La isla de las muñecas (The Island of the Dolls)

In November, I had a chance to tour the Palacio Nacional in the historic center of Mexico City. This is the home of many gorgeous murals of Diego Rivera - Mexico's most famous muralist.

Palacio Nacional en México D.F.

An amazing mural by Diego Rivera that tells the history of México from the indigenous people's point of view.

The canals of Mexico city.

http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.mx

One of our fulbrighters was knowledgeable in the murals, explaining that the small islands that appear amongst the system of canals were used as fertile agricultural plots during the time of the Xochimilca (a tribe of the Nahua - aka Aztecs) in 900s.  Xochilmico means flower fields, but the islands, known as chinampas, were used to grow corn, squash, beans, chili peppers and much more. I put Xochimilco on my mental Mexico bucket list, knowing I had to see this magical place before I left Mexico.

It was about six months later, I found my opportunity. Another fulbrighter, Jonathan, who was placed in a public middle school in the massive city, happily obliged to be my tour guide.  His roommate, a Chinese American who works for the US Embassy in Mexico, is hosting a bachelor party for a friend on the canals of Xochimilco (so-chee-MIL-co), so we head to the canals with about 12 Americans, and a few British embassadors as well. 

We hop in a large gondola-type boat called a "trajinera" and start our two-hour journey. Luckily, we arrive early enough that the canals aren't filled with too many families enjoying their Saturday afternoon. But there are plenty of smaller boats carrying merchants selling jewelry, mariachi bands playing "Cielito Lindo", and lots of chabelas (poor man's bloody Mary) and tacos to help you stay nourished during the trip.

On our journey, we pass a tree with four or five decaying dolls hanging grotesquely from the tree. Apparently, it's a preview to an island located 2 hours away. Jonathan's friend tells me the story of the Island of the Dolls.

In the 1950s, a small girl was playing in the canals off of one of the many chinampas. Somehow, the water overtook her and she drowned. The island's only inhabitant, Don Julian Santana, found her body, deeply affecting him. He was haunted by her spirit, engulfed in sadness for the poor girl, and so he began to collect and hang dolls from the trees of the island, both as gifts for the girl and also to protect his home against any additional evil. 

Our tour would not be taking us to this crazy island but I knew I would be returning soon.

About a month later, a fulbrighter who is about to end her fulbright experience, asks me to join her for one last trip to Mexico City. Of course I tell her of the island of the dolls.

We meet at "our" hotel the Holiday Inn Zona Rosa where we always stay on these reunions and head downtown via the metro. The Mexican Subway system is an adventure in itself - venders and beggars, selling everything from gum to a really bad rendition of Cielito Lindo.  But it's relatively easy, quick and super cheap. We maneuver our way to a Diego Rivera and Frida Kahloa museum to soak up some Mexican culture before we take our haunted journey to the island of the dolls. 

Then, we find a cab who takes us through the winding streets of Xochimilco. Our driver is led by an official tour guide on a bike who makes sure the tourists make it to the docks. We pick a boat and head out into the canals.

Where we are going, there are no mariachis, or nice señoritas selling food or drinks - so before we are hoisted over the dam, we wave over a young couple and ask for two chabelas, (clamato-tomato juice, tajin-chili/lemon pepper, salsa inglesa-Worcestershire and Valentino-spicy chili sauce) and of course, Victoria beer.

Our journey to the island is about 2 hours, but the time flies as we catch up on our last few weeks of teaching in Mexico. Our experiences are pretty similar, bouts of loneliness, frustrations with the bureaucracy and constant class interruptions, great students, and a few fabulous friends who have made our year worthwhile. Suddenly, we realize there are creepy dolls hanging all around us. We've reached the island.

We meet Anastasio Santana Velasco, the nephew of Don Julian, who has taken over the island. He leads us across a bridge to a small shed. Broken, tattered dolls hang from every tree, fence post, and from the shed as well. Entering the shed, we find a "Día de los muertos"-like alter, created by Don Julian in honor of the little girl who drowned. In the center is Don Julian's favorite doll - she is bigger than most of the other dolls, with long blond hair, and cold blue eyes. There is a bowl filled with small change, an offering for both Don Julian and the little girl.

Anastasio asks if we understand Spanish; we nod and he breathes in a sigh of relief. Unfortunately, there is no translator for the non-Spanish-speaking tourist. He tells us the sad story of the niña and her untimely death, and the obsession that haunted his uncle for fifty years after the accident - up until his own death, in fact. Don Julian died in the same spot as the little girl, 50 years later. Many claim he drowned too, but his nephew insists it was a heart attack.  Now Anastasio runs the place seven days a week, hardly sleeping due to the frequent night tourists as well. 

We are only on the island for 20 minutes. It's tiny, and we walk through the three small shacks and the tall trees quickly. Everything is covered in dolls. As we leave, we pass Don Anastasio and his family sitting around a rundown cabaña type bar. Two boys about 7 or 8 years-old play in a boat in the canal. Don Anastasio invites me to a shot of tequila. "Salud!" I say, and we head back to our trajinera.

Cuetzalan

May for most Wisconsinites is the best weather - highs tickling 80 degrees during the sunny days, and the nights, cool and comfortable. Not true in Izucar. Mexican May equals our sweaty August. It's close to 100 in the afternoon, and I think it may even be hotter at night. The University doesn't have a summer break, but lucky for us, May is full of puentes to escape the heat and find a comfy hotel with cold air-conditioning.

I found out on Wednesday that April would blend into May with a four-day weekend celebrating International Labor Day.  In addition to the metric system and International Women's Day, May 1st is another concept shared around the world with the exception of the US.  Surprisingly, its roots stem from a general strike in  Chicago in 1886. The strike went horribly wrong, ending in the police shooting dozens of protesters and several of their own men.  The demonstrators were fighting for a an 8-hour workday.

I decided I couldn't spend four days cooped up in my tiny pink apartment, trying to stay cool in front of a fan blowing hot air at me, staring at facebook. I hopped on tripadvisor and decided Cuetzalan would be the perfect pueblo mágico to spend a few days in. 

Cuetzalan is located in the Sierra Norte of Puebla. It's a four-hour bus ride winding up and around luscious green hills.The scenery is spectacular, high rolling hills, waterfalls cascading into a long river that cuts through the valley. The bus speeds around sharp curves, and I find myself repeating aloud "Please slow down, please slow down, please slow down." We come to a screeching halt as another bus charges around a corner nearly slamming into us. The driver takes it a little easier. 

I arrive and find myself in a bus station bombarded with middle-aged men trying to sell me tours and hotel rooms. I pretend I don't understand and pick out a 10-year old kid with a binder filled of fun weekend activites. I ask him to help me get to my hotel. 

Jorge guides me down a steep narrow street - I am wearing expensive Tevas, but still find myself slipping on the smooth cobblestone path. I want to stop for a picture, but he jarts through the market crowd in the zocalo, and I'm afraid I'll lose him. He leads me safely to my hotel for 20 pesos; I check in, and crash on my bed while I catch my breath.

After unpacking, I decide to check out the little pueblo mágico. It is centered around the town square, or zócalo, with a magnificent cathedral, various restaurants and bars, and venders selling typical Mexican artisanias y comida. I buy an elote (corn on the cob smothered in cheese, mayonaise, and chili powder) and walk around until a find a fountain in the middle of a roundabout - a good spot for people watching. Lots of Mexican families come here for mini-vacations during their puentes; also, I hear Spanish accents (meaning from Spain), and a group of university students speaking German. 

Steep pedestrian sidewalks keep these Mexicans in great shape.

Yep, that's a REAL pig head. This little piggy didn't make it out of the market...

Tacos del pastor? Pork is cut up and placed on the Trompo where it spins,
cooking along side the fire until it is sliced and put into your taco.
PS. It smells way better than the pig head.

I find a tour guide office selling a variety of adventure tours, repelling, ziplines, spelunking, and hiking tours through the numerous cascadas (waterfalls). I sign up for a combination of hiking and cave exploring tour with the group of Germans. 

The next day, however, I wait over an hour for my compañeros to arrive. While I'm waiting I notice scraggly bearded man wandering around the plaza. His tall and lanky - not the typical poblano I'm used to seeing in this state. He is wearing the typical garb of the locals though, white shirt with a hand-embroidered design, and white linen pants that wrap instead of buckled at the hips and calves, and of course, a straw sombrero. 

His beard throws me off - he looks like the homeless guys that hang out in the zócalo of Izucar.  Yet, he wears heavy-duty Chaco sandals and carries a NorthFace backpack. 

The girl working at the tour office, apologizes and says the tour has been canceled. But, she says the "profe" knows this area very well and will take me to some lugares desconocidos if I would like. I know instantly the "profe" is the odd man from the plaza as he ducks out of the office and tells me to wait while he changes into some hiking boots.

We walk about 1 1/2 miles to a nearby town named San Miguel Tzinacapan. On the way, I find out my tourguide is a history and language professor at the prestigious UNAM in Mexico City. He travels to Cuetzalan many times a year, just to hike through its natural beauty. He tells me that the land is inhabitated by two different tribes, the Nahuatl (NAH-wah-tl) and the Totonaca, each with their own language, customs and traditions.

We stop and wait as a funeral procession goes by. I do a quick estimation - over 200 people walk behind the family carrying candles and flowers. The profe tells me no matter if the deceased is known or not, the entire town will walk with the family as a sign of respect and honor. 

We turn a corner and head down a long cobblestone road; I'm practically skipping as I try to keep up to the long-legged professor - he is the fastest-walking Mexican I have ever met. We pass many añcianos (men and women in their 60s and 70s - or maybe even older) climbing up the steep hill - dressed in typical white clothing with colorful embroidery. Some of them are barefoot, carrying bundles of wood on their heads. These are obviously not tourist-hiking grounds. This is an everyday trail where burros and horses are the luxury transportation, and everyone is hard at work.

A little manmade cave along the trail.

We continue for about an hour and a half, and I look back up the steep mountain and wonder where I can rent a burro to carry me back up. We finally reach a clearing where water cascades over slippery rocks - I take off my shoes and wade through the freezing water. It feels amazing on my sore, tired feet. 

After wading around for a half hour, the profe looks towards the sky and tells me we better get back before the rain starts. We have over seven kilometers to climb.

I'm not sure how it is possible, but my tour guide walks up hills faster than he runs down them. I keep up for the first kilometer; we chat a little; he seems surprised when I tell him my age - he notes I must be in pretty good shape. This makes me climb a little bit faster. 

Another kilometer, though, and  I notice the air is thin and breathing is getting harder. I keep moving my aching legs and see that the profe is now a good twenty steps in front of me. I stop and catch my breath, and the profe laughs. He assures me when we reach the top I will feel amazing - any negative feeling I have in my body will be aspired and I will feel at peace. I'm glad he's 20 steps ahead because at this moment, I want to push him off a cliff. 

A half hour later, the profe is now so far ahead of me that when I wind the corner, hoping to see the end, he's disappeared into the horizon. I meet a man leading a burro down the steep hill; I briefly consider asking for a lift. But I ignore the urge and continue.

Soon, my lungs can't take in enough air, and my hips, thighs and calves are screaming at me. I concentrate on the rough terrain, careful not to trip on the loose rocks and branches that litter the path - and also remember the warning of poisonous snakes that could dart out at any given moment. I hear something behind me - an anciana, with a load of wood on her head, passes me with ease. She's at least 40 years older than me and barefoot. Echale ganas, gringa - I suck in as much air as I can and keep going.  

I see the profe finally, waiting for me at the 6 km mark and realize I have almost made it. We walk the rest of the way together, at a considerably slower pace. When we reach the city I turn around and look down at the steep trail I just about died on. I take in a deep breathe and exhale all the negative energy accumulated in my tired bones and muscles. I feel great.

We hike back to the zocalo of Cuetzalan, passing through the market place - we stop several times for various townspeople to greet and pay respects to the profe. I realize he is a very important man in this town. We end at my hotel - I shake his hand and offer him 200 pesos for the amazing journey - he smiles and gently refuses - "El gusto fue mío;" he says and disappears into the crowd.

The next day, I'm exhausted, but know I cannot leave Cuetzalan without exploring its famous grutas (natural caves). I arrive at the tour guide office, and they find me 17-year-old Armando to take me on a grutas y cascadas tour.  We walk an easy 2K to reach the first gruta. Just as we enter, Armando points my lantern to a few bats sleeping upside down about a foot above us. He assures me that they are murcielagos de fruta (fruit bats). I want to tell him I'm not worried about them sucking my blood, I just don't want to contract rabies. But I don't know how to say "rabies" in Spanish so I put on my fake relieved face and continue.  

Armando is ahead and slips and contorts his body to fit through the narrow crevices. As I clumsily do the same, I picture myself in that Indiana Jones movie -  rats and snakes and lots of creepy arthropods - I don't see any of these things of course, but I carefully place my hands on the cleanest rock, noting there are a lot worse creatures than bats. 

We come to the first of many freezing natural underground springs. Armando tells me that if it rains, the water quickly will reach the ceiling (of which I keep bashing my helmet into). He jumps in and starts swimming. I slip in slowly, the air knocked out of my lungs from the icy cold water; I reach desperately for solid ground with my soaken tennis shoes, but it doesn't exist, and so I start to swim. 

Day 3 in Cuetzalan: Waterfalls and Cave exploring - so worth the ruined tennies. 

A watertight backpack always comes in handy.

The cave exploration ends after about an hour, and we hike to a few waterfalls; I'm already soaked so I dive in, clothes and shoes and all.

After the day before's hike - trekking to these 2 fabulous waterfalls was a breeze.

Awesome swimming spot.

After a relaxing swim, Armando takes me to one more unusual cavern. Before we enter, he warns me that it is haunted. He tells me of a story of a disaparecida - a girl disappeared 20 years ago, her brutally beaten body was found in the cave. Soft female echos are heard at night here. Armando tells me he never ever comes here alone, and especially never at night. 

We enter the huge cavern; it has high ceilings; stalactites appear to be dripping from above. It doesn't appear to go too far back, and we aren't there for long. Okay by me, as I'm a little creeped out. 

Before we leave its darkness, Armando says to himself, "Armando, ya vamanos." - Armando, let's go. He looks at me to do the same. Apparently, if you do not tell yourself to get the heck out, your soul will be trapped there forever. 

"Dianna, ya vamanos" I say, and hurry towards the exit.

Puentes

Mexico is the queen of the three-day weekend. Here they are called "puentes", literally small bridges of vacations that help the hard-working Mexican survive the long tedious 10-11 hour-work days.  The other Fulbrighters and I have completely adapted to this fabulous culture. We take full advantage of our 3-day vacations and travel as much as our teacher's salaries can afford (and our credit limits). The February 5th puente celebrates Constitution Day, bringing about a much needed break; my friend Michelle and I set off to Michoacan to see the Monarch butterflies who migrate from Wisconsin to this part of Mexico every year. The butterflies have been on my list of things to see ever since my niece caught a caterpillar last fall. She kept it for a few weeks and watched it bloom into a butterfly. She set it free in September, and off to Mexico it flew.

Michelle is also a Fulbright teacher. She teaches Spanish 1 in a rough school district in New Orleans. In the 5 years she has taught in New Orleans, she has known five students who have been killed in random acts of violence. Mexico is a breeze for her. She lives in the north of the country, about 6 hours from Tucson, Arizona. Her experience has been very different from my own as she practically lives in a suburb of the US.  But she loves her students and her university, and she is an awesome travel buddy.

We decide to make the most of our trip and see as much as we can in 3 short days. Friday after class I get on a bus and I'm heading north of Mexico City to see the amazing ruins of Teotihuacan. After 3 long bus rides in horrific Mexico City traffic, I meet Michelle in a quaint hotel right at the base of the ruins. We get to bed early to be ready for a huge day of sightseeing.

We arrive early (about 8:00am) and are two of about twenty people on the whole site. It is absolutely magnificent. Built before the time of the Aztecs, Teotihuacan has been around since 100 BC and was once the largest Pre-Colombian city in Mexico. Read more here.

After we climb the Pirámide de la luna (pyramid of the moon) and take a few gorgeous pictures, we decide to head out of the site for some local cuisine. As we exit the ruins, nine young chavos swarm us, each holding a menú, begging us to come to their restaurant. I'm feeling overwhelmed by the fast-rambling Spanish, and look to Michelle for some help. She says, "Why don't we ask them to persuade us in English; if they can do it, we'll eat at their restaurant."

So I hold up my hand to get their attention and say in my most polite Spanish, "We are English teachers; if you want us to eat at your restaurant, you're gonna have to speak some English." The youngest of the bunch is about 13 years old; he smiles and says quickly - "Good Mexican food!"

So we follow him for some excellent enchiladas.

Later we head back to the ruins to climb the second and more ginormous Piramide del sol. We run into a guy who looks like Indiana Jones and realize it's our fellow Fulbrighter, Jonathan; he is enjoying the puente as well with his girlfriend and visiting friends. 

After a long day in the hot sun, we pack up our bags and get on a bus and head to the bus station that will take us to our next destination, Angangueo, Michoacan, a small little Mexican town close to the butterfly sanctuary. After 45 minutes of scrambling around the North Station and realizing we were at the wrong bus station, we take a 20 minutes cab ride to the correct station, a comfy bus to Zítacuaro, and then a not so comfy bus to Angangueo. We just barely catch the last bus (thanks to a little girl who stopped the driver from leaving us!) so we are stuck standing for most of the bumpy 40 minute ride. We laugh the whole way.

The next morning, we get up early and find a friendly cab driver to take us to the sanctuary. All of the guidebook advice told us to arrive early to avoid crowds yet the butterflies would not fly until they were warmed up by the sun; so we leave at about 9:00. A successful trip depends largely on the luck of the weather. No sun, no butterflies.

As we skid around the winding sharp corners, the sun disappears under dark, looming clouds. Then it starts to sprinkle. By the time we get to the site, it is pouring so hard, we decide to wait with our kind cab driver, listening to ranchero music. I am in shock as the rain turns to hail. I have a sick feeling that our 5 hour bus adventure will be in vain. No butterfly is going to fly in this cold horrible weather.

The rain lets up and we decide to pay the 50 peso park fee and take a chance. Our guide, a quiet 15 year old, hurries us up a long path through the forest. The altitude of this part of Michoacan is about 2,580 meters (8,465 ft) and walking fast uphill has us breathing hard. I tell our guide that we will be fine following the path by ourselves. He seems grateful he can get a couple more tours in before the day's over, which means more 20-peso tips in his pocket, and he heads back down the hill. Michelle and I continue the path alone and at a much more leisurely pace, enjoying the smell of pine and the awesome view of the valley below.

We finally meet up with a few more tourists and their guide. The guide points us to the left and tells us we have reached the butterflies.  It is still cold, but the rain has stopped and the clouds appear to be parting.  

We reach a clearing where about 2 or 3 families are standing still, staring out into the trees. The trees have strange black clumps hanging from them - at first I think it's some kind of moss or fungus but a closer look, and you can barely see the royal orange of the Monach butterflies.

After about a half an hour, the sun finally starts to shine and warms us up. The forest awakens with hundreds of butterflies flapping their wings. Mother nature did not let us down.

Afterwards, we hike an hour back to our faithful cab driver who patiently waits for us. We stop at a few shops and buy cheap souvenirs. We also meet a young chava selling elotes. She spreads a thick layer of mayo on the ear of corn, then sprinkles on white Mexican cheese and chili powder.

We head back to Mexico City with our suitcases and elote just in time to catch Madonna's half time show during the Super Bowl. Domenica (the 4th and final Fulbright teacher) joins us for Chinese food and wine at our small Super Bowl party. The next day we do a little more sightseeing in Mexico City's historic center and then hug goodbye. 

Until the next puente.

Thanks, Michelle for your awesome pics!!

The Plateau

Well, I think I’ve finally settled in. Blogging isn’t quite a priority anymore – everything just seems too normal. I've finally reached the point in cultural adaptation where I move through the day without thinking about what new and crazy adventure might pop up. I'm too busy trying to figure out how to teach object pronouns without putting my students to sleep.

There are still the random jabs of culture shock that surprise me every once in a while.  A bullfight playing on the restaurant television, instead of football, or NASCAR; the friendly señora who makes amazing burritas insisting I meet her son, who happens to raise roosters for cockfights. The borracho (drunk guy) with the guitar who follows Coco and I home and insists on playing us a song. After much insistence, Coco reluctantly agrees to one song, and even more reluctantly, one cocktail after he notices our full glasses and pleads for a manly drink. As the man sang his classic tune to the foreign guerita, blowing his noxious breath in my face, I realized Mexican women are way more hospitable than I.

I haven’t spent a lot of time with the family this cuatrimestre. I am on campus about 9 hours a day, starting at 7-8 in the morning and leaving at 5:00pm; when I get home, I’m exhausted. I’m not working the entire day; I have an hour or two off where I tutor, hold informal conversation classes, and just relax with my order of delicious chalupas and stare at the magnificent Popocatepetl, the snowy volcano that still takes my breath away after 6 months.

I take French lessons (et J’apprende beaucoup!) It is really strange to learn a foreign language in a foreign language. But my teacher is amazing, and in addition to French, I’m picking up some great ideas for my English and Spanish classrooms.  My own Spanish is improving - my albur and knowledge of Mexican dirty words and gestures is growing exponentially – when teaching college students (and high school students, I imagine) this knowledge is invaluable. I am amazed at the number of innocent American gestures that have a completely different connotation in Mexico. There really should be a pre-departure class on the subject to avoid the embarrassing and awkward situations I always seem to wander into.

My students are forgiving and don’t make fun of me too much – if there is one quality that is a must for an American teacher in Mexico, you have to be able to laugh at yourself.

Maybe my Mexican life isn't quite as shiny and new, but my students still surprise me on a daily basis. One day, after finally reaching my breaking point with a “disrespectful” student, I yelled at him and took away his participation points for the day – a serious move considering you have to get the equivalent of a high C to pass here. Five minutes later, he asks if I like baseball – and arranges his friends to take me to his game that weekend.

Tuesdays are my hardest day. I teach my normal classes from 8 am until 2 pm and after, I lead a conversation class until 3. Then, I have French class. Normally, my desayuno consists of a quick snickers and bottle of water during the 10-minute grace period I give my students between classes. At 10:09, a student looks at my snickers and tells me his going to go buy a sandwich. I’m annoyed that he has waited 9 minutes to decide he’s hungry, but I try to disguise my annoyance, and nod. He comes back and hands me a ham, cheese and chile croissant – a snickers is not an appropriate breakfast, he tells me.

More than the perfect weather, it is this warmth and kindness of the people that I love about Mexico. After a long break, Coco and her family invite me to a girls “night-in” of cocktails and karaoke. My absence has been noticed in the last month.

My friends tell me how much they are going to miss me when I go,  even though I’m not going anywhere until August.  They tell me I always have a home here; they’ve worked out ways I could teach English during my summers (and probably all year long if I wanted). Lily tears up, making me promise not to lose touch. I realize that maybe it isn’t the change in schedule that has kept me away. It’s the fear of getting too close, which will only make leaving harder. I make a promise to myself to drop by more often – to become part of the family again. Leaving? I’ll worry about that in August.

¿Quiere Chicle?

I'm sitting in a coffee shop and a boy around the age of seven approaches my table with a box of chicles (gum). I ask him how much, and he says "diez pesos".

"Holy cow, that is expensive for a small pack of gum!" I say.

When you come to Mexico you have to be prepared to face beggars of all ages. Hardly any restaurants  in Izucar are off limits to peddlers and beggars. They sell typical Mexican candy or gelatino (a thick jello-type of treat), or play traditional Mexican songs on their old guitars; some just stand at your table and look at you with pleading eyes. My favorite is one little girl who comes into the coffee shop about once a week, and sings (shouts) at the top of her lungs, and then walks around accepting tips for her wonderful entertainment.

My rule is a few pesos to ancianos (the elderly) and to the musicians if they are really good, but for children, it's a little different. Sometimes, parents here send their kids out to beg for money. Knowing the money most likely won't be spent on the children, I tend to avoid giving pesos to kids. Instead, I usually invite the child to a muffin or a hot chocolate. At least I know where my money is going.

Fabian, the seven-year-old gum entrepreneur responds to my shock with "es que necesito nuevos zapatos para la escuela." He points to his dirty, worn-out  chuckies that are obviously hand-me-downs from a much older and bigger sibling - He needs new shoes for school. I nod and reach into my change purse. I invite him to have a hot chocolate with me.

I get up and order the hot chocolate, about two feet from my table. I sit down again and instinctively reach for my change purse. It is not in my front pocket where it should be.

But the boy is still sitting across the table from me. I frantically look in my bag; I have about 300 pesos in my purse, less than $30 dollars. The boy notices and says, your cell phone is right here, pointing at the table. Why would he steal my purse, when he could have pocketed my $200 cellphone just as easily? I dig around in another pocket of my bookbag, and there is my purse. I silently yell at myself for being so careless, and at the same time for being so paranoid - I hope the boy didn't realize I was thinking he was a thief for those 30 seconds of panic.

I ask the boy if he likes school - Sí, he responds, especially math. He shouts out, "cinco divido por dos?" I'm shocked he's learning division at the age of 7, and not the easy-perfect-round-number kind either - he's testing me with tricky decimals!


"Dos y cincuenta," he shouts before I can answer. Two-fifty, he says, obviously translating the math problem into a money transaction. When I ask him what he likes to do for fun, he says, "Vender chicles." Selling gum.

I learn he also likes to read, knows a few words in English and, like every little boy in Mexico, loves fútbol (soccer). He wants to be a doctor when he grows up, or a teacher. I test his division skills one more time and say "2 divido por 4"; he replies, "Cincuenta centavos" with a big smile. Fifty cents.

He finishes his hot chocolate and looks at his gum. "Tienes que trabajar?" I ask. You have to get back to work?

"Sí." He thanks me and moves on to the next table.

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.