Bureaucracy: Power of the Written Word

Last fall, Reed needed a remote access device to connect his Notebook to the Internet while he traveled with the Caravana del Sur (South) of the Movement for Peace with Justice and Dignity led by Javier Sicilia, Mexican poet-activist. Told we could buy one at TelCel, that’s where we went first.

Ángel de Independencia is the primary symbol of the Mexican  Republic. The statue is a French-style variation on Greco-Roman Imperial imagery. Mexican law is based on civil law, which the Romans imposed on Spain over 2,000 years ago. Civil law begins with a legal code made up of legal rules. Documents must conform to the rules laid down in the legal code—giving rise to a deference to the written word that permeates the culture, including our salesperson at Sanborn's!

The TelCel representative informed us they didn’t have one, but we could get one at Sanborn’s—a specialty chain also owned by Telcel's owner, Mexican billionaire Carlos Slim. Helpfully, the TelCel Representative wrote down the device’s name and model number for us.

When we arrived at Sanborn’s we showed the note to the salesperson. “Oh,” he replied rather formally, distantly, wearing the all-too-familiar bureaucratic 'mask', “this model has been discontinued, but possibly another Sanborn’s still has one in stock.”

At this point, I first went into “Now see here, young man!” mode, before hastening to explain that my husband needed the device because he was leaving on a trip in 24 hours. Almost unconsciously, I employed a basic principle for dealing with Mexican culture—finding a way to help the bureaucrat drop the mask and deal with me as a real person.

I may be mistaken, but at times in hindsight, it seems to me as if Mexicans use the mask to defend themselves against an arrogant attack by Americans. When I signal that the attack is not forthcoming, the cultural door seems to open. So respectfully, almost deferentially, I asked, “Don't you have another remote device that will connect him to the Internet?”

“Oh, yes,” the salesperson replied apologetically, while reaching for a box right in front of us under the counter, “we have this one, but it is more expensive.” In passing, let me mention that it was 100 pesos more, about US$8.00, more expensive!

When Reed and I indicated our delight in being able to take advantage of this option, the salesperson dropped his mask and went into ‘personal’ mode—doing whatever it took to get Reed’s Notebook connected to the Internet using the device. He exhibited the ingenuity, patience and persistence that we cherish in Mexico's young people. It took about 15 minutes, but we walked out of Sanborn’s with a functioning remote access device.

The Dawning of Cultural Insight 

Later at home, we thought about what had happened at Sanborn’s. “It’s the paper,” I realized, “we walked in and handed him a note naming the product the TelCel representative had recommended to us.”

Faced with this handwritten ‘order’, the salesperson felt obligated to respond only to that narrow request. Those of us raised in the highly pragmatic culture that dominates in the U.S. and Western Europe are challenged to understand the power of the ‘written word’ in the authoritarian, hierarchical, bureaucratic mindset that dominates Mexican culture.

For those of us from Western cultures, ‘making the sale’ takes precedence. Reality—product inventory, in this case—is nothing more than the means to achieving that end. 

It’s encouraging to note that the bureaucratic mindset isn't the entire story in Mexico either. Setting aside the fact that the device recommended by the TelCel Representative had been discontinued—TelCel’s inventory system failed to provide that basic information?—the simple reality is that the written ‘order’—perhaps ‘prescription’ is more accurate—took precedence over reality until I objected!

Apparently, my respectful objection released the salesperson from the obligation to follow the prescribed ‘order’, and he was quick to offer an alternative. In hindsight, the transaction would have been much easier if we’d just walked into Sanborn’s and asked the salesperson for a remote access device!

Still Curious?

The experience of moving our Mexican bank account from Pátzcuaro to our new branch in Coyoacán and replacing my Mexican bank Debit Card introduces Labyrinths of Power: Mexican Bureaucracy.

A useful take on Hispanic bureaucracy is available in Jenny's post Tips for Succeeding with Mexican Bureaucracy, which begins with a hilarious, highly informative, professionally produced 'short' (3:30 min) documentary depicting Spanish bureaucracy. Not to be missed!

The 'short' is followed by Seven Simple Steps for dealing with Hispanic bureaucracy developed originally by a U.K. expat living in Spain. Jenny's 'Take' builds on insights gained in our multi-year experiences of dealing with bureaucracy in Mexico. The net result is an adaptation of the Seven Simple Steps tailored to the idiosyncrasies of Mexican bureaucracy.

Finally, Jenny's post What Makes the Mexican Legal System So Different? builds understanding of how Mexican law, grounded in the legal system known as Civil Law, differs significantly from the U.S. legal system—grounded in Common Law. Familiarity with the basic differences provides essential understanding for dealing effectively with Mexican bureaucracy. 

A Walk Around Jenny's Neighborhood: Parque San Andrés, Coyoacán

In this post, let me take you on a tour of our neighborhood, Parque San Andrés, Coyoacán, in Mexico City. The 'parque' is actually a number of small, pocket parks.  The one shown below is a block from our house.

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The streets in our neighborhood are named after Anglo countries and states.  Our two-block street, Dakota, is bounded by Escocia (Scotland), California (!), and Irlanda (Ireland).

This photo was shot looking down the sidewalk of Escocia.

This shot (below) looks down the sidewalk on Irlanda. The pruned trees are ficus trees, which we have seen in parks in many parts of Mexico--always pruned the same way.

As Reed shot the photo, a woman opened the gate to the house on the right. She smiled in a friendly way, so we told her that we are new neighbors. She asked what number and welcomed us to the neighborhood, providing yet another example of the friendliness we're encountering.

Houses in Parque San Andrés range from private houses to upscale condos to apartment buildings.

One of the most notable features of any Mexican neighborhood are the omnipresent walls and gates designed to enclose private spaces.

Sometimes the house is designed around an inner patio; at other times, it encloses a garden space. As we walk by, we sometimes hear lawn mowers and smell fresh-cut grass, so we deduce the presence of lawns in some of these gardens. The house behind the gate (above) has been set back some distance from its inviting pedestrian gate graced by mature vines.

This graceful, older house is distinguished by
the carved wooden doors and traditional grillwork.

Another handcrafted wood door on an older home. The richness of the stained and oiled wood is warmly elegant, understated and inviting.

Doors pique our curiosity. We are constantly alert to get a peek inside
when a car is entering or leaving a property. Notice the pedestrian door to the right.

We don't have a picture of the massive door from the street to this townhouse complex, which is next door to our favorite local family restaurant (see photo below).

Last night the gate was open to receive deliveries from Liverpool (I kid you not!), a high-scale Mexican department store.

Reed asked the guards for permission to take this picture 'for our family'.  Notice the garages at ground level; the living spaces are a flight up.

                                                                                                       



Here's the restaurant. Open pit barbecue is prepared in this front area, so the area is open to the fresh air through the iron bars.

No -- we don't order barbecue.  We stick to the  delicious chicken dishes that are also on the menu!

This couple was sitting on an iron bench last night outside the restaurant. The woman's bright red hair is quite the fashion; it certainly makes a dramatic image!

When Reed asked to take their picture, they agreed. While showing them the photo, he offered to email a copy to them if they'd give him their email address.

This exchange led them to ask the usual questions: who we are, where we're from, why we're here. Reed explained, as we always do, that we're in Mexico City because after three years living in the tranquility of Pátzcuaro, Michoacán, we can no longer ignore the negative consequences of certain U.S. policies toward Mexico, our host country.

We're here to work with the Americas Program to raise awareness about these issues among our countrymen and women. Immediately, the woman responded, "Arms sales. The flow of arms into Mexico is bringing great violence to the Mexican people."

The man said he'd give us their email address later. We'd forgotten about it, but when we left, he came running down the sidewalk after us. After he'd given us his email address, I asked him who the woman is and where she's from. It turns out that she is Mexican of Italian descent from Sinaloa. You may have heard about Sinaloa, probably in the context of the Sinaloa Drug Cartel. Her familiarity with Sinaloa lends special urgency to her comment about arms sales.

Talk about living embedded!  We have seen no other foreigners in our neighborhood.  When we walk out the front door, we speak only Spanish.  The Mexican people we have met--all levels, from shopkeepers and taxi drivers to this obviously middle-class couple--show intense curiosity about us.

Without exception, our new acquaintances become serious, thoughtful, even respectful, when we explain what we're doing. Then, as this woman did, they often share their own experiences. Their willingness to take us into their confidence by sharing validates the importance of what we're trying to do.

These new acquaintances are the people, the pueblo, that I write about in the post, Encountering the Pueblo in Mexico City.

Mexico Culture: Sunday in Mexico City

This post is from Mexico City, where Reed and I are spending a few days visiting friends.

We spent a lovely day walking down the broad tree-lined boulevard named Reforma to Chapultepec Park. It was like being in New York's Central Park on a Sunday afternoon. Reforma is closed to traffic on Sundays, which means that it is taken over by bikers and online skaters. On the sidewalk we joined folks walking dogs and toddlers. I had a special conversation with a one-year old boy, who was fascinated by this blond extranjera who spoke to him in his own language...more or less.

I told him that I am also una abuela (grandmother), but my nieto (grandson) is in Chicago. I wish you could have seen his face light up when I asked, "Cómo te llamas?"—What is your name? His sheer delight that he understood me was delicious. When Reed and I turned to continue our walk in the opposite direction, he set off behind us until his mother recovered him. What a treat!

We made our way to the Tamayo Museum, which is set just inside the entrance to Chapultepec Park.

Rufino Tamayo, one of the great twentieth century Mexican artists

Born to Zapotec parents in Oaxaca in 1898, Tamayo died in Mexico City in 1991. His work draws on ancient themes in a very special way. Artistically, Tamayo broke with his traditional past, but remained open to how tradition and mythology worked on him...and on his creative vision.

Sun and Moon are primary gods in Mesoamerican mythology

Tamayo took as his themes scenes of daily life and sought, as Jose García Ponce has observed, "...to represent what is sacred in this life...making our immediate reality become a mythical reality and causing it to leave its own [our] time."  The mythical reality, of course, is the Mesoamerican cosmovision.

Museo Rufino Tamayo, Mexico City

The architectural roots in Mesoamerican pyramids is unmistakable. The sculpture at the left is reminiscent of stellae—stone columns on which glyphs were carved to record key events of the reign of each Mesoamerican god-king. 

The architecture of the museum building is stunning. As is true with so much Mexican architecture, the design is geometrical—a play with angles and curves that never ceases to surprise and delight the eye. Right angles—why? Take a look at the vestibule (below), which illustrates exactly what I mean. Nary a right angle in sight! 

Museo de Rufino Tamayo, Mexico City

Balcony along vestibule overlooks lower level

I have been known to chuckle out loud at the sheer improbability of a building that surprises me into questioning whether the building's shape is even structurally possible.

Museo Rufino Tamayo, Vestibule
The light is all natural from skylights. 

I love the play of natural light and shadow in this view—again looking out toward the front entrance but from even deeper inside the vestibule.

The foyer relies solely on natural lighting, and it is museum policy to mount only pieces created just for this space. The current sculpture features—I kid you not!—fire escapes recovered from New York City, where Reed and I lived for twenty years.

The Russian-born sculptor, Monika Sosnowska, twisted and shaped platforms and stairs to form what she named Escalera de Incendios (literally, Ladder of Fires, or Fire Escapes), but Reed dubbed her work...Escapes to Nowhere. We loved this post-modern sculpture—and I think our friends in New York would as well!

The poster photo for the sculpture (upper right) appears to have been shot looking down from the railing along the vestibule and overlooking the lower level. The photo below was shot from ground level.

Escalera de Incendios - Ground level view

After visiting the museum, we decided to rest awhile at the cafe in front of the Museum.  We watched the antics of dogs and their owners cavorting in the park—forget throwing a ball, one owner would run and hide behind a tree while her partner held their three dogs.  Such excitement when they were let loose to 'find' her!

And we watched toddlers and their parents. The amount of physical latitude that Mexican parents allow their children stands in vivid contrast to the considerably more risk-averse parenting style typical now in the U.S. In a style reminiscent of how Reed and I grew up in the U.S. in the 1940-50's, Mexican parents assume that their children will use good sense and make their way back to them. And they do!

The energy of the city is contagious—and exhausting! I haven't spent time in Mexico City since my Pemex (Petróleo Mexicano) project, 17 years ago. At the time, the Pemex tower was the only high-rise in the city. Now, of course, 'hi-rise' is the wave of the future. In fact, Mexico City's motto is Ciudad Vanguardia, which translates loosely as Cutting Edge City.

Mexico City is distinctly future-oriented—a focus that is especially striking to us because Pátzcuaro is, of course, so intent on maintaining its traditional past. In fact, Chilangos (residents of Mexico City) visit Pátzcuaro explicitly to recapture a sense of the traditional México that is slowly disappearing.

But what struck us with equal force is that the people in Mexico City are often just as warm and welcoming to us, very obviously extranjeros (foreigners), as are our Patzcuarense friends and acquaintances. On the Metrobus, I had an absolutely delightful chat with a young, professional woman probably in her late 20's.

We also found the taxista, Marcos, to be especially knowledgeable about the city and willing to show us how to find our way around. In one of our many conversations, I mentioned that I was reading the book, Born to Run by Christopher McDougall, written in part about the Tarahumara (the Running People) of Northern Mexico's Copper Canyon. Marcos told me that a friend of his works with a foundation whose mission is to provide assistance to the Tarahumara, whose way of life is now threatened by several years of poor harvests of maíz (corn).

The next day Marcos picked us up as arranged. A short ways into the ride, he began looking for something in one of the little shelves near the driver's seat.  Finally, he found what he was looking for.  He held up two tiny dolls—each slightly over an inch tall.  Each was wearing the traditional dress of an indigenous group, but it wasn't a group I recognized.

"Here," said Marcos, "I want you to have these dolls—they are a Tarahumara man and woman."

I was stunned.  So was Reed. What could I say, but "Gracias, I will treasure them always."  

Travel Journal: Mexico from a Bus Window - Time

On the highway to Mexico City, our bus takes us alongside great agricultural fields: agribusiness. Smaller, family-worked fields are also visible. Farm 'technology'—I can't think of a better word—spans two centuries.

Time itself seems altered as we take in the sight of plows pulled by ox teams or horse teams. Modern tractors pull plows in other fields. In Mexico the ancient and the modern live—they co-exist—side by side.

The bus speeds past fields where laborers are picking product—radishes, maybe?—from plants with deep green leaves close to the ground. In many fields, a man or two works with a manual farm tool—hoe or machete. The poignancy of this faithful trabajo (work) tugs at me. Setting aside the timeless quality of the men’s labor, I can’t help wondering about the efficiency of their traditional methods.

We see a variety of farm conveyances. It seems we’re watching a split screen showing two centuries. Horse-drawn farm carts loaded with harvest plod steadily down a nearly empty road running parallel to the highway. A few miles later, modern pick-up trucks outfitted to carry farm products to market pass our bus on the highway.

We pass both irrigated fields and fields lacking irrigation. We pass an area where pueblos creep up the sides of cerros (hills), undoubtedly to preserve productive farm land. We pass immense white-roofed greenhouses where fruits and vegetables are grown both for domestic consumption and for export: hydroponic lettuce, berries of all kinds, and much more.

Then we observe a curious phenomenon. With unsettling regularity and set right smack in the middle of large, fallow, open fields stand modern, multi-storied buildings. Their size and style shout ‘Multinational Corporation’. Few, if any, cars are in the parking lots. It’s difficult to know what purpose these buildings serve. Signage is minimal. Warehouses? Could be. It remains a mystery.

Changing buses in Mexico City, we head for Cuernavaca, which has been a weekend and vacation destination for Mexico City’s wealthy and landed classes since Colonial times. On the road to Cuernavaca, we observe a transition.

The modest pueblos we passed entering Mexico City slowly yield to increasingly visible wealth. Upscale fraccionamientos (large subdivisions) hint at the luxury of homes nestled safely inside secure walls.

Arriving in Cuernavaca, I feel like a country mouse in the Big City. Capital of the State of Morelos, Cuernavaca is another world—another tile in the cultural mosaic that is today’s Republic of Mexico.

When we were new arrivals in Pátzcuaro, our Mexican friend Norma observed that “Mexican culture has many levels, and each level is rich.” Each time I encounter yet another facet of Mexican culture, my appreciation for the wisdom of her observation grows.

A Connecticut friend wrote that he’s eager to read my description of Cuernavaca. His mother is Mexican-American, and he recalls spending summers on his uncle’s ranch just outside Cuernavaca: “We rode horses to the mercado (market) in Cuernavaca for comida (mid-day main meal).”

I’ve heard similar comments from Patzcuarenses (Pátzcuaro born). In both pueblo and state capital, it is safe to say that the days of tying horses to hitching posts are gone forever—although I hasten to add that horses are still used regularly to deliver firewood to houses in Pátzcuaro.

The truth is, I can’t write about Cuernavaca right now. Our time there was a private visit to renew—and extend to new family members—a cross-cultural and cross-language friendship that goes back almost twenty years. A valued friendship was warmly, joyously, inclusively renewed. In today’s world, it doesn’t get much better than that.

But it doesn’t leave me with a lot to write about Cuernavaca either. Instead, I find myself feeling the profound difference between a modern Mexican city—perhaps especially one as cultured and beautiful as Cuernavaca—and Pátzcuaro, where we live. It has taken days for me to be able to articulate the feeling, but it has to do with how residents in the two locales regard time and space.

Reed has written about how in the global world the Internet and social networking tools erase ‘time’ and ‘space’. As a corporate consultant, I participated in real-time video conferences attended by people located around the globe. ‘Time’ was ‘now’ regardless of what ‘time zone’ local clocks showed. 'Space’ was defined by the computer ‘screen’ we all watched, regardless of where we were physically located.

Cuernavaca strikes me as a modern, possibly even global city more or less decoupled from the land in a way that ‘frees’ the notion of time from the seasonally-based agricultural cycle. Once ‘liberated’ from the land, time becomes more ‘progressive’. People are more inclined to schedule X-event to occur on Y-date at Z-hour.

In contrast, life in Pátzcuaro is still inextricably linked to the land (‘la tierra’). Now we await the arrival of the spring rains, expected any day. Campesinos wait for the rains to arrive so they can begin planting maíz (corn).

Yesterday morning I heard cohetes (rockets) going off at 5:00 AM, calling the faithful to mañanitas (morning prayers). Today I found out the cohetes were for the Fiesta of San Isidro Labrador, patron saint of farmworkers (Labradores).

But there’s more. Several people described San Isidro to me not only as the patron saint of farmworkers, but as patron also of the rains and of the earth. I take notice whenever reference is made to natural elements. I’ve come to expect a connection to Mesoamerican culture.

My vigilance is rewarded. Tlaloc is the Aztec god of rain. Coatlicue is the Aztec goddess of the earth and of fertility. One might be forgiven for imagining that the Catholic Saint Isidro of Farmworkers rests atop this ancient Mesoamerican belief. It's one more dramatic example of syncretism—the intermingling of two or more belief systems.

It was all beginning to make sense. Last Friday I had passed by Plaza Chica (Little Plaza, or commercial square) on my way to run an errand at the Post Office. Streets on two sides of the Plaza were closed to traffic, and the large area in front of the Teatro Emperador (Emperor Theater) was filled with young Purhépecha women wearing traditional dress for fiestas.

A banda was playing traditional Mexican music. Dancers were performing the Torito (Little Bull), beloved balet folclórico (traditional folk dance). Men and women on horseback watched the proceedings. Men dressed as women (as for Carnival) clowned around while passing around a box and asking spectators for donations.

It was the first day of the Fiesta of San Isidro. The sights and sounds of fiesta—the vibrant colors, traditional banda music, dancers and dances—are a vivid reminder of the sensual connection between Pátzcuaro’s daily, cultural rhythm and this pueblo’s ancient relationship to the land.

The Mexican writer Maria Luisa Puga observes that Patzcuarenses live as if time and space were ‘naturally’ one. In this place called Pátzcuaro, it is time for the rains to arrive.

It is time to plant seeds in Fertile Mother Earth where they can receive Tlaloc's life-giving rain. So it is that in this time and place, the cycle of life continues…as it was millennia ago in Mesoamerican culture, as it is today, and as it shall forever be....

Easter Sunday in Pátzcuaro

This morning dawned clear and bright at Casa Mariposa.  Easter Sunday was heralded by the inimitable sound of cohetes—rockets, or large firecrackers—calling the Faithful to Mañanitas, Morning Prayers.  I'm not quite sure why the cohetes sound so reassuring and friendly; perhaps it is knowing that they take the place of bells in the smaller churches around Lake Pátzcuaro.

Easter Sunday is mostly a Family Day.  Our favorite restaurant in Pátzcuaro, el Camino Real (the King's Highway), is decorated for the occasion with blown-out eggs hung on a tree. The symbolism is unclear, but eggs are clearly fertility symbols in anticipation of the approaching planting season.

The restaurant's cocineras (Mexican chefs are traditionally women) will be kept hopping all day preparing  almuerzo (brunch) in the late morning, followed by comida (dinner) in the afternoon.

Tables will be set up in a covered patio area in front of the restaurant to accommodate customers. Meanwhile, the restaurant's cheerful meseros (waiters) will quickly push tables together to accommodate family groups easily numbering ten, fifteen, even twenty or more people per family.

One of my favorite sounds in Mexico is the muted, comfortable sound of family conversation punctuated by the gentle laughter that seems to come easily and often during these family celebrations.

Easter Message from Pátzcuaro

For this extranjera (foreigner) living as embedded as possible in a Mexican neighborhood, it is increasing awareness of and respect for the acute Mexican sense of the dualism that characterizes all life.

In the Mexican sensibility, every condition of human life is characterized inevitably by its opposite state—life and death, joy and sorrow, laughter and tears, success and failure, bitter and sweet—the list is as infinite as the states of the human condition.

When we first arrived, I experienced as jarring, discordant, the automatic reminder by our Mexican friends of a condition's opposite state.  Being reminded of a condition's opposite denied me the luxury of relishing—or wallowing in—a current state.

But over time, I've discovered the wisdom inherent in recognizing the Essential Duality of Life:  no condition—positive or negative—lasts forever.  I'm mindful of St. Paul's comment from his imprisonment:  "I've learned in whatever state I am, therein to be content." 

It is in this context that perhaps we can approach an understanding of the suffering and penance of Good Friday and Holy Saturday as the necessary precursor for celebration of the Risen Christ on Easter Sunday.

¡Feliz Pascua!  Happy Easter!

Holy Saturday: Silent Procession in Pátzcuaro

The Procession of Silence on Holy Saturday night before Easter Sunday is a time of deep penance. 

Men dressed in medieval-style robes of purple or black, their faces and heads covered by conical caps, walk barefoot through the streets, together with images of the Crucified Christ, the Sorrowing Virgin Mary, and John, the Disciple whom Jesus charged with caring for his mother, Mary. 

Children carry symbols associated with the Crucifixion. 

Boy dressed as Roman soldier

Women and girls dress as the women following Jesus. The girl dressed in black in the center represents Mary, who is following a white-robed angel and accompanied by other women.

History of Conical Hoods

A word is needed to explain the conical hoods.  For our countrymen and women in the U.S., the connection to the Ku Klux Klan is instantaneous and fraught.  Here's the story as we understand it. 

The conical cap has a long history throughout the world. It was used during the Spanish Inquisition as part of the clothing of humiliation worn by people charged with heresy before the Inquisition. There is some evidence that this practice is the historical root of the student's Dunce Cap.

Pointed hoods were also used by various Spanish secret orders and Catholic lay confraternities for processions—specifically, the Capirote, or conical cap, was worn during Semana Santa processions held in Seville, Spain.

But the story of how the medieval conical cap came to be adopted by the Ku Klux Klan is a curious example of cultural diffusion. During the making of the movie (1915), The Birth of a Nation, the costume designer reached into the medieval ages to get a costume idea for the Klan, which by the 1920's had nearly died out. The designer came up with the medieval Spanish Capirote. In the wake of the movie, the Klan experienced a resurgence and adopted the conical cap seen in the movie.

It should be noted that although "Birth of a Nation" is honored for its technical innovations as one of the One Hundred Best American Films, the racial undertones are deeply disturbing to contemporary audiences.

Conical Cap in Pátzcuaro

But it is safe to say that the tradition of the conical cap in Pátzcuaro's Silent Procession is grounded in the medieval tradition of Spanish lay confraternities, as introduced in Nueva España by the Spanish monastic orders. In Pátzcuaro, barefoot penitents march in the Silent Procession in search of atonement for their sins.

The Procession of Crosses on Good Friday Night and the Procession of Silence conveyed to Reed and me powerful feelings of the suffering that humans are capable of inflicting on one another—as represented by the image of the Crucified Christ. 

But these annual processions also convey the love and devotion that Mexican Catholics have for these very realistic images that provide them with a tangible connection to their God.

Good Friday in Pátzcuaro

Gazing periodically out the iron gate of Casa Mariposa on the outskirts of Pátzcuaro, Reed and I watched a steady stream of cars heading toward Centro (downtown) in advance of Good Friday. Based on our week-long observation, we're confident that the cars bear license plates from all over Mexico—Puebla, Jalisco, Guanajuato and Querétaro and, above all, the Distrito Federal or Mexico City.

Pátzcuaro is a destination on religious pilgrimages of the faithful throughout the year. But observance of the days preceding Easter are especially powerful and emotionally charged. 

The stage is set, as it were, by the Altar de Dolores (Altar of Sorrows) that are set up in more than twenty locations in Centro—not only in the Básilica and Churches but in the Palacio Municipal (City Hall), Library, local Theater, hotels, schools and even some private houses, including the Bishop's Residence, situated on the Plaza Grande. 

By far, the most elaborate and beautiful of these Altars is the one set up in front of City Hall (see below), which induces a distinct cultural jolt among those of us raised in a tradition of strict separation of Church and State.

Altar de Dolores (Altar of Sorrows), Palacio Municipal, Pátzcuaro

Semana Santa, Holy Week, in Pátzcuaro is very different from Holy Week in the United States. Almost all Mexicans are Roman Catholic, and their Easter traditions originated in Catholic Spain 400 years ago. 

Processions through the streets and other events represent the last week of the life of Jesus. The images are extraordinarily vivid in their portrayal of the suffering and crucifixion of Jesus and of the suffering of his mother, the Virgin Mary. They provoke an immediate emotional reaction. To those of us with a Protestant heritage, they can be strange and even disturbing . Here you will encounter this Mexican experience.
Good Friday morning began for us with the procession up to Calvario Church, located on the road leading up the volcanic mountain called Estribo.

In the procession, men and women from the Church's confradas (lay service organizations) carried on their shoulders wooden platforms on which rested statues of Jesus, Mary, and John the Disciple, whom Jesus charged with caring for Mary.

Women of the Confrada carry the image of Mary, Mother of Sorrows

The men of the confrada wore shirts bearing the message (loosely translated), "Jubilee Year celebrating 350 years of miraculous movement of the Lord of the Third Order." (Third Orders are church lay organizations, distinquished from clergy and monastic orders.)

Message on back of shirts worn by men in the Confrada

When the procession reached the area in front of Calvario Church, a man from the Church, in a reenactment of the crucifixion of Jesus, was placed on an actual wooden cross. On either side of 'Jesus' were two other men representing the two thieves.  All three remained on their crosses for less than an hour before being taken down.

The crowd of watchers then began to disperse—many taking advantage of traditional Mexican food offered for sale by residents of houses along the route of the procession. One family had offered chairs on their balcony for observers willing to pay for a better view.

Tonight after dark was the Procession of Christ Crucified. We waited patiently with others for the arrival of the procession. We spotted the white canopy first, but had no idea what it was until it close enough for us to see a priest walking under it, carrying the Host, which embodies the presence of Christ.

Following the priest came a seemingly endless procession of Crosses, brought by the confradas from their Churches in Pátzcuaro and from Churches in nearby pueblos to be part of this procession.  The first Cross was cradled tenderly in the arms of two men.

Christ Crucified is draped in purple, which symbolizes His Suffering and Passion.

Next came the Cross of the Sacred Heart. The handwritten sign, "The Holy Cross of Saint Lazarus," touched me for its unapologetic simplicity.  

Next came a Black Christ. 

Christ shrouded in His Tomb. 

The Sorrowful Mother of Christ dressed in the black of mourning, carried by women of the Confrada. 

The Cruz Verde, or Green Cross, with the Rays of God emanating from the empty cross draped in white, which symbolizes not only purity, but mourning as well. The Cruz Verde was the only 'empty' Cross in the procession.

The color green carries complex symbolic meanings. In the Aztec culture, green connoted royalty because it was the color of the quetzal plumes worn by Aztec chiefs. Green is also associated with resurrection and regeneration. Fiesta Day for Cruz Verde is May 3, which coincides with planting in the Lake Pátzcuaro region.

The last Cross was remarkable for its humanity and its simplicity. 

The Procession ended as it began...in silence. We, like the others who had stood near us watching, began walking away slowly, quietly, reflectively.  

Fiesta to Celebrate First Year in Patzcuaro!

Yesterday, Saturday, August 15, 2009, marked our one-year anniversary of living here in Pátzcuaro. We celebrated with a fiesta familiar (family party) for about 40 of our Mexican friends to thank them for welcoming us into their community. We even had a DJ and music for dancing!

A family party means multiple generations. The oldest was 80 -- the great-grandmother of our friends Sandy and Alejandro's son, Leonardo. Norma (Leo's grandmother) is my age; she has a wonderful sense of humor -- we truly enjoy chatting together! The youngest was 16-months. To my great delight, the boys (about 6-8 of them) kicked a ball around in the backyard. It reminded me of our last house on Lake Waubeeka in Danbury, CT.

Samantha, the administrator at our language school, did the cooking, which was 100% traditional Mexican -- guacamole and frizole (bean) dips for totopos (tortilla chips), pozole (chicken-corn soup), corundas, tamales, we had it all! Plus atole (a hot, corn-based drink with milk and cinnamon -- yummy). Believe it or not, I introduced everyone in Spanish by telling our "recuerdos" (memories) of the role they played in welcoming us to Pátzcuaro -- to much good-natured laughter and applause as everyone learned of everyone else's role.

What a lovely group of people -- many really didn't know each other, but by the end of the evening, they were all interacting and everyone enjoyed themselves -- especially Reed and me!

The DJ was terrific. He played traditional Mexican songs and, at our request, kept the volume down so we could converse. Everyone -- young and old -- danced and thoroughly enjoyed themselves, that was clear! Reed, of course, charmed everyone with his dancing, and he made it a point to dance with every woman! Our friend Antonio has four daughters (23-12), and it was delightful to watch him dance with them.

One traditional dance seems to go on forever -- hands up in the air, dancing "sexy" (in English, with Spanish pronunciation!), and other moves I don't remember; finally, we all made a circle and each person takes a turn in the center of the circle, demonstrating their best moves to much high hilarity. It was a kick -- an absolute kick!