I immediately recognized the beaded detail on the waist of this dancer. I'd seen him in a recent ceremonial dance.
Have you ever tried to play the game, "Cooties," with missing parts or been on a wild goose chase?
The men of western Mexico's Sierra Madre do something similar when they go hunting for lost treasure, just beyond the mountains that rise above the picturesque village of Ajijic on the north shore of a high volcanic lake.
"Gold coin fever" is a men's tradition and those secrets are not disclosed to the uninitiated, and particularly not to the women. I learned about this tradition in a roundabout way.
A while back, unfamiliar men began to slip in and out of our art studios during working hours; my partner, Teo, continued to weave. They conferred with him, confidentially, as he threw the shuttle, then just as quickly they were gone.
One Saturday a dashing indigenous dancer in full costume slipped into our space, a feather tucked behind one ear. I was lounging in a low chair knotting the fringe on a finished tapestry. When I looked up I saw his beaded waist piece and recognized it from a "Save the Lake" ritual I had experienced.
He cleared his throat. "Teo needs your permission to join our dance troupe." he said with a slight shuffle. I looked up, and was caught speechless as he told me how blue my eyes are, I was blinded by his fetching smile. Teo, whose vocabulary does not include the word "no," had sent the dancer to me, confident that I would agree if this charmer asked. Meanwhile Teo continued weaving, his hopes, and confidence ill placed.
I remembered that this dancer had also been one of the young hopeful males standing at the perimeter of Teo's group of old men at a granddaughter's quinceñera (15th birthday fiesta), hoping to be included. I'd wondered then, why this young man so desired to be part of these old men. I realized now that I was his opportunity to get close to them, yet instinctively knew it could also be an opportunity for me.
The dancer took advantage of my long pause at the surprise of his request to advance Teo's cause and asked another question. "Can you dance?" he asked. "Of course," I replied, not remembering my arthritis.
Lake Chapala dominates this area. (Left:) The dogs of Teo's cousin enjoy frolicking at the edge of the water. (Right:) No matter where we look, there are lovely views. Here we're looking toward Ajijic on the north shore.
My blush-tinged pale face stared at him, as he told me how glorious I would look in a revealing Pre-Hispanic costume. I gazed at him through eyes that have faded little despite my more than 65 years and enjoyed another moment of fantasy before I told him that Teo and I would both love to be part of his group.
Teo unwittingly went along with this pretext until he discovered the dancing was after his bedtime, but not before he promised to provide the entire dance troupe with feathers for their headdresses in momentary flush of enthusiasm.
The following morning we drove to San Cristóbal, a fishing village on the far shore of Lake Chapala to visit Julio and another cousin, Hector, who had just returned from the states after spending the last 30 years of his life working in the fields of California. The reverie between them was such that you would think no one had ever left.
(Left:) Julio's wife prepares a lakeside fire so she can cook fish for us. (Right:) We had a good time with Julio, his wife, and Hector who had just returned from the states.
The three happily visited under Julio's fishing shack of reeds and discarded Venetian blinds hanging askew while Julio's wife prepared to roast fish over an open fire. I took my customary walk. I looked forward to these times, walking the lakeshore alone, turning in where the goats are penned, walking the lane toward the old church, observing the village, unnoticed.
When I was just about to give a tortilla to the goat appealing to me at the fence, Teo came after me, wanting to head home. I barely had time to say goodbye to Teo's cousins as he dragged me out. We left so quickly that Julio's fishbone eating perros still playing on the fringe of the water, didn't have time to do their customary shake off. This time we weren't drenched with water for the ride home. I turned the truck back around on the beach, at Teo's insistence, and we left.
(Left:) The goat in San Cristobal was anxious to share my treats. (Right:) There's nothing like having time to walk along the edge of Lake Chapala.
In a surprise move, Teo anxiously directed me to drive up and down the rutted one-lane dirt streets of San Cristobal, speaking rapidly in an indecipherable Spanish that he knew I could not understand. He jumped out periodically, and engaged in long, animated conversations with everybody he saw, while I spent half the day waiting, wondering what was going on in my camioneta (small truck) with the air conditioning running.
His only explanation to me was more gibber jabber. More than a little irritated, I informed him that the next time he wanted to come to his old barrio (neighborhood) he could take a bus, which, indeed the very next Sunday he did, on the pretext of finding feathers. He dressed up in a white shirt and his new sombrero. He actually looked quite fine standing at the bus stop. I knew something was up.
I removed my stained tee shirt, donned a red silk dress and headed for my Unitarian Church activities, prepared to be among the enlightened people of my culture.
(Left:) My partner, master weaver, Teo, agreed to become a member of a dance troupe as part of the intrigue that arose from the men's secret plans to search for gold in the mountains. (Right:) Meanwhile I donned a dress and headed off to share time with other foreigners in Ajijic.
He returned that evening full of himself, wide eyed, with one hand on his hip, the other clutching a handful of broken peacock feathers. As I curiously questioned him, he blurted out that he had been at a very important meeting. He told me with great animation that this meeting was going to change the course of our very lives.
"Hmm, and who else was at this meeting?" I asked. "My cousin Hector, and, his grandfather." Teo was shouting and leaping in the air with excitement. My instincts peaked and I carefully considered the best line of questioning.
"And where was this meeting?" I asked. "In the Panteón de San Cristóbal (San Cristobal cemetery). Hector's grandfather told us where a big cache of gold coins are buried."
Teo pointed and I followed his gesture, looking up into the Sierras that ascended a short distance away. "Near the bandits' camp, where they buried it before they escaped just after the Mexican Revolution," he said resolutely. He went on at length before he was able to contain himself. Teo spilled a lot of beans before he clammed up, remembering I was a woman and that he was sworn to secrecy.
It appeared that the cemeteries here in Mexico are even more interesting than I had realized. I've always known they are fascinating places; the Ajijic Panteon is almost my neighbor. Mexican cemeteries are living places, drenched in sweetness and secrets, with twinges of theatre and amplified macabre.
Now I was learning, and confirmed with further observance soon after, that the panteones are also meeting places for the men. In November I had innocently participated in the admiration and fawning the women make over the incredibly beautiful decorations on family gravesites on the Day of the Dead. The beauty of those adornments is a source of pride, and a display of love for those departed, yet somehow not dead. After all, as I've learned, only those who are not remembered are truly dead.
(Left:) Mexico's cemeteries are a riot of color on the Day of the Dead. (Right:) Local musicians perform for the living and the dead during Day of the Dead festivities.
Now I realized as I'd never noticed before, that only the women and children stand around the gravesites during these celebrations. The men stand in clusters against cemetery walls, speaking of dreams of success, and hopes of riches.
"Were you talking about finding the gold coins?" I asked Teo as we walked home. "Can I go to search for them, too?' I asked, knowing full well the word "No" is not in his vocabulary.
I discovered that truckloads of men, young and old take off for the mountains before daybreak on Sundays after the foliage has dried up and the snakes go underground, and a wild boar or coyote can be seen at a small distance. They go before the Easter celebrations, a time when wives and girlfriends put up the least resistance, as for a few weeks the men will no longer be seen on precious Sundays when their families gather. During that time if you see a truckload of men speeding along in the wee hours on a Sunday, you will know where they are headed.
They stop near Jocotepec and rent an ancient, well-used metal detector. They joke about it, as it seems they either detect everything or nothing. The group is in luck if there is a rabid gold coin hunter among them, one who is not secretly jaded. The new guy might have gone to Guadalajara on Saturday afternoon to rent a good metal detector; he'll have to return it by the time the store opens on Monday so the group only has to pay one day's rent.
The men stop by a roadside store each buying tortillas, or maybe a lonche (Mexican-style submarine sandwich) and some bananas, then pool the rest of the money in their pockets to buy as many cans of beer as possible. Those they'll drink at sunset, after their climb down from the mountain, exhausted, and with their clothing shredded into tatters by the rocks.
I know about these traditions because at my insistence, I had been invited along. I had visions of seeing the giant trees I had heard about, and maybe a wild boar or fox. At the last minute we made a wise decision, and Teo and I followed the main group in my pickup. It was a long, rough and exhausting drive over forbidding terrain following the other men into the high Sierras. The shocks had long since been destroyed in the truck I was following. I watch with concern the younger men in the back of the truck being ruthlessly tossed around like so many sacks of potatoes.
I tried to take my mind off their torture as we listened to "Rocky Mountain High "on the stereo. Teo dozed in his cozy seat beside me. When we arrived at the end of the road, the bunch in the lead truck all jumped out, unloaded the metal detector, too heavy for two men to carry, various bars, picks and shovels, and, of course backpacks to carry out the gold coins.
The terrain was rough and they headed straight up the face of the mountain. "How long before we reach the hideout," I said after walking a few hundred yards. The men just smiled.
It was about at that point that I realized I barely had enough energy left to drive back home, and needed to leave — soon. As I drove, I ate my banana and a bag of bean tacos.
Back at home, wiping the salsa off my face, I went straight back to bed and fell asleep thinking of alternate plans to join in the adventure. I dreamt of talking orchids, lips wavering in the breeze, and of foxes winking as they very curiously observed us, in all of our strangeness.
We are the blessed, embraced by the incredible verdant forest that rises up, just beyond us, those of us lucky enough to live on the shores of Lake of Chapala.
