The Guadalajara Reporter
Guadalajara's Largest English Newspaper
It’s “snowbird season.” Thousands of visitors escaping punishing northern cold are — or soon will be — enjoying Jalisco’s sun and more amiable temperatures. And that means cultural collision. Last week I overheard several visitors exclaiming that there were fewer cultural differences than they expected, though a couple did concede that some things did puzzle them.
Winter in the Jalisco highlands arrives the second half of October, but this year the fall air didn’t turn chill and crystalline blue until a few weeks after Dia de los Muertos. In the wake of November’s Day of the Dead, along the flanks of Cerro Viejo, which backs into the western crescent of Lake Chapala, one’s breath plumed the air like shreds of pale fabric caught in the morning breeze. The fields of corn had already turned ocher, and now those plots of maiz quilting the lower foothills and the valley below seemed to catch fire as fingers of dawn light reached them. The western slopes of the mountain, facing away from the day’s beginning, remained in the last chill, purple grasp of night.
At the many official and unofficial religious sites in Mexico believers have left engaging painted, drawn and written descriptions of what they consider to be miracles, or at least divine assistance. These informative, culturally revealing, often rustic versions of occurrence and belief have a rich religious and esthetic history in Mexico.
Not long ago two North American couples mentioned seeing plays in different parts of Mexico based on the heart-twisting “La Llorona” legend, a centerpiece of this country’s rich lore and myth. One couple was introduced to the sad apparition in Mexico City; the other applauded the story in Zacatecas.
An acquaintance, an elderly man who lived in a nearby rural community some 20 odd years ago, seemed to be dying. I say “seemed” because he had yet to see a medically trained doctor. He was being treated by a curandera of considerable local reputation. The man’s neighbors said he had cancer. The curandera didn’t talk much to strangers about the illnesses of her clients.
Mexico in the 1950s had a rough and ancient look to it. And as I lied about my age in a tense effort to look older and get across the border, this hard-used, slightly adrift appearance surprised and pleased me. I stepped eagerly into the Republic for the first time just outside the desert town of Mexicali, carrying a Spanish phrase book and a cut-down duffle bag. From there, I slowly dropped down the map, visiting places whose names I hesitated to pronounce: Guaymas, Huatabampo, Topolobampo, Guamuchil.
“Why all this commotion about corn?” a friend asked earlier this week. “It’s just a commonplace kind of farming isn’t it?”
