La Carrera a la Basilica

 About 3 months ago, Fanny, the youngest of four siblings and probably the most passionate Catholic I have ever met, challenged me to run with her in the Carrera de La Virgin de Guadalupe - a 162 km trec to Mexico City from Izucar de Matamoros. This holiday celebrating the Virgen Mary begins the Mexican Christmas season.

It's a lot like a relay race; the truck drops off team members every 100 meters, and once the torch reaches you, you take it and run as fast as you can to the next person waiting; then a second truck picks you up and you start all over. It takes about 8 hours to reach the Basilica in this manner and you only run about 12 times throughout the night; we do not run the entire distance because once you reach a certain point outside of Mexico City, it is too dangerous for pedestrians. At the Basilica, we will light our torch, and it will guide our way on the run home.

Fanny explains, "it isn't easy - it's un sacrificio." I, of course, respond, "¡Yo puedo!" and promise to make the journey with her.

The week of the "Carrera" arrives and our team is set - Coco and her husband Chucho, Fanny and her father, brother, friend Pati, and me, the gringa loca.

The truck that will carry half of the runners.
Well at least until the other truck breaks down...

Ready to run! Notice everyone wearing sweatshirts and me in a tank;
Fanny and Pati bet I won't run in my tank at 2 in the morning
when temperatures will be around 30 degrees. I won the bet.

The race begins at la Iglesia Santiago, one of Izucar's many gorgeous churches. From here, we run 3 km (2 mi) to the highway leading to Mexico City. When we load all 80 of us into the back of the trailer, Fanny says, “It’s not too late, we can call mom and she’ll come get you.” No way, I’m going.

They tell me this is the only time all of us will be crammed in the truck; as soon as we start the relay, people will be dropped off every 100 meters and there will be much more room. An earthquake of 6.7 actually struck the coast near Acapulco, shaking the states of Puebla and México – although everyone in Izucar trembled for 3 minutes, we didn’t feel a thing!

It’s my turn to bajar la camioneta and I suddenly realize I’m slightly terrified. The truck literally stops only for a second before you jump off, and the steps are tiny. I climb down backwards while the truck is moving about 30 miles a hour and hold tight until it slows. I jump, and I am alone; luckily, the moon is full so it isn’t pitch black, but after I encounter a dead snake, I’m not feeling reassured. About 2 minutes pass and I see Pati’s lamparita (tiny flashlight) in the distance running towards me. She passes the unlit torch and I take off until I reach Coco. I climb on the second truck and we continue on.

We do this about 8 times and the time surprisingly goes by quickly. I find myself looking forward to being dropped off into the darkness and enjoy the cold fresh air on my face.

About 70 km away from Mexico City, the truck stops completely. We pass around tortas and coffee and chat happily. After about 30 minutes, we find out one of our trucks has an engine problem and will not be able to make it to Mexico. It’s 5:00am and the run is over. All 80 of us will have to ride in one truck for 2 hours.

We cram together trying to figure out the best way – we sit legs apart stacking people closely between them – no one seems to mind the lack of personal space– they cuddle up close and comfortably, knowing it’s the only way we are all going to fit. I'm feeling a bit claustrophic so I stand the rest of the way with my hands above my head holding a rope tightly so I don’t step on the child sleeping next to my feet. There are lots of indocumentos jokes, only it is me they are questioning – "Do you have your papers? What? You don’t have papers? We're going to deport you, gringa!” they laugh in good humor.

We finally park at 7:45 am. We grab our blankets and spread them out on the sidewalk – and sleep soundly for 45 minutes.

You might be asking, why would anyone want to put themselves through this crazy pilgrimage.

Here’s the story:

Nearly 500 years ago, shortly after the Spanish conquest, a poor indigenous man had a vision. A dark-skinned Virgin Mary spoke to him and told him to tell the Bishop to build a church on the Hill. Of course, when he told the Bishop and other clergy, no one believed him; they needed proof. So the Virgin told him to climb the to the top of Tepeyac Hill. When Juan Diego arrived, he found it covered in Castillian roses, native to the Bishop's country. In December, roses do not grow because it is actually very cold in Mexico City. This in itself was a small miracle.

The church built on Tepeyac Hill; La Virgen was hung here until the 1970s.

The Ancient and more modern Basilicas de Guadalupe.

Juan Diego collected the flowers in his cloak and took them down to the bishop. When he opened the cloth, the flowers fell to the floor and on the cloak appeared a perfect image of the Virgin Mary. This cloak now hangs in the Basicila at the base of the hill.

I am told there have been many scientific tests on this special yate (cloak) – it is nearly 500 years old, yet age has not touched it. Scientists have used acid and bleach on the cloths fibers but nothing affects it. They can not determine how it was painted, and when they tried to replicate it, their cloth lasts no longer than 10-15 years. 

This miracle brings over 10 million faithful Mexican Catholics to the Basilica the week before Dec. 12th each year. Some by trailers like us, some by bicycle, some purely on foot. Many will begin the journey months before, walking hundreds of kilometros and finish the journey on their knees as they enter the Basilica courtyard.

We walk about 10 blocks towards the Basilica. As we get closer, the waves of people become thicker; I   grab on to Coco's jacket as to not get carried away in the strong current. The entrance carries a large banner welcoming los peregrinos (pilgrims). 

The Basilica will welcome over 1million Mexicans (and a few gringos)
the day before El Día de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe.

We enter the Basilica with amazing ease and speed. I'm shocked at how organized and efficient the tour is and begin to wonder if I'm still in Mexico. A lady, dressed in her best Sunday clothes, shouts loudly "This is the Virgen" "Be respectful!" "Take of your hats!" 

Then, we are ushered onto one of four conveyor belts. Chuchu tells me to get my camera ready, and we pass by Her in less than twenty seconds. 

La Virgen de Guadalupe 

The whole visit lasted no more than 30 minutes, with about 25 of those in the gift shop. Afterwards, we  tour the market places and fuel up on lots of coffee. We find a public bathroom that charges 3 pesos for its use. There is no soap, and as I leave, I notice a people counter at the entrance. Over 900,000 people have used this bath this weekend - I suddenly panic, needing to get to a farmacia fast to buy some Purell.

With my new handsanitizer, I'm ready to eat - there are church groups on every corner, preparing pollo, tortillas, mole, atole, and nopales for any faithful peregino. Absolutely free.

At 6:00 pm, those who want to sleep or simply sit for a while, pile into a new truck, and the rest of us, into the trailer to get ready to run again.

Mercado filled with statues, jewelry,
and other beautiful gifts to offer La Virgen

We run with our now brightly lit torch. I have a sudden burst of energy as I grab the torch from Pati.  I'm not sure if it was the faith that moved me, or the thought of a bus smacking me, but I run faster than ever at 1:00 am -- 40 hours without sleep. At about 3:00 am, the jefes say we are behind schedule and we need to get back for our welcome party. Our run has ended. We sit and giggle incoherently - no one wanting to be the first to sleep. Fanny tells me I've impressed her. Never had she imagined a gringa wanting to participate in such a crazy, yet important tradition. Aguantaste, Gringa, her brother says to me with a huge smile. You did it.

We arrive on the outskirts of Izucar and visit our first altar for La Virgen. Jorge, Fanny's father, lights its candles with our torch, and Coco leads us in the rosary. We sing "Guadalupe" and then make our way to the next altar. 

At 6:00 am, we are welcomed by members of the church. They greet us with atole and hot chocolate, and lots of tamales. We light their candles displayed amongst statues of Mary, Christmas lights and Poinsettas (La Flor de Navidad). We say another Hail Mary, sing another song, and finally, walk home while the sun rises to greet us. I have never been so tired, yet so happy.

For the less faithful and slightly more cynical, the story of Juan Diego is like many Catholic traditions here. Most likely, it was created to convert the indigeous culture to Catholicism--a Jesuit-style mezcla of cultures used instead of the more vicious tactics of the Spanish Inquisition. The Mexican Virgen is said to be darker-skinned like the indigneous Juan Diego. She is more commonly called La Virgen de Guadalupe, which sounds a lot like the Nahautl name "Coatlaxopeuh" (pronounced quatlashupe) meaning "the one who crushes the serpent" (referring to the serpent, Quetzacoatl, another legendary figure of Aztec mythology).

When my faithful friends interjected and interrupted each other to tell me their own version of the story, I did not share my knowledge and perspective of the legend. I simply listened in awe. A miracle does exist in México, and you can literally feel its power in the streets of Mexico City and in a trailer carrying 80 faithful peregrinos. The spirit of millions of Mexicans flowing together towards the Basilica like rivers joining in an ocean. It truly was a most miraculous adventure.

Aloe vera and the Brits.

Being the only gringa in a small city means you are automatically an expert on anything English, even if it means translating the process of how aloe vera is harvested and made into a gel to put into lotions, makeup and certain health foods. Yes, that was definitely why I was selected to represent my country on a Fulbright: my expertise in aloe vera.

Thursday, I was called into the director's office and asked a favor. Could I do some interpreting on Friday for a Discovery Channel documentary on sábila. I have no idea what sábila is, but I try not to turn down opportunities that involve meeting Discovery Channel film crews. Actually, I really never turn down any opportunity here, and it hasn't failed me yet.

I learn sábila is the plant containing that magical gel called aloe vera. The director's secretary assures me it is no big deal and dials the engineer who is in charge of this project. She talks for a bit and then hands me the phone; the engineer says we need to meet so he can explain the process. I realize at this moment, it was really stupid of me to say yes.

I can communicate pretty well in Spanish, and understand probably 75% of the time. Sometimes, they use synonyms I've never heard of, or just mumble too much. I find I understand women more than men, and if they are super atractivo, forget it, no hablo español. I have problems with double-meanings; it's an art form here and really, it's just dirty-minded speak (it even has a name, albur) - Never, ever, ever tell someone you want them to iron for you, especially in front of their grandmother...I still, to this day, have not lived this one down.

To ease my mind, I agree to meet the engineer to get some background information on this product at 9:00 pm. When the engineer finally shows up at 11:00 pm to explain his process, I learn aloe vera has 19 of the 23 amino acids the human body needs; it has powers to regenerate cells and to kill bacteria which makes it great for healing wounds quickly. After asking the man to repeat himself and looking to Coco to help explain, I also learn my farm and factory vocabulary is greatly lacking. This was a huge mistake.

The crash course ends at 1:00 am. Finally, after 4 hours of tossing and turning, I get up at 5:00 am and start correcting the papers I had planned to work on in my free time that afternoon. At 8:00, I'm off to my new job as aloe vera expert and interpreter.

We meet at a restaurant and order a much needed cafe. Discovery should be there at any moment. In a previous post, I wrote about the magic of convivir. Mexicans value people over time, especially when it means chatting over a delicious meal. So, when the two-person film crew sends in the driver to tell us there's no time for breakfast, I think, these people are obviously not Mexican. One sip, we leave our drinks and haul our empty stomachs into their van.

They are British. They don't actually work directly for Discovery Channel; they are a free-lance journalist and videographer who travel the world doing interesting projects such as this for channels like Discovery. They have been in Mexico for three weeks filming the processes of tequila, sugar cane and now, aloe vera.

Emma and I chat about life in Mexico on the way to the campo where the aloe vera will be harvested. She says in a great accent, "Have you seen a man in a big sombrero on a donkey; wouldn't it be lovely to see a man on a donkey!" and 20 minutes later we are turning around the film van, chasing down a man on a donkey to get some footage for the documentary. Although I am very entertained, I am also slightly mortified.

When we get to the field, the workers are waiting for us. It is here that I realize I am not there to explain the process of aloe vera, but rather to shout orders to the men so Pete can get a perfect shot.

Emma: I need them to be working, tell them to work!

Me - super friendly: Please, could you guys pretend to be working? Thank you so much!

She asks the head of the crew to talk about the process of cutting but to keep it short. Obviously, she has not had many conversations with Mexicans. They have master the art of indirect communication, dancing around in paragraphs before they actually get to the point of a story. I have come to love this about my friends and neighbors. Short is not possible in this language. We film this interview 5 times, each time I smile bigger asking for just a little more cortito...

Emma: We have to do it again. Who is talking on the phone? NO PHONES!

Me - even more sweetly - Please, could you all turn your phones off; Thank you so much.

I learn Puebla state is an ideal place for aloe due to its mild temperatures (the climate here makes it's an ideal place for any living thing, including me). The plant is ready to harvest after 12-14 months; the workers then come in and cut 10-15 mature leaves full of gel, leaving 6-7 behind to regenerate and be ready for another harvest in 3-4 months.

Workers in the field - it's actually very warm out but no one here
works without protecting his skin from the powerful sun

A beautiful drive to the fields - there's Volcan Popo in the distance.

It was entertaining to watch the videographer
get into position for the perfect shot.

They cut, and then pretend to cut the leaves again, and again, for the camera. They load the truck and shut the doors (4 times just to get it right). Then they film the trucks leaving the fields, heading to the plant (but they have to turn the trucks around first, because "that would just look silly" if they left the fields in reverse).

After five hours of this, I am hot, hungry, and thirsty; I'm also thankful these demanding people  are not from the US.

We stop at another field to film the irrigation system needed in the dry season when it hardly ever rains.

We arrive to the factory and put on our cubiertos - (hair nets, nose and mouth covers). The workers here take extreme measures to ensure they enter their jobs uncontaminated.  The engineer prides himself with his extremely clean and hygenic factory. I cover my hair, mouth and nose, thinking this may make yelling orders in Spanish a bit more difficult. Emma's cubierto is just around her mouth, the videographer doesn't even bother, and it sits below his chin.

The truck backs in to the factory (three times to get some good shots) and two workers start unloading the leaves onto a conveyor belt. The belt dumps the leaves into a jacuzzi like pool that disinfects them. They are then pushed by the current up onto another conveyer belt that plops them into another pool to be rinsed. They travel into another super sanitized room where five women cut the ends of the leaves and others shove them into a machine that squeezes out the goo. Three other women sift through the gel for debris, and discarding random parts of the leaves.

Leaves are loaded on to the first conveyor belt which
dumps them into a pool to be disinfected.

After the jacuzzi bath, they travel on
another belt to be rinsed 

Then the leaves go into a tunnel where they end up
in a super sanitized room to be cut and de-gelled

These machines squeeze out the gel.

These workers sift through the gel
to take out any unwanted debris.

Afterwards, the goo travels 6 meters through a crazy cold freezer that lowers the temp from 20 to 5 degrees centigrade in seconds.  It is almost frozen so it can travel up to 18 hours without damaging the gel or changing its color. Then, it is squeezed through a spout where two men wait to take samples and then direct the rest into a large barrel, ready for delivery. The samples are where the Universidad Tecnologica de Izucar de Matamoros comes in. We test for bacteria and fungi that could wipe out the entire crop.

That is where the Mexican aloe vera story ends. Apparently, after it leaves Matamoros, it is carried to a factory that makes it into a powder so it is easier to haul. Then it is shipped to South Korea, Europe or Japan where it is processed into cosmetic use.

And now, you too know all there is to know about aloe vera.