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Chapter 1
México. June 1975.
It was my ninth day on the road and I was now in the southwestern region known as Michoacán. The ancient Aztecs had given it this name, but they never got this far. Each of their attempts at conquest had been driven back with bloody losses, and this land had forever remained beyond the limits of their world.
The proprietor of the inn where I'd stayed the night before had proudly told me this, thus introducing me to the traditions of Michoacán. That inn was in the town of Zamora, and my talk with the innkeeper had been my first lengthy conversation in the Spanish language--outside of a classroom that is. I was out of school now, and at last out in the world, on a journey which I'd been planning for years. I was traveling leisurely, pausing for a day or two here and there. This morning I'd set out for Pátzcuaro on a regional bus, and had been riding for a couple hours now. It gave me a special thrill to be gazing upon a landscape that had been denied even to Moctezuma.
The countryside was rather open, almost a prairie, but as the morning wore on, that changed and I found myself entering a mountainous world of pine forest and volcanoes. There was first one volcano, then another; after half a dozen, I lost count. The forest was full of them. As volcanoes go, they were strangely undersized, hardly much larger than the ancient pyramids which were said to dot this land. Cone-shaped with hollow craters, these volcanoes were grown over with pine trees.
At villages along the way, passengers boarded with their bundles of market goods and even with their animals. A pig was squealing and radios were blaring. The bus was nearly full of people; all were dark skinned with the black hair of their pre-Hispanic ancestors. I was the only one with blond hair and blue eyes, and I felt self-conscious. Even the chickens were dark brown; the fellow in the seat beside me held one in his lap. From its plumage, I could see that it was a rooster.
The bird was contemplating me. As I glanced at him our eyes met. For a moment he glared at me--an intruder in his domain. Then his neck feathers rose and he clucked angrily.
Haven't you seen anybody with blue eyes before? I felt like saying. But he was just a chicken.
The owner, whose skin was as brown as the chicken's feathers, was reaching for a tequila bottle which was being handed to him from across the aisle. After taking a hefty swig he passed the bottle to me, and, unexpectedly, I found myself holding it, looking at it, and wondering what to do with it. Other passengers were looking at me, also wondering what I was going to do.
Very decisively, I raised the bottle to my lips and pretended to take a swig--though without actually drinking any. But at just that instant the chicken cut loose with an abrupt squawk. I gasped and got a mouthful of tequila.
It tasted awful. Absolutely awful. But I tried not to let that show on my face as I bravely swallowed it and returned the bottle. The fellow grinned, took another swig and passed it on.
My feathered antagonist cocked his head sideways, looked at me out of one eye and clucked with malicious satisfaction.
Well, he was just a chicken. Only a chicken.
More volcanoes kept appearing, and the road wove in and out among them as we sped along. We skirted the edge of a hillside where I looked down upon a small valley and got a top view of an especially low volcano. I peered down into the hollow crater as we passed--a natural amphitheater.
I noted it in my journal, along with other topographic details I'd been seeing along the way. Then I looked at my map and tried to figure out where we were, but nothing seemed to match anything on the map. We were heading deep into these mountains. Except for the volcanoes, this land of pine forest looked like the Canadian Rockies. Hardly a tropical jungle, even though this was indeed the tropics, somewhere around twenty degrees north latitude.
Pine trees don't grow at sea level this far south. I figured we must be at a fairly high elevation, maybe a good fifteen hundred to two thousand meters. Despite the bright sunlight, the air flowing in through the window wasn't warm. I took out my jacket and put it on.
My ears popped from the altitude.
Another village, larger than most. Perhaps it was on my map, but there was no sign to indicate the name.
"¿Dónde estamos?" I asked the fellow with the chicken; and he said something, but I didn't catch it. I could hardly hear anything over the din of radios, motor and voices. He offered me the bottle again, but this time I shook my head, "No, gracias."
He took another swig and reached around to pass it to someone behind us, but the bottle fell to the floor with a loud thud as the bus swung into yet another sharp curve. The fellow went sliding off his seat and plunked into the aisle, carrying the chicken along with him, and somehow landing on top of it. The bird gave off a muffled squawk. Several g's of gravity were pulling me in the same direction; I somehow managed to hang on. Pine tress whizzed by as I glanced out the window.
The fellow climbed back into his seat and carefully lifted the dazed bird onto his lap while five or six of his companions crowded around, everyone talking at once and a couple of them applying artificial respiration to the chicken. These people were showing an awful lot of concern over a mere bird, and I guessed that he must be a highly-valued fighting cock--one of those famously pugnacious Mexican warrior chickens.
At this moment the bird lay there gasping for breath, and I almost felt sorry for him. "Pobrecito," I said and gave him a pat of sympathy. With great effort the chicken feebly raised his head, and, with his last milligram of strength, sank his beak into my hand.
I jerked my hand back. It began to bleed slightly, apparently nothing serious.
The tequila bottle rolled under my feet as the bus swung around in the other direction. I retrieved it and returned it to one of the onlookers who then took my hand and poured a generous amount of the liquid on my wound. It burned, powerful stuff. Another fellow produced a piece of cloth from somewhere and wrapped up my hand, while others poured tequila down the chicken's throat.
Just what you deserve! I thought to myself as I gingerly touched the bandage on my sore hand.
It may have been the tequila. The bird recovered quickly and, to the delight of all, stood up, flapped his wings and crowed lustily. Everyone cheered wildly. A moment later the bird crapped on the floor, barely missing my foot.
The party got off at a rather large village a few minutes later. I was really glad to be rid of that obnoxious chicken. Despite the ongoing din of voices, the radio, the pig squealing and all else, there was a feeling of silence, and now I even had the seat all to myself.
Lake Pátzcuaro should appear any minute now. Or had we passed it? No, I couldn't possibly have missed it, it was so large on the map. But where exactly were we right now? I studied my map carefully. These mountains didn't seem like a place for a large lake. Was I on the right bus?
We kept going higher into the mountains, deeper into the forest, often shifting down to second gear as we climbed. Finally we seemed to have passed the summit, for the road began to descend. We rounded one long mountain curve, and suddenly down below there came into view the red-tiled roofs of a town. It was rather large, almost a city, but it didn't seem to be on my map. I turned to a passenger across the aisle and asked what it was called.
The name he gave was fairly long and I only caught the first syllable of it, something that sounded like "oor".
The town was bordered on the right by a cluster of volcanoes, and beyond it extended a flat plain of farms and forests, but only for a few kilometers. After that, everything seemed to suddenly drop off, with nothing but haze in the distance. I tried to picture what, if anything, might lie beyond it. Nothing, perhaps. It gave me the sensation of coming to the end of the earth, and, had I lived back in medieval times when many people believed the world was flat, this is what I would've expected it to look like as I approached the edge.
Soon we were in the town itself, cruising by the plaza and finally arriving at a depot. I stepped off the bus, and there on the side of a building I saw the name of the town painted in large red and black letters: Uruapan.
Uruapan? I finally located it on my map--a full sixty kilometers to the southwest of where I intended to be! I stood there shaking my head. How could this be? I had so carefully checked the departure schedule, my ticket and the bus number.
At that moment I was just very glad to be traveling alone, with nobody along to witness my error--I could just picture myself with a bunch of people who'd left the navigating to me, fretting, worrying, glancing at their watches and looking at me, wondering why we weren't where we were supposed to be. People always expect you to know what you're doing, even if they can't do any better themselves.
I looked at the departure schedule on the wall. Buses left almost every hour. My destination was Pátzcuaro, and, provided I didn't make another bonehead mistake, I'd have no difficulty in getting there ultimately. Basically, my object was to see the country, and, since I'd heard that Pátzcuaro was a picturesque city from the colonial era, I'd decided to go there and spend a few days. But nobody was waiting for me, so it didn't really matter if I got there today, tomorrow or next week.
Having figured out where I was, and how to get where I wanted to go, I wasn't really lost any more. I'd unexpectedly found myself in a place where I hadn't planned to be, that was all, a serendipitous result of traveling in a country where I hardly knew the language. It was all part of the adventure, and I felt a sense of freedom.
Since I was here, I might as well have a look around. But what was the name? I glanced at the sign again: Uruapan. It vaguely suggested some legendary place that wouldn't come to mind at the moment. Everything about this town intrigued me, from the name itself, its type style and the way it was printed in red and black letters, the way the town was nestled up against the side of a mountain, and the way I had accidentally gotten here. It all gave me the feeling of finding myself in a realm of mythical enchantment.
I glanced at my watch. It was still only 10 o'clock and I had the entire day ahead of me. Maybe I'd even visit the volcanoes. They seemed to be within walking distance. I felt a thrill of excitement. Sometimes it's fun to get lost.
I checked my pack at the baggage counter and set out on foot. The central plaza was only a couple blocks away. Every city, town and village in México has its plaza, an open space surrounded by shops, restaurants, local government offices, churches and often a lot more, depending on the size of the town. It's the center of activity, and, like a human face, each town's plaza has its own distinct personality.
Uruapan's plaza was exceptionally long and narrow. A few large broad-leaved trees spread their branches protectively, and in the shade below there were pruned hedges and grass with numerous park benches. People were coming and going, some taking a moment to sit down and enjoy the pleasant surroundings. For a while I took a seat and watched the people. As on the bus, nearly all were dark skinned. I wondered if I were the only foreigner, the only blond-haired, blue-eyed person in this whole town, perhaps even in this whole region. It made me feel a bit uncomfortable, but there was also the excitement of finding myself in a world where few outsiders seemed to enter.
Across the street from me stood an ancient-looking adobe building which attracted my curiosity. I walked over to it and found it was a museum, but it wouldn't be open till noon. In the courtyard beside it was a stone fountain. I sat on the edge, then unbandaged my hand and washed it in the water. It was still sore, and hurt slightly when I flexed my fingers, but there was no major injury, except to my pride. What an obnoxious chicken! I dispensed with the bandage, and continued on to explore the arcade which surrounded most of the plaza.
At a theater I paused to look at the movie posters. There was one with a handsome woman leading a horse by a corral. La hija del ranchero--the Rancher's Daughter--it read. It'd be playing today; maybe I'd come back and watch it later on.
All around me were people busily coming in and out of shops and restaurants. I was walking down a crowded arcade, a kind of covered sidewalk along the plaza. Some people glanced my way, but nobody stared. I came upon a newsstand with a large display of newspapers, magazines and sundry publications. One, titled Uruapan, cuatro siglos, caught my eye. It was a collection of essays, poems and historical bits about this town. Naturally, it was in Spanish, but, having studied the language in school, I was able to read it.
I bought it and sat down at a sidewalk café, ordered a cup of coffee and began paging through the booklet. Paricutín, the cornfield volcano ... an article began. An event from the 1940's was being remembered:
"The campesino planted corn, and expected to get corn. He got a volcano, and Uruapan got a harvest of ash and cinders."
So that happened around here? The story had been in my third-grade reader. While in high school I'd also read an account of the eruption, and finally, as a geology student, I'd found it mentioned in my textbooks. Although I'd always known that Volcán Paricutín was somewhere in México, I'd never gotten around to finding out exactly where. This was like coming into a strange town and hearing that a lifelong acquaintance lived nearby. I'd have to stay a while and pay a visit.
Then the waitress came back and said something. I had to ask her to repeat it twice before I understood she was asking if I wanted more coffee. Well, that's the way it was. I'd been studying Spanish for years and could read it with a fair degree of proficiency, but rapid-fire speech was hard to follow.
I had a second cup of coffee, then resumed my tour of the town. For a while I ambled through the long, crowded galleries of the arcade. Then, as I was about to cross a street, I nearly bumped into a fellow. Somehow, I hadn't seen him standing there.
I stepped back, trying to think of the Spanish words for excuse me. Strangely, it came to me in Norwegian--a language I hadn't spoken since Grandma died.
The man gazed at me but said nothing. He wore a wide-brimmed sombrero and a neatly trimmed gray beard. He might've been around fifty. There was a sense of dignity in his face even though he wore a patch over one eye. His visible eye was blue, like mine.
"Perdóneme," I said, finally remembering the Spanish phrase. I felt like a fool for forgetting something so basic.
For another moment the man continued to look at me. Then he nodded, turned and continued on his way. I stood there watching him as he went, feeling that he was somehow familiar. Of course I didn't know any one-eyed person, and certainly not here in this region. Logic suggested that the fellow had to be a total stranger, but a peculiar gut feeling told me I knew him.
No doubt he was a local rancher who just happened to resemble someone I'd known, one of my professors perhaps. Maybe a character in a movie, or the portrait of a Spanish nobleman I'd seen in a painting. No, I couldn't think of anybody. But the sense of acquaintance didn't diminish. I should have spoken to him.
By now he'd reached the end of the block where he rounded the corner and was gone. Maybe I could catch up with him. I hurried to the corner, and when I got there, I saw him in the distance. I followed, walking as swiftly as I could without actually running. He was a fast walker and had a good head start, but I was catching up.
The late morning sun glared down from directly above, leaving few shadows. It was extremely bright and reflected up off the cobblestones and into my eyes, causing me to squint. The air was warm, but not unbearably so; this town was high up in the mountains, at pine-tree elevation.
Then the man turned up another street, and when I reached it he was nowhere in sight. I continued my search for another block, and finally concluded that I'd missed him. Well, obviously he wasn't anyone I could possibly have known. I felt a bit silly about the whole thing, but so what? I shrugged my shoulders. This too was part of the adventure of being abroad.
I continued with my tour. For a while I strolled up one street, then down another, randomly exploring. Mostly the streets were narrow, and the houses were of adobe. They came up to the sidewalk without space for lawns, and were tight up against each other, with no daylight between. I could tell from the thickness of the walls, visible at door and window jambs, that these buildings were constructed of adobe rather than concrete. That meant that the neighborhood was quite old, perhaps from the turn of the century. I enjoyed the ambience.
One street had many shops, which occupied rooms in the private houses. A street-level room was easy to convert into a shop because every room in a Mexican house generally had it's own door. These were things I'd been noticing during the past few days.
Why not step into one and take a look, just out of curiosity? The thought had no sooner crossed my mind than I again saw the one-eyed man. He was standing there, looking my way, less than a dozen meters up ahead of me.
Startled at his unexpected appearance, I stopped in my tracks and blinked my eyes. No. He wasn't there after all. I glanced up and down the street. Nobody in sight. Absolutely nobody. It'd been a figment of my imagination, a trick of vision caused by the glaring sun. It was slightly disconcerting.
I walked up to the door of the shop where I thought he'd been standing. Had he stepped inside? I doubted it. His appearance had been an illusion; I was sure of that--I even wondered for a mad moment if he'd been real the first time, when I'd nearly bumped into him in the plaza arcade.
I stepped inside the shop, entering through the tall door that was typical of these adobe buildings. The walls inside were whitewashed, and the ceiling was high, even though the room was not extremely large. On display were saddles and ranch gear, burro harnesses, kerosene lanterns, tools and numerous other items, anachronistic in a world of automobiles and electricity. Nobody was around at the moment.
I'd been looking at the wares on display for several minutes when I heard someone entering from another room, and, turning around, found myself looking at an attractive, dark-eyed woman with brown skin and shiny black hair. Over her shoulders she wore a dark blue, pin-striped rebozo, the traditional shawl of this region.
She was far more than merely attractive; she was absolutely beautiful. Along the left side of her face was a noticeable scar, but, for some strange reason, even that added to her beauty. I felt slightly overwhelmed. My tongue had somehow lost its connection with my brain, and words seemed to fail me.
She said something I didn't understand.
"Me llamo Olaf," I said finally, and she told me her name was Chayo.
We exchanged a bit of conversation, though with considerable difficulty, as she spoke rather rapidly. Then she asked how long I'd be here in Uruapan.
I was trying desperately to force my mind to function in Spanish, to follow what she was saying, and at the same time respond as quickly as I could. And what I replied was: "Todo el verano."
And suddenly I realized what I'd told her--that I was staying all summer in this town. The shock of it hit me and I felt like a complete idiot. What I'd meant was that I was spending the summer in México. On a tour of the country, I'd meant to say. I struggled for words to correct my mistake.
I opened my mouth to say that, but no words came out.
She smiled, and I was sure she was laughing at me.
For another moment I stood there, still unable to speak. My face burned red with embarrassment and everything blurred before my eyes. Then I turned to leave the shop.
I heard her voice behind me. What she said, I didn't understand. Probably ridicule and insults, or so I assumed, but I didn't turn to answer. There wasn't much I could say in a language I found myself speaking so poorly. I just wanted to get away.
But I was barely out the door and into the bright sunlight, when something came dashing up from behind and brushed against me. I stumbled. A flash of white fur with a long tail swirled around me. A huge cat, the size of a cougar. The sidewalk came slamming up to whack me in the face.
continued in Chapter 2
It was my ninth day on the road and I was now in the southwestern region known as Michoacán. The ancient Aztecs had given it this name, but they never got this far. Each of their attempts at conquest had been driven back with bloody losses, and this land had forever remained beyond the limits of their world.
The proprietor of the inn where I'd stayed the night before had proudly told me this, thus introducing me to the traditions of Michoacán. That inn was in the town of Zamora, and my talk with the innkeeper had been my first lengthy conversation in the Spanish language--outside of a classroom that is. I was out of school now, and at last out in the world, on a journey which I'd been planning for years. I was traveling leisurely, pausing for a day or two here and there. This morning I'd set out for Pátzcuaro on a regional bus, and had been riding for a couple hours now. It gave me a special thrill to be gazing upon a landscape that had been denied even to Moctezuma.
The countryside was rather open, almost a prairie, but as the morning wore on, that changed and I found myself entering a mountainous world of pine forest and volcanoes. There was first one volcano, then another; after half a dozen, I lost count. The forest was full of them. As volcanoes go, they were strangely undersized, hardly much larger than the ancient pyramids which were said to dot this land. Cone-shaped with hollow craters, these volcanoes were grown over with pine trees.
At villages along the way, passengers boarded with their bundles of market goods and even with their animals. A pig was squealing and radios were blaring. The bus was nearly full of people; all were dark skinned with the black hair of their pre-Hispanic ancestors. I was the only one with blond hair and blue eyes, and I felt self-conscious. Even the chickens were dark brown; the fellow in the seat beside me held one in his lap. From its plumage, I could see that it was a rooster.
The bird was contemplating me. As I glanced at him our eyes met. For a moment he glared at me--an intruder in his domain. Then his neck feathers rose and he clucked angrily.
Haven't you seen anybody with blue eyes before? I felt like saying. But he was just a chicken.
The owner, whose skin was as brown as the chicken's feathers, was reaching for a tequila bottle which was being handed to him from across the aisle. After taking a hefty swig he passed the bottle to me, and, unexpectedly, I found myself holding it, looking at it, and wondering what to do with it. Other passengers were looking at me, also wondering what I was going to do.
Very decisively, I raised the bottle to my lips and pretended to take a swig--though without actually drinking any. But at just that instant the chicken cut loose with an abrupt squawk. I gasped and got a mouthful of tequila.
It tasted awful. Absolutely awful. But I tried not to let that show on my face as I bravely swallowed it and returned the bottle. The fellow grinned, took another swig and passed it on.
My feathered antagonist cocked his head sideways, looked at me out of one eye and clucked with malicious satisfaction.
Well, he was just a chicken. Only a chicken.
More volcanoes kept appearing, and the road wove in and out among them as we sped along. We skirted the edge of a hillside where I looked down upon a small valley and got a top view of an especially low volcano. I peered down into the hollow crater as we passed--a natural amphitheater.
I noted it in my journal, along with other topographic details I'd been seeing along the way. Then I looked at my map and tried to figure out where we were, but nothing seemed to match anything on the map. We were heading deep into these mountains. Except for the volcanoes, this land of pine forest looked like the Canadian Rockies. Hardly a tropical jungle, even though this was indeed the tropics, somewhere around twenty degrees north latitude.
Pine trees don't grow at sea level this far south. I figured we must be at a fairly high elevation, maybe a good fifteen hundred to two thousand meters. Despite the bright sunlight, the air flowing in through the window wasn't warm. I took out my jacket and put it on.
My ears popped from the altitude.
Another village, larger than most. Perhaps it was on my map, but there was no sign to indicate the name.
"¿Dónde estamos?" I asked the fellow with the chicken; and he said something, but I didn't catch it. I could hardly hear anything over the din of radios, motor and voices. He offered me the bottle again, but this time I shook my head, "No, gracias."
He took another swig and reached around to pass it to someone behind us, but the bottle fell to the floor with a loud thud as the bus swung into yet another sharp curve. The fellow went sliding off his seat and plunked into the aisle, carrying the chicken along with him, and somehow landing on top of it. The bird gave off a muffled squawk. Several g's of gravity were pulling me in the same direction; I somehow managed to hang on. Pine tress whizzed by as I glanced out the window.
The fellow climbed back into his seat and carefully lifted the dazed bird onto his lap while five or six of his companions crowded around, everyone talking at once and a couple of them applying artificial respiration to the chicken. These people were showing an awful lot of concern over a mere bird, and I guessed that he must be a highly-valued fighting cock--one of those famously pugnacious Mexican warrior chickens.
At this moment the bird lay there gasping for breath, and I almost felt sorry for him. "Pobrecito," I said and gave him a pat of sympathy. With great effort the chicken feebly raised his head, and, with his last milligram of strength, sank his beak into my hand.
I jerked my hand back. It began to bleed slightly, apparently nothing serious.
The tequila bottle rolled under my feet as the bus swung around in the other direction. I retrieved it and returned it to one of the onlookers who then took my hand and poured a generous amount of the liquid on my wound. It burned, powerful stuff. Another fellow produced a piece of cloth from somewhere and wrapped up my hand, while others poured tequila down the chicken's throat.
Just what you deserve! I thought to myself as I gingerly touched the bandage on my sore hand.
It may have been the tequila. The bird recovered quickly and, to the delight of all, stood up, flapped his wings and crowed lustily. Everyone cheered wildly. A moment later the bird crapped on the floor, barely missing my foot.
The party got off at a rather large village a few minutes later. I was really glad to be rid of that obnoxious chicken. Despite the ongoing din of voices, the radio, the pig squealing and all else, there was a feeling of silence, and now I even had the seat all to myself.
Lake Pátzcuaro should appear any minute now. Or had we passed it? No, I couldn't possibly have missed it, it was so large on the map. But where exactly were we right now? I studied my map carefully. These mountains didn't seem like a place for a large lake. Was I on the right bus?
We kept going higher into the mountains, deeper into the forest, often shifting down to second gear as we climbed. Finally we seemed to have passed the summit, for the road began to descend. We rounded one long mountain curve, and suddenly down below there came into view the red-tiled roofs of a town. It was rather large, almost a city, but it didn't seem to be on my map. I turned to a passenger across the aisle and asked what it was called.
The name he gave was fairly long and I only caught the first syllable of it, something that sounded like "oor".
The town was bordered on the right by a cluster of volcanoes, and beyond it extended a flat plain of farms and forests, but only for a few kilometers. After that, everything seemed to suddenly drop off, with nothing but haze in the distance. I tried to picture what, if anything, might lie beyond it. Nothing, perhaps. It gave me the sensation of coming to the end of the earth, and, had I lived back in medieval times when many people believed the world was flat, this is what I would've expected it to look like as I approached the edge.
Soon we were in the town itself, cruising by the plaza and finally arriving at a depot. I stepped off the bus, and there on the side of a building I saw the name of the town painted in large red and black letters: Uruapan.
Uruapan? I finally located it on my map--a full sixty kilometers to the southwest of where I intended to be! I stood there shaking my head. How could this be? I had so carefully checked the departure schedule, my ticket and the bus number.
At that moment I was just very glad to be traveling alone, with nobody along to witness my error--I could just picture myself with a bunch of people who'd left the navigating to me, fretting, worrying, glancing at their watches and looking at me, wondering why we weren't where we were supposed to be. People always expect you to know what you're doing, even if they can't do any better themselves.
I looked at the departure schedule on the wall. Buses left almost every hour. My destination was Pátzcuaro, and, provided I didn't make another bonehead mistake, I'd have no difficulty in getting there ultimately. Basically, my object was to see the country, and, since I'd heard that Pátzcuaro was a picturesque city from the colonial era, I'd decided to go there and spend a few days. But nobody was waiting for me, so it didn't really matter if I got there today, tomorrow or next week.
Having figured out where I was, and how to get where I wanted to go, I wasn't really lost any more. I'd unexpectedly found myself in a place where I hadn't planned to be, that was all, a serendipitous result of traveling in a country where I hardly knew the language. It was all part of the adventure, and I felt a sense of freedom.
Since I was here, I might as well have a look around. But what was the name? I glanced at the sign again: Uruapan. It vaguely suggested some legendary place that wouldn't come to mind at the moment. Everything about this town intrigued me, from the name itself, its type style and the way it was printed in red and black letters, the way the town was nestled up against the side of a mountain, and the way I had accidentally gotten here. It all gave me the feeling of finding myself in a realm of mythical enchantment.
I glanced at my watch. It was still only 10 o'clock and I had the entire day ahead of me. Maybe I'd even visit the volcanoes. They seemed to be within walking distance. I felt a thrill of excitement. Sometimes it's fun to get lost.
I checked my pack at the baggage counter and set out on foot. The central plaza was only a couple blocks away. Every city, town and village in México has its plaza, an open space surrounded by shops, restaurants, local government offices, churches and often a lot more, depending on the size of the town. It's the center of activity, and, like a human face, each town's plaza has its own distinct personality.
Uruapan's plaza was exceptionally long and narrow. A few large broad-leaved trees spread their branches protectively, and in the shade below there were pruned hedges and grass with numerous park benches. People were coming and going, some taking a moment to sit down and enjoy the pleasant surroundings. For a while I took a seat and watched the people. As on the bus, nearly all were dark skinned. I wondered if I were the only foreigner, the only blond-haired, blue-eyed person in this whole town, perhaps even in this whole region. It made me feel a bit uncomfortable, but there was also the excitement of finding myself in a world where few outsiders seemed to enter.
Across the street from me stood an ancient-looking adobe building which attracted my curiosity. I walked over to it and found it was a museum, but it wouldn't be open till noon. In the courtyard beside it was a stone fountain. I sat on the edge, then unbandaged my hand and washed it in the water. It was still sore, and hurt slightly when I flexed my fingers, but there was no major injury, except to my pride. What an obnoxious chicken! I dispensed with the bandage, and continued on to explore the arcade which surrounded most of the plaza.
At a theater I paused to look at the movie posters. There was one with a handsome woman leading a horse by a corral. La hija del ranchero--the Rancher's Daughter--it read. It'd be playing today; maybe I'd come back and watch it later on.
All around me were people busily coming in and out of shops and restaurants. I was walking down a crowded arcade, a kind of covered sidewalk along the plaza. Some people glanced my way, but nobody stared. I came upon a newsstand with a large display of newspapers, magazines and sundry publications. One, titled Uruapan, cuatro siglos, caught my eye. It was a collection of essays, poems and historical bits about this town. Naturally, it was in Spanish, but, having studied the language in school, I was able to read it.
I bought it and sat down at a sidewalk café, ordered a cup of coffee and began paging through the booklet. Paricutín, the cornfield volcano ... an article began. An event from the 1940's was being remembered:
"The campesino planted corn, and expected to get corn. He got a volcano, and Uruapan got a harvest of ash and cinders."
So that happened around here? The story had been in my third-grade reader. While in high school I'd also read an account of the eruption, and finally, as a geology student, I'd found it mentioned in my textbooks. Although I'd always known that Volcán Paricutín was somewhere in México, I'd never gotten around to finding out exactly where. This was like coming into a strange town and hearing that a lifelong acquaintance lived nearby. I'd have to stay a while and pay a visit.
Then the waitress came back and said something. I had to ask her to repeat it twice before I understood she was asking if I wanted more coffee. Well, that's the way it was. I'd been studying Spanish for years and could read it with a fair degree of proficiency, but rapid-fire speech was hard to follow.
I had a second cup of coffee, then resumed my tour of the town. For a while I ambled through the long, crowded galleries of the arcade. Then, as I was about to cross a street, I nearly bumped into a fellow. Somehow, I hadn't seen him standing there.
I stepped back, trying to think of the Spanish words for excuse me. Strangely, it came to me in Norwegian--a language I hadn't spoken since Grandma died.
The man gazed at me but said nothing. He wore a wide-brimmed sombrero and a neatly trimmed gray beard. He might've been around fifty. There was a sense of dignity in his face even though he wore a patch over one eye. His visible eye was blue, like mine.
"Perdóneme," I said, finally remembering the Spanish phrase. I felt like a fool for forgetting something so basic.
For another moment the man continued to look at me. Then he nodded, turned and continued on his way. I stood there watching him as he went, feeling that he was somehow familiar. Of course I didn't know any one-eyed person, and certainly not here in this region. Logic suggested that the fellow had to be a total stranger, but a peculiar gut feeling told me I knew him.
No doubt he was a local rancher who just happened to resemble someone I'd known, one of my professors perhaps. Maybe a character in a movie, or the portrait of a Spanish nobleman I'd seen in a painting. No, I couldn't think of anybody. But the sense of acquaintance didn't diminish. I should have spoken to him.
By now he'd reached the end of the block where he rounded the corner and was gone. Maybe I could catch up with him. I hurried to the corner, and when I got there, I saw him in the distance. I followed, walking as swiftly as I could without actually running. He was a fast walker and had a good head start, but I was catching up.
The late morning sun glared down from directly above, leaving few shadows. It was extremely bright and reflected up off the cobblestones and into my eyes, causing me to squint. The air was warm, but not unbearably so; this town was high up in the mountains, at pine-tree elevation.
Then the man turned up another street, and when I reached it he was nowhere in sight. I continued my search for another block, and finally concluded that I'd missed him. Well, obviously he wasn't anyone I could possibly have known. I felt a bit silly about the whole thing, but so what? I shrugged my shoulders. This too was part of the adventure of being abroad.
I continued with my tour. For a while I strolled up one street, then down another, randomly exploring. Mostly the streets were narrow, and the houses were of adobe. They came up to the sidewalk without space for lawns, and were tight up against each other, with no daylight between. I could tell from the thickness of the walls, visible at door and window jambs, that these buildings were constructed of adobe rather than concrete. That meant that the neighborhood was quite old, perhaps from the turn of the century. I enjoyed the ambience.
One street had many shops, which occupied rooms in the private houses. A street-level room was easy to convert into a shop because every room in a Mexican house generally had it's own door. These were things I'd been noticing during the past few days.
Why not step into one and take a look, just out of curiosity? The thought had no sooner crossed my mind than I again saw the one-eyed man. He was standing there, looking my way, less than a dozen meters up ahead of me.
Startled at his unexpected appearance, I stopped in my tracks and blinked my eyes. No. He wasn't there after all. I glanced up and down the street. Nobody in sight. Absolutely nobody. It'd been a figment of my imagination, a trick of vision caused by the glaring sun. It was slightly disconcerting.
I walked up to the door of the shop where I thought he'd been standing. Had he stepped inside? I doubted it. His appearance had been an illusion; I was sure of that--I even wondered for a mad moment if he'd been real the first time, when I'd nearly bumped into him in the plaza arcade.
I stepped inside the shop, entering through the tall door that was typical of these adobe buildings. The walls inside were whitewashed, and the ceiling was high, even though the room was not extremely large. On display were saddles and ranch gear, burro harnesses, kerosene lanterns, tools and numerous other items, anachronistic in a world of automobiles and electricity. Nobody was around at the moment.
I'd been looking at the wares on display for several minutes when I heard someone entering from another room, and, turning around, found myself looking at an attractive, dark-eyed woman with brown skin and shiny black hair. Over her shoulders she wore a dark blue, pin-striped rebozo, the traditional shawl of this region.
She was far more than merely attractive; she was absolutely beautiful. Along the left side of her face was a noticeable scar, but, for some strange reason, even that added to her beauty. I felt slightly overwhelmed. My tongue had somehow lost its connection with my brain, and words seemed to fail me.
She said something I didn't understand.
"Me llamo Olaf," I said finally, and she told me her name was Chayo.
We exchanged a bit of conversation, though with considerable difficulty, as she spoke rather rapidly. Then she asked how long I'd be here in Uruapan.
I was trying desperately to force my mind to function in Spanish, to follow what she was saying, and at the same time respond as quickly as I could. And what I replied was: "Todo el verano."
And suddenly I realized what I'd told her--that I was staying all summer in this town. The shock of it hit me and I felt like a complete idiot. What I'd meant was that I was spending the summer in México. On a tour of the country, I'd meant to say. I struggled for words to correct my mistake.
I opened my mouth to say that, but no words came out.
She smiled, and I was sure she was laughing at me.
For another moment I stood there, still unable to speak. My face burned red with embarrassment and everything blurred before my eyes. Then I turned to leave the shop.
I heard her voice behind me. What she said, I didn't understand. Probably ridicule and insults, or so I assumed, but I didn't turn to answer. There wasn't much I could say in a language I found myself speaking so poorly. I just wanted to get away.
But I was barely out the door and into the bright sunlight, when something came dashing up from behind and brushed against me. I stumbled. A flash of white fur with a long tail swirled around me. A huge cat, the size of a cougar. The sidewalk came slamming up to whack me in the face.
continued in Chapter 2
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