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Mexico
Personal reminiscences of Mexico’s Huichol people VI: Peyote Fiesta
Aug 29th
The Huichol Peyote Fiesta takes place around the end of May or the beginning of June, the start of the traditional rainy season in Mexico. The main purpose is to assure that the rain gods return to refresh the earth and nourish the newly-sown crops of beans and maize. The Huichols are located in large community centers, such as San Andres and Santa Catarina, or in scattered ranchos throughout the sierras. The Hikuri Neirra, as the Huichols call it, follows the annual peyote pilgrimage to Wirikuta, the sacred land of peyote located in the San Luis Potosi area. Traditionally, various groups of peyoteros (peyote-seekers) from various places in the Sierras set out from about October on to journey toward Real de Catorce, the jumping-off spot for the peyote hunt. When the peyoteros return, the shamans determine the time to begin the ceremony, which lasts for several days.
Personal reminiscences of Mexico's Huichol people VI: Peyote Fiesta
Huichol man in ceremonial dress
The Peyote Fiesta I attended at the invitation of my friend Nacho was held at Las Guayabas, deep in the valley below the plateau of San Andres in the Huichol Sierra. When we first arrived, I found myself a rather nervous outsider witness to a loud altercation between two groups of Huichols over a woman from another pueblo who had come to attend the Peyote Fiesta. It turned out that some of the Las Guayabas people thought she had no right to be there. Knowing that a Huichol was not welcome at this particular fiesta, I began to wonder about my own security. Outsiders are definitely not welcome at Huichol religious ceremonies, although the people of San Andres apparently now put on a show for tourists during Semana Santa (Holy Week, beginning on Palm Sunday and culminating with Easter). However, I was there as an invited guest. Moreover, it turned out that my friend Nacho was a much more important person on his home territory than I had previously imagined.
That evening, a dramatic scene took place that could have come out of a Hollywood movie. In front of a long rectangular adobe building that served as community center and seat of authority sat the shamans and elders of the pueblo. A fierce debate was going on. I scarcely recognized my friend Nacho, resplendent in his embroidered outfit and feathered sombrero as he stood up and began to disclaim in a loud voice. There was no electricity. The only light came from a large bonfire in front of the building, casting an eerie light on the intense faces of the shamans seated in their equipales, special ceremonial chairs. I managed to catch only a few Huichol words but I surmised it was about the incident earlier in the day. Whatever the issue, Nacho appeared to be in complete charge. I was thankful that Nacho and I had known each other for so many years in Ajijic and were such good friends.
The next morning, the ceremonies continued. I was sitting near the rough lean-to sun shelters where the men sat in one square area drinking great quantities of tejuino, which they would vomit up so they could drink some more. However, since there was no rowdiness, not even loud talking, I concluded that the drinking bout was part of the religious ceremony itself. Those women who were not serving tejuino, tequila, or tortillas and meat broth were sitting farther back from the center. Children played all around and were only occasionally scolded mildly for getting in the way of the ceremonies.
The peyote dance took place in front of the community center. A long line of dancers splendidly arrayed in their finest dancing attire circled in and out as they stamped their feet on the ground to raise as much dust as possible. I did not come to the Peyote Fiesta totally unversed in the ways of the Huichol, so I knew they were reminding Mother Earth to wake up and receive the coming rains. The lead dancer caught my attention. He was holding up deer antlers on his head as he wove in and out, leading the dancers through their paces. Of all the Huichols present, he was the only one wearing blue jeans. This was a particularly jarring note but Huichols can be very adaptable when necessary. Perhaps that is the secret of their survival.
A calihuey, or Huichol temple (sometimes spelled "kalihuey")
© Christopher Jordan English, 2003
At one point during the proceedings, Nacho came up and motioned to me and a few others to follow him to another ceremony at the grand calihuey of Las Guayabas. The calihuey or “god house” is the typical Huichol temple. Over a hundred years ago the Norwegian explorer and ethnographer Carl Lumholtz described the ceremonial replacing of the roof of the calihuey at Ratontita, an event which takes place at every calihuey throughout the Huichol territory once every five years. The one at Las Guayabas was very large, circular at the base, with stone walls higher than a standing person. Above that rose a very high conical-shaped thatched roof supported by long poles, each neatly bound together to form a kind of lattice work. Outside lay a large earthen square or plaza with a low adobe building off to one side. As we rounded the corner of the one building and into the square, I saw several Huichols lying flat out on the narrow stairway in front of the house apparently sleeping off the effects of the previous night’s tehuino drinking bout.
Inside the building, Nacho made me stand on an engraved stone at the edge of the fire pit while he prayed to Tatewari, the Old Fire God, seeking his blessing and — I believe — asking permission for me, a very conspicuous foreigner, to be there in the first place. At any rate nobody seemed to object to my presence, presumably because I was there at the invitation of a very influential shaman who was there to officiate at the ceremony.
Inside, I sat on a rock near the entrance, Nacho on the other side of me. Across from me on the other side of the entrance sat a Huichol magnificently attired in a brilliantly embroidered outfit, his feathered sombrero resting on his left knee. His head was propped up by his right hand and he appeared to be fast asleep. Another Huichol lay on the floor stretched out full length beside us while another one sat with his face to the wall. I was even more puzzled when I spied a rather stout Huichol lying back on a kind of long rectangular platform in the middle of the calihuey just behind the pillars supporting the thatched roof. Several children played nearby and people passed casually in and out of the calihuey. The atmosphere seemed all together too relaxed for a solemn religious ceremony. But I was not thinking like a Huichol.
Bundles of leafy green foliage hung from the high ceiling. When I asked Nacho about it, he mumbled something about it having been there from time immemorial, set in place by the gods themselves. He told me that this was the place where the Huichols originated. I had read somewhere that the traditional birthplace of the Huichols was located in Wirikuta in the general area of San Luis Potosi. However, the Huichols live in a different time and space from most of us and of course I did not question Nacho about it.
At the back of the building was a large scaffold, which Nacho said was meant to hold offerings. A few unidentifiable objects sat on top of it, while around the walls were niches apparently designed to hold offerings.
We sat quietly for awhile. Nothing happened. If you learn nothing else from the Huichols, you learn patience. Finally one of the Huichols nudged the drowsy man by the door.
Huichol ceremonial throne, a kind of equipal
Immediately he came to life, put on his feathered sombrero, and took up a position just behind one of the pillars. Others gathered forming a line just behind the fire pit. Up to this point, the stout man reclining in the center had been playing with a child on his expansive stomach. Suddenly he came to life, sat up, and picked up his muwieris (sacred arrows) and began to chant.
I heard a loud scuffling outside the door and several young Huichols came in dragging a young bull by the feet and horns. Several Huichols who appeared to be shamans assembled behind the bull. Meanwhile the stout Huichol remained seated, holding out his sacred prayer arrows, and chanting all the while. Nacho got up, took out his prayer arrows and waved them over the faces of the men. He touched his own face and the bottoms of each of his huaraches (sandals). Then he rubbed the feathers over the bull’s face.
One man, his face half-covered with a kerchief, took out a long knife and leaned over the bull’s head. Slowly, deliberately, he inserted the knife into the bull’s throat. At first I looked the other way as the bull bellowed, long drawn-out bellows that seemed to go on forever. A bull takes a long time to die. The knife was stuck into the bull’s throat several times to allow more blood to spurt out. The animal continued to convulse for a long time after the pathetic bellowing had ceased. By this time the bull’s blood had covered a good part of the stones in one part of the fire pit.
Then the thin tall older woman with the yellow peyote markings on her cheeks who had officiated at the earlier ceremony appeared. She leaned over the bull and began collecting the blood in jícaras (beaded ceremonial bowls). Then one of the shamans dipped a candle into the bowl of blood and began to walk around by the walls of the calihuey sprinkling blood in the niches and on other places on the wall. The man who had been lying on the floor when we came in directed him where to smear the blood on the wall. The cheeks of each of the shamans were also smeared with blood. The boys who had dragged in the bull were laughing, apparently amused at my presence there. But no one objected, at least not in front of me.
The ceremony ended quietly. The shaman who had been chanting simply stopped and laid down his feathered arrows. Throughout the entire proceeding he never got up or moved from his sitting or reclining position. Silently, the other participants left the calihuey. Nacho and I left a little while later.
I was impressed at how relaxed and natural the whole thing had been. Except for the plight of the bull (and here I am thinking like an outsider), I felt as if I belonged there with my Huichol friends. It had seemed more like a family affair rather than a village or communal religious sacrificial ceremony — almost like a Christian family gathering for a Bible reading and prayer. Perhaps there is really not that much difference. Perhaps we can learn more from the Huichols than we can teach them.
Understanding Mexico education
Aug 29th
Happy children in their San Quintin, Mexico classroom
© Edd Bissell, 2010
School daze is near which reminds me that most of what I think I know about Mexico education is based on second-hand information.
The system is not broken. It never worked in rural communities, out in the country, where so many live near or below the poverty line. There is no yellow school bus, no free ride.
Two presidents, Vicente Fox and Felipe Calderon, in ambitious moments, promised educational reform. Almost everybody agrees reform is needed. Reform is generally interpreted as more spending.
Those who tell the truth admit the education system is some degree of a failure. Oh no, not all of it. There are brilliant graduates of excellent schools, most often city schools in high-rent districts. Some private schools, truly superior, are probably more productive than you-know-who to the north.
A classroom volunteer helps students
A classroom volunteer helps students
© Edd Bissell, 2010
The head of the National Institute for Adult Education says a frightening number of Mexicans can’t really read and write and that 45.7 percent are poorly educated. The goal is to reduce that deficiency by 2012. Somebody better hurry.
There is a younger problem. More than half of Mexico’s 15-year-olds are said to be below international standards in basic math and science skills. How can the country expect to compete long-term with better-educated work forces in China and India?
One of the prizes of the revolution, a hundred years ago, was free public primary education, as mandated in article 3 of the constitution. In real life, schools frequently squeeze families for money because, they say, government funding falls short.
nack time under a tree at Mexico's San Quintin school
Snack time under a tree at Mexico’s San Quintin school
© Edd Bissell, 2010
Early education is said to be “compulsory” but that means states are compelled to offer it. In most places, youngsters are not required to attend and certainly aren’t forced to learn. One of my best young friends dropped out in fifth grade and now operates a bulldozer. Many dropouts are not so fortunate.
One of my sources, Dr. T. D. Stong, a regular visitor to rural villages (almost half of the Mexican population is rural), says less than 20 percent go past sixth grade and only a relative few make it past ninth grade.
“I have seen no interest by local governments to sponsor skill training so youth can move into jobs instead of toward cities and the Rio Grande. My personal feeling is that, as seen in many developing nations, the rich sense some advantage in maintaining a goodly portion of poor people.”
Poor education is supposedly the root cause of poverty and too much unskilled labor — which results in illegal immigration. Economists would have you believe education reform is the only possible cure, that high fences and border patrols will never do it.
Edd Bissell and students at Mexico's San Quintin school
Edd Bissell and students at Mexico’s San Quintin school
© Edd Bissell, 2010
The face of Mexico public education is the teachers’ union, with a million and a half members. The face of the union is president Elba Esther Gordillo. She is strong.
The union is not just a union, it pretty much directs educational policy. That is very good for those on the permanent payroll. Once a school employee gains tenured status, he or she is in for keeps. It is almost impossible to fire such a teacher. Incidentally, tenure can be inherited — or sold.
You can believe this or not but 30,000 union officials are supposedly on the educational payroll as teachers. They do not appear in classrooms.
Elba Esther Gordillo says she favors reform. My buddy Javier says looking to her for positive change is like expecting the fox to coax more and better eggs from the chicken house.
Gordillo was lukewarm on testing teachers to see if they know enough to teach. Many ordinary people were stunned to hear that nearly 70 percent of teachers flunked the first nationwide test to measure basic skills. Those who remember yesterday keep an eye on good, old Oaxaca section 22 and the pattern of teachers’ strikes, on general principles, whether they need anything or not. The union got credit for the angry 2006 shutdown of the city.
A boy helps with classroom cleanup at Mexico's San Quintin school
A boy helps with classroom cleanup at Mexico’s San Quintin school
© Edd Bissell, 2010
All that said and heard, I know this much for certain: good teachers make a wonderful difference.
A few weeks ago, I told you about Luis Alberto Martinez Gomez. He was an illegal immigrant who finished high school in California and returned to Mexico with the idea of going to college. He had no money. With smart guidance, he interviewed well for a teaching job, beginning level, go anywhere, do anything you ask. The Tepic district, short on dependable manpower for the inconvenient outback, provided five days of instruction on how to be a teacher and assigned him to a one-room operation in San Quintin.
Luis knew far more than enough to teach his 14 students, ranging from first to sixth-graders. He did much more than the job demanded. The response was
Luis knew far more than enough to teach his 14 students, ranging from first to sixth-graders. He did much more than the job demanded. The response was sensational.
With outside encouragement, gift computers, other resources and a plan to improve the school building, the little community caught on. Parents pitched in. Parents supported the teacher. Attendance suddenly mattered. Children did homework for the first time in their lives. Test scores took off toward the sky. State officials noticed and provided matching money for other improvements. Luis won a promotion.
The meaning of education was revolutionized in that one village. I saw it, before and after. An old gringo named Edd and a highly motivated 19-year-old named Luis made it happen.
From education reality, back to mere supposition: It appears much of rural Mexico needs a similar miracle.
Colonial charm, Talavera and shrimp ice cream in Dolores Hidalgo
Aug 28th
Someone has mistakenly put shrimp into the ice cream or else I’m reading the sign incorrectly — always a possibility as my Spanish certainly needs some work. But then again, when I order camarones at restaurants, I get shrimp and so camarón must be shrimp, right?
But then what is it doing in the ice cream?
The answer, according to my guide book, is that I am in Dolores Hidalgo, a small historic village tucked away in the Guanajuato Mountains, and a place where people tend to get carried away with their ice cream flavors.
“¿Pulpo?” asks one of the many vendors who crowd together in the corners of Plaza Principal, the town’s central square — a charming oasis of greenery surrounded by an elaborate wrought iron fence.
Dolores Hidalgo is famed for their nieves or ice creams, all homemade and sold from carts that come out every day and set up in the town square, which is bordered on one side by the magnificent Parroquia de Nuestra Señora de los Dolores, an amazingly Churrigueresque style church with an elaborate facade of intricately carved pink figures and rose stucco walls that was built in the 1700s. My Spanish isn’t great but I know enough to understand that the flavor he is offering is octopus. I shake my head no.
“¿Camarones?” he asked next pointing to a container of ice cream with flecks of pink and red.
Oh what the heck. It’s only a few pesos and so I order the shrimp ice cream which the vendor scoops generously into a paper cup. I pick up a small wooden paddle spoon and take a taste. Not bad and, feeling more adventuresome, I look at the other containers, some 25 in all, and then at the list, written haphazardly on a piece of cardboard that is tacked to the side of the cart. My choices are many, from the typical — vanilla, strawberry, pecan and chocolate to the more exotic such as mango, papaya, tequila and avocado, to the fairly obscure — elote (corn), fried pork skin and pulque, a popular fermented drink. More flavors are frequently added as vendors compete with each other to come up with the truly unique. A visit to a stand at the northwest corner of the zócalo confirms this, as one of the offerings today is seafood mixture containing shrimp, octopus and other creatures of the deep. Dairy Queen aficionados would not be happy with this selection.
Loading up on several flavors, including chili, an interesting looking orange brown nieve that has a hint of heat, I walked towards the Parroquia de Nuestra Señora de los Dolores where a crowd is forming. Today is September 15th and almost 200 years ago, Father Don Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla delivered El Grito, an impassioned, spur of the moment cry for independence that started the Mexican revolution against Spanish rule. Every year, El Grito is re-enacted in this historic square whose buildings, dating back some three centuries, intrigue with their elaborate Baroque style. There’s the Visitor’s House, with its faded pinkish stone and five ground level arches topped by second story stone balconies. The nearby Museo de la Independencia, filled with artifacts from the historic struggle, is lit up at night, creating an appealing glow across the zócalo.
Dolores Hidalgo is one of 32 pueblos mágicos or “magical towns,” designated so because they are charming, historic and near major cities. In the case of Dolores Hidalgo, it is near Guanajuato, reasonably close to Querétaro and near another pueblo mágico, the incomparable San Miguel de Allende.
Like in many small Mexican towns, the downtown of Dolores Hidalgo is centered around a square where musicians play on Sundays. Families gather here to visit, sitting on wrought iron benches and enjoying the trueno and palm trees which shade the walkways. Because it is not a tourist destination for those across the border, Dolores Hidalgo retains much of the charm of old Mexico.
During my stay there, three charros rode down the cobbled streets on horseback, making their way to the courtyard restaurant of Hotel Posada de Las Campanas, which serves such traditional Mexican fare as chiles rellenos de queso, sopes (little baskets of fried masa topped with a variety of fillings including chorizo — a spicy Mexican sausage), tiny freshly made tortillas filled with savory chicken and pork, and flan, a custard like pudding topped with caramel sauce.
But there’s more to Dolores Hidalgo besides history, Baroque style architecture and fanciful flavored ice creams. Just blocks off of the zócalo, tucked away on quiet side streets are stores selling Talavera-style ceramics, a Mexican variation of the Spanish majolica pottery made in Puebla.
In an interesting aside, Father Hidalgo — an intellectual who was also considered a man of the people — introduced Talavera pottery techniques to the people of Dolores Hidalgo during the years he lived there, as well as silk worm raising, harness making, blacksmithing, weaving, leather tooling and wine and olive oil production. The stores, such as Talavera Cortés, La Casa de Las Artesanías and Talavera Vázquez, overflow with brightly patterned and colored Talavera-style products ranging from soap dishes, light switches, small vases and tiles, to large mosaics and bird baths, to the too-large-to-even-think-about-taking-home-on-the airplane pedestals and bathtubs and bathroom sinks.
The Talavera, no matter what the size, can be shipped home. Unfortunately, although I’ve developed a taste for papaya ice cream, the nieves cannot.
