Bell, Bark, and Candle

It’s morning in Guanajuato. The opening chords of an enormous symphony rise. Some cocks crow: first one, then two, then, perhaps - after sotto voce conferences all around the ciudad - an agreement is reached and dawn is declared with bird-brained conviction. The cacophonic warble of the first movement is in place.

Then, a single bell clanks (the bell must be broken). Somewhere an ancient but reverent campanero tugs a rope to coax the town’s ear. Clank.  He says “Come on now, rise good townsfolk. Clank. He says, “Surely you see the pinch of light there, need I say more?” Now the dogs, roused by bells and birds, break into full-throated howls, punctuated by barked oratorios concerning squirrels, butts, property rights, and poop.

The campanero sighs. Clank. Clank. Clank. “Damas y caballeros, I have done all I can do. I am weary to my bones. You are now in the hands of the great bells of the templos. They are younger and they will insist, not coax.  For them, God wears a watch and he awaits. Go in peace.”

BONG. The templos commandeer the ether. BONG. “You there, get thee hence.” BONG. You there, Christmas is coming there is work to do. BONG. “The floors need sweeping, children must be off to school. What is the trouble? BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. We can and we will do this all day…GET UP!”

And so the days begin and the mountains flame and blaze and the lion of the city roars.

But just last night, the cacophonous barking, bonging, and roaring ceased for a moment. The city drew its breath.  Then, fully awake and redeemed, it burst into harmonies of light and sound.

In candlelight, we walked the Posada. Christmas here is not a day or an exchange of gifts per se, though those elements are there. It is a short tour through another dimension that does not require a specific doctrine of faith or philosophy, but only a candle and a song and a walk. For the next few weeks, smaller posadas will flow in neighborhoods. 

Pinatas will be hung from trees for the youngsters to pummel, adults will gather for songs, prayers and ponche (a tasty and mysterious warm fruit drink).

The priest calls, the procession answers as we wind down into the city joined at every turn by more candle lights, more voices, more disembodied faces floating over the flames. The priest and the children, perhaps a bit bewildered by their hour on the stage, spin and sway, struggling with their, for now, solemn aspects resisting the lights, the music, the candy. All in due time.

A few days before…

Ah the familiar unfamiliarity of it all!  It has only been a few weeks since we went thought the“tube” – taxi, airport, plane, customs, taxi, skidding to a halt in front of our B&B in Guadalajara. After rattling our way through lockboxes and gates and stairs and more locks and doors, we are flummoxed by ONE LAST LOCK on a door that simply refuses to yield. What’s more, inexplicably, it pushes back at us with a clunk, clunk, clunk each time we twist the key in a different direction. What the hell? Is someone inside? Hola?... nothing. Finally the door opens to an empty apartment save for one playful black cat – Azul who apparently was enjoying great sport with us on the other side of the door. We shrug in unison, that’s Mexico. We tumble into a tiny Maya-sized double bed and expire for the night. Our plans are to spend two nights here before a five-week stay in our rented casita in Guanajuato to be followed by a week in Puerto Vallarta. Muy bien!

The next morning we take a stroll through the compact historic center in downtown Guadalajara, Christmas-time cheer is evident everywhere - complete with carols and decorated trees in the plaza, under a blazing summertime sun. After a quick visit to see a stunning Orozco mural in the Governor’s Palace, we decide to abandon the B&B (and Azul) for a fancy downtown hotel, just to pamper ourselves with a good night’s sleep before the long bus ride to Guanajuato.

After a comfy bus ride (Mexican buses are the BEST!). We find ourselves back in the casita we rented five years ago. We are greeted by our “landlords” Mike and Sam along with new addition, daughter Michela. After mutual updates, we waste no time settling in, eager to sample the town’s nightlife and to locate a language school for Lynn. Eric has decided to forego language school, at least for the first week or so, as he is working on a book and wants to use his free time for writing rough drafts (which looks very similar to standing in front of a wall and banging one’s head repeatedly until something falls out or unconsciousness ensues).

There is an inescapable somberness in town. A woman student was strangled to death a few nights before we arrived as she was on her way to class. The students have risen up in protest and have festooned the fachadas of many downtown buildings with 8x11 paper signs, most of which contain the symbol of an abeja, (a bee) and the slogan: NI UNA MENOS: NOT ONE LESS. The protests and subsequent sit-outs are clearly well organized affairs. There is no heavy police presence, no riots or tear gas, just steadfast, public expressions of solidarity and community. On our second morning in town, as we climb down from the casita, the streets again are eerily quiet. Knots of students, sitting out from their classes, appear to be frozen in place, eyes glued to cellphones. The University dean is offering a public apology and assurances that the student demands for safer conditions will be met. 

By the next day, the signs are gone from the buildings, the protest marches ended. The University president and a dean of students have resigned, and discussions are underway about how to better protect the students.

 

Attention now turns to preparations for El Dia de Guadalupe which honors the patron saint of Mexican families.  All at once, the parades begin, church bells clang, and fireworks boom and crackle above. The tragedy of the young woman is not forgotten but rather blended into the celebrations. There are tables with petitions to sign, pictures and sketches of her likeness in the windows and many small remembrances of her loss woven into the fabric of the celebratory day. 

Certain streets in the city fill to bursting with families. There are stations along the way where children, boys dressed as campesinos (complete with drawn on beards and mustaches) and sumptuously costumed girls as dancers folkloricos, can be photographed with a life-sized fabric painting of Guadalupe – somewhat akin to our department store Santa scene.  We find ourselves swimming in a river of colors, noises, and smells. We pause to watch a huge parade of marching bands, beating tattoos and blatting out stirring martial music as they carry their favorite saints along on huge tapestries held high.

After the parade passes, we join the throng shopping in the mercado, the tortilla shop, the bakery, and the (most excellent) roasted chicken place, slowly wending our way home up, up, up, our long, climbing street. Too narrow for cars or trucks, where everything must be carried - just as it would have been a hundred years ago. We stop in the perfectly situated plazas for gasping sessions and for rest on the mercifully shaded metal benches as we try to acclimatize to the 6,600 ft, altitude. We are growing old, our bodies remind us.

By the next day, wrestling with the usual bouts of physical weirdness that seem, inevitably, to plague us now at the beginnings of our trips, we resolve to locate the language school that is supposed to be nearby. We stop in the neighborhood plaza and turn on the Mexican GPS – asking one person after another how to get to such and such a place. In the process, we come across a well-dressed Mexican gentleman reading a newspaper on a bench at the shady corner of the plaza. We greet him and endeavor to make our request understood. While we fumble, he smiles and says, in perfect English, “Let me check my computer.” He breaks with the tradition of sending us close but not quite as per the norm and instead gives us perfect directions. On the way back, he is still there so we thank him and strike up a conversation that, since then, has become a friendship. He is Rogelio, a customs lawyer who has returned awhile back from a stint in the US (in Ashland, Oregon, no less). He has returned to Guanajuato for the quiet and to oversee his Mexico City-based practice from afar. Kind, affable and interested, he is a fountain of information who is equally happy to converse in Spanish or English, as we choose. After a long conversation ranging from interesting local customs to the pros and cons of current government policies, we set a date to meet for lunch or dinner.

We will have more to say about our attempts to take a hike in Mexico (read Eric’s Hell March) and further adventures with Rogelio in our next blog. For now we want to wish everyone the best Christmas ever, despite all the political troubles. Light a candle in the darkness, as will we. May they burn brighter than the sun.