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?”

Maiz — corn — rules much of rural Mexico. (At one time it ruled almost completely.) Guadalajara’s neighboring muncipio, Zapopan, was until recently called villa maicera, because it grew so much corn. And there are hundreds of small villages throughout the Republic called pueblos maiceros by their inhabitants because they exist on maize.

It takes a considerable stretch of emotion, intellect and intuition to try to understand a culture that is totally foreign to one’s own. Most often, it’s necessary to shed everything one knows about one’s own culture and come to a new society as unknowing as a child.