Recently in these pages a brief discussion appeared (Reporter June 27, July 4, August 1) regarding Mexico’s Huichol Indians. Inevitably, this meant references to ill-fated American journalist Philip True. As many long-stretch foreign visitors and residents may recall, True wrote for the San Antonio (Texas) Express-News, headquartered in Mexico City. He was murdered in Huichol territory December 16, 1998, aged 50.
True, a habitual hiker, was an enthusiast of Mexico’s culture and people, and was married to a Mexican woman. He took an interest in the Huichol Indians, an indigenous tribe scattered in the rugged Sierra Madre Occidental range where it meets the states of Jalisco, Nayarit, Zacatecas and Durango. Huicholes call themselves the Wixaritari (“the people’”) after their language, Wixarika. Rough history has taught them to be suspicious of outsiders. In modern time, “intruders” had to have official written permission from local tribal elders to enter their territory, and it was widely known they loathed photographers.
True carefully planned a ten-day, 100-mile trek. But, his employers noted, he was a stubborn man. And on this occasion insisted on going alone – not employing a guide, which was considered de riguer – and without written permission from Huichol elders to enter the tribe’s territory. He started his journey December 1, 1998 in Tuxpan, Jalisco, and was last seen December 2 in Chalmotita, Jalisco. True spoke Spanish well, but not Wixarika.
Years before this sad event my wife; Lea Rosser, the wife of an anthropology professor; and I made a very different sojourn into Huichol country to witness a Wixaritari religious ceremony.
Rafael Solano, a willful, talented – often drunken – artist and aspiring mara’akame (shaman) was our guide. An informant in Huichol ways – religion, magic, peyote – with a bad leg, Rafael was to prove to be a 24-hour-a-day trial for our group of seven.
My wife and I were recruited to accompany Lea. We were going into country that gringos hadn’t yet much explored. In those days firearms were not prohibited. With the rough history of our destination in mind I carried a .45 revolver and a long straight-bladed machete. My wife also carried a machete.
We had no hard evidence such equipment was needed. But Rafael’s fondness for home-made tequila, and his unreliability prompted caution. It created questions regarding our previous ideas about anthropologists and professors.
Another confidence-rattling development was Lea’s inclination to flirt with people in power – behavior creating deep foreboding.
“You watch her. I’ll try to keep an eye on Rafael,” I told my wife.
“Lea’s’s crazy, messing with Rafael,” she replied.
We were supposed to leave for the Sierra Nayarit at 4 a.m. but Rafael changes that to 10 a.m. when he and Lea return. We had crossed a low-flowing dry-season stream to finally park on its tallest, farthest bank beside an adobe hut at the edge of Real. There, Rafael asks the residents who came to stare at all our baggage whether they’ve seen anything of a remuda – the pack horses that will take us up into the Sierra’s high country. Not a word.
As we began carefully organizing new supplies for the forthcoming fiesta, I noticed Rafael pocketing money left over from Lea’s fiesta “budget.” The government has said there are 10,000 Huicholes spread throughout this beginning junction of five states. But Rafael says there are at least 18,000. A Catholic priest I know who has spent many futile hours preaching in the Sierra says “almost” 18,000.
Rafael makes arrangements with the residents of the thatched hut to stir up some tortillas, frijoles, corn and sacrifice a chicken for fresh meat. I introduce myself and with some money in my hand ask if there‘s space for Lea and my wife to sleep inside. Then I suggest to Rafael that he and I canvas the pueblo for anyone who’s heard of a remuda. Rafael has several profanely ornamented conversations about his “useless” primo being undependable.
We have just come upon a depression that Rafael says is the grave of his father. He is cleaning trash out of this dip in the ground and is pounding a cross in the soft sod when a young man astride a sweaty pony pulls up. He says Marcelino, Rafael’s brother-in-law, is on his way with horses. He adds that Marcelino said Rafael would reward him for this information. Swearing, my companion hands over four of Lea’s coins. Grinning, I applaud this “good news.” Rafael glares in surprised anger. I have said little about his slovenly, slippery behavior. But he is not a tall man, and his constant intake of raw kitchen-made tequila makes him unprepared to create an enemy of a friend of his professorial benefactors. In Wixåruka, he speaks sharply at his father’s sunken grave. I clap him on the shoulder. “Always great to get good news, eh?” I speak in Spanish, smiling. This errand seems guaranteed to become a piquant anthropological adventure. (This is the first of a series.)