers of the cosmic forces on behalf of all of my family and friends, I again experienced the acoustic reverberation, but none of the weakness. This time I felt power. Again it seemed to be coming both from within and without. I made a wish for peace – both personal and global – picked up my keepsakes, and left the circle feeling remarkably light, like I was filled with air. Enlightened?

I invited Gloria to do the circuit of columns with me, and we hugged them all together, starting with pink, for love, and ending with white, for peace. We both lingered a little longer at the columns for wisdom, health and transcendence. We did this silently, until we got to the last one, peace, when we spontaneously and simultaneously voiced a prayer for world peace. The need is so great... .

And then we all walked, backwards, away from the circle. There was a large group of people, one in a wheelchair, awaiting their turn. One fellow, who lives in nearby Ocotlan, told us that he came every day to this place. He was fingering a set of Buddhist prayer beads. He said he was a Buddhist, and that he believed that the Foco Tonal was one of only three sacred places in the world: the others were at Macchu Picchu and somewhere (he couldn't remember the name) in China. I wondered if he meant Tibet.

It took me around an hour to 'come down' from my experience at Foco Tonal. And it wasn't until a few days later that I started to look for explanations for at least the acoustic part of the phenomenon. Certainly I have been in natural and built structures where one can hear an echo or reverberation of one's voice. Sometimes quite strongly. But I have never been in a place where there is no physical reason for the phenomenon – there are no walls at Foco Tonal – at least none high enough to cause sound to reverberate. Could it be an underground cave?

I would like to go back. I feel drawn to go back. And certainly I would recommend to anyone, believer or not, that they go and experience it for themselves. To get there go to Guadalajara, and then to Ocotlan, a small village around 50 km from Guadalajara. There are buses that go to Ocotlan. You'd have to take a taxi from there – maybe a 10 minute drive. If your pockets are deep, you can just take a taxi from Guadalajara. There are a few hotels at Ocotlan if you want to stay.

A little more about Foco Tonal

The history of the Foco Tonal de St. Germain is fascinating, and as many legends in Mexico, colourful and somewhat surreal. According to the legend, the Foco Tonal was identified as a power place by a clairvoyant from Reynosa, Tamaulipas – Don Jose Sebastian Zamora – who had visited the place three times by astral travel but who didn't know where in the world it was physically located.

In 1994, Don Javier Salcedo Arevalo, a man who believed that Zamora had saved his legs from amputation, invited Zamora to visit him in Ocotlan. Ocotlan is a small village near Guadalajara, in Jalisco state, not far from Mexico City. A man named Manuel Dominguez, who owns the land where the foco tonal is located, wanted to meet Zamora, and invited him to visit. At the time he was building his fanciful home – a castle complete with turrets and gargoyles – that now dominates the site.

As Zamora wandered around the property, he recognized it as the place he had visited during his astral travels. He located an specific point at which he detected two vortexes of cosmic or spiritual energy: one that drew energy upward from the earth to the cosmos, and one that brought it down from the cosmos to earth. He marked this location with a stick.

Dominguez was intrigued with Zamora's finding, and believed in the cosmic significance of the place. Perhaps he also saw the potential for the development of a profitable centre for 'spiritual tourism,' who knows. In any case, he decided to construct an open air 'temple' around the spot identified by Zamora. It is a shallow, sunken, circular patio, rather like a swimming pool, around seven meters in diameter, with walls around 0.75 m high. The 'floor' and walls are tiled with ceramic tile. The centre, where Zamora had placed his stick, is marked by a circular pattern in the tile, around 0.75 m in diameter.

When the site was around 60% complete, Dominguez experienced the phenomenon for which the site is known: a reverberation that occurs when one stands in the centre of the patio and speaks. This convinced him that the site was indeed a focus of cosmic energy.

Whether or not Zamora suggested the pillars, and their associated values, is not known (or at least not divulged). Perhaps these were Dominguez' contribution to the site. Certainly they add to the mystique, and the potential draw for tourists keen to get in touch with these values.

Zamora came back to the site to experience the reverberation for himself. He confirmed that is was a 'foco tonal.' 'Foco' means focus or centre. The word 'tonal,' could be related to the English word tone, referring to the reverberating sound one hears when one stands in the centre of the circle and speaks. Or it may be related to the Nahautl (Aztec) word 'tonalli,' which refers to the soul or spirit. The Nahuatl believe that a person's tonalli governs their fate in life – what they are destined to do and what actions are most auspicious for them to take.

During a month of prayer, Zamora was told that Saint Germain, an ascended master (a spirit that has been incarnated on earth, mastered Earth's lessons, and now helps from the other side) had asked to be the protector of the site. The name then became the 'Foco Tonal of St. Germain.' Dominguez said that having given the place its name, Zamora said: “This was my mission. It is finished.” Five months later, Zamora died.

Dominguez now calls the place a 'heritage for the world,' and invites visitors to come and experience it for themselves. It is claimed that many healings take place here, and certainly many people with serious infirmities, such as cancer, and disabilities or disfiguring conditions do come here for healing. Women who are having trouble conceiving also come; parents bring their children. But likely most of the people who come do so because they believe in the spiritual or cosmic power of the place, and the belief that by putting themselves in the centre of the circle and speaking their name (and saying, singing, toning or doing whatever else they choose), they will be imbued with this energy.