Missing History

This week, I’ve had the chance to visit both the Museo Nacional de Antropología and the Museo del Templo Mayor. They are truly world-class museums (the architecture of the anthropology museum is super cool, with a giant open courtyard and an enormous fountain, plus a pretty decent café) and the buildings of Templo Mayor surround an active archaeological dig, which isn’t something you usually get to see.

And what is truly jaw-dropping about both of these museums is the amount of history they contain, and how little of it is familiar. The exhibits of both museums take you through thousands and thousands of years of humanity—civilizations that rose and fell just like in Asia, Mesopotamia, Europe, only we didn’t spend nearly the same amount of time learning about them.

I don’t have the knowledge or the ability to try to write a synopsis of what I saw and read. I think everyone should see these places and understand the scope and breadth of what came out of these civilizations. Yes, this includes the horrible history of conquest by the Spaniards. It also includes traditions of human sacrifice and bloodshed. But there is so much more—a sophisticated understanding of astronomy, highly-developed agricultural systems, feats of engineering that are kind of mind-boggling (not just the temples and pyramids, but paved streets, drainage systems, and aqueducts). The capital of the Mexica empire, Tenochtitlan, was established on an island in the middle of the giant Lake Texcoco and the Mexica (Aztecs) built causeways that were miles long to connect the island to the shore.

Bernal Díaz del Castillo, a soldier under Hernán Cortés when the Spanish first reached Tenochtitlan (which is now Mexico City), later wrote this in his memoirs: “When we saw so many cities and villages built in the water and other great towns on dry land we were amazed and said that it was like the enchantments (...) on account of the great towers and cues and buildings rising from the water, and all built of masonry. And some of our soldiers even asked whether the things that we saw were not a dream? (...) I do not know how to describe it, seeing things as we did that had never been heard of or seen before, not even dreamed about.”

We know what happened after that. And yes, this is how history works—the Spanish dominated and wiped out the Aztecs in the same way that the Mexica dominated and wiped out other cultures, as did the Maya, as did other Mesoamerican cultures. It’s distressing on many levels but what thing that stands out to me is the question of what knowledge and information about all those other peoples has been lost?

History, as they say is written by the victors. But it sucks that in the process of writing that history, so much of what was accomplished by the losers—for lack of a better term—disappears. I think about all the Aztec and Mayan codices—libraries full of them, according to some of Cortés’s conquistadors—that the Spanish destroyed, especially the Catholic priests. What kind of information was in there? What could we have known earlier that we then had to rediscover, if we ever did rediscover it? It didn’t just damage the culture of those in Mesoamerica—it was a loss for all of us, as humans. The fact that so much of this ancient history still isn’t all that familiar to people is just an extension of that deprivation.

And not to get political here, but I think this is one of the things that really burns my bacon about the modern day book bans. How dare you deprive me, or anyone else, of knowledge? How arrogant of you to think that only your world view matters—that the experiences and information gleaned by others are bad or worthless. All this is part of our collective heritage and no one has a right to take that away.

Ahem.

Anyway, the point of this post was to highlight how impressive and overwhelming and amazing all this history is and if you come to Mexico City, please go to the museums and soak it all up and also don’t vote for anyone who wants to censor knowledge.

Tepotzlán

I’ve been taking an online Spanish course through Babbel. And in my course, the fictional characters of Peter and Carmen are taking a trip to the Pueblos Mágicos—little towns around Mexico with art, culture, etc. One of those towns is Tepotzlán which, conveniently, is only an hour from CDMX by bus.

So yesterday, we made our way to the bus station, stumbled through the purchase of some tickets, hopped on a big red bus with curtain-lined windows and saggy seats, and took a little ride south of the city, into the mountains. You don’t see much landscape in the city—I know there are volcanoes nearby, which means there are probably mountains, but you can’t see them. So it was pretty cool to roll into this little town and see these towering limestone mountains right behind it. It sort of reminded me of how Telluride backs up into the mountains in that box canyon.

And way up near the top of one of the cliffs was a white stone structure—the ruins of El Tepozteco, an Aztec temple dedicated to Tepoztēcatl, the Aztec god of pulque (a fermented agave wine). Time to climb. Actually, time for a big huevos rancheros breakfast and then time to climb. It’s pretty much 1,100 feet straight up a set of stone steps (some more stair-like than others and all of them uneven) for a little over a mile. Like a tortuous stairmaster and the huevos may have been an error—there was a moment where it seemed like they might make a reappearance. But the view from the top was excellent and it was pretty cool to climb the last few (narrow, terrifying) stairs to the top of a 500-year-old temple. I don’t envy the people who had to haul all those stones into place.

And then… the descent. Which in some ways was harder. Yes, we had gravity to assist us but you had to be so careful about where you put your feet and I was suffering from serious sewing-machine leg by the time we got down. And once we were down, we still had to walk another mile to get back to our hotel WHERE THERE WAS NO POOL. But there was a hot shower. And a king-sized bed (have I mentioned that the bed in our apartment is a double? It is.). And after a short rest, we were ready for second breakfast or first dinner or whatever. Something delicious and cheap, please.

The market was just a few blocks away, so that was the obvious choice. I think it’s an open-air market but everything is covered with colorful tarps and there are tons of stalls run by women who are mostly cooking the same thing (quesadillas, tacos, huaraches, and a local specialty called itacates—thick triangular tortillas, sliced open, and stuffed with the filling of your choice - not fundamentally different from quesadillas but quite good). All the tortillas are hand-made, right on the spot. All this to say that the center of the market smelled amazing and was about 20 degrees hotter than outside. We saddled up to Doña Ange’s for two quesadillas—one with huitlacoche (corn smut, or fungus, it tastes better than it sounds) and the other flor de calabaza (squash blossom). The quesadillas come to you lava hot off the griddle and then you have an array of salsas to choose from, ranging from fairly mild to screamingly hot. I wanted another one once I’d finished but Scott told me I had to wait and not spoil my dinner.

On the left there is Doña Ange, making tortillas. On the right is breakfast the next day—chilaquiles with huevos revueltos and a flor de calabaza itacate, at Doña Irma-Edith’s. Plus cafe de olla, which is super sweet, spiced coffee. Honestly, the chilaquiles might have been the best I’ve ever had. Could have been the setting but they really were good.

We made one other stop, at the Ex Convento de Tepoztlán—a former convent that’s now a UNESCO World Heritage Site (although I had no idea about this until after). It’s a beautiful, quiet, and contemplative space. What remains of the art on the walls only hints at how stunning it must have once been.

Glad we stored up some peace and calm because the bus ride back to CDMX was a bit harrowing, with questionable brakes, bad smells, and the Spanish translation of Sonic The Hedgehog blasting over the onboard entertainment system…

Tres museos

We got some culture! Three museums in two days, one of which was Casa Barragán, a museum we’d tried to go to last time we were here but messed up the calendar and then missed our entrance time by an hour. The image above is from a postcard of that museum—you have to pay an additional $30 to be allowed to take photos. It didn’t seem worth it. It’s a beautifully designed house and I can see why architecture and design nerds love it. But it was a true pain in the ass to get tickets, the cost was pretty high, and, while I’m glad we went, I don’t know that it quite lived up to the hype. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d move right in if given the option (but we’d need to rip out the shag carpet).

However, the use of color in the space was REALLY cool. Walls painted in bright yellow. Panels of gold paint that reflected the light in such a way that the whole room filled with a golden aura. High ceilings that let in tons of light from the outside. The image above was of a section of the roof patio, which was this expansive tiled space, surround mostly by white walls, with a few walls painted in bright pink and orange. There was nothing else on the patio—just the sky above and some trees draping their foliage over the tops of the walls. The guide referred to it as an open-air chapel and I’d agree. It felt like a space for reflection and contemplation. I might have made it a little less austere if I lived there, though—add some plants in pots and make it more of a space I’d want to spend lots of time in. But I get the sense that Barragán was pretty austere—he never married, his bedroom had just a single bed, and there was a lot of religious iconography throughout the house.

This mural was in another museum we visited—el Palacio de Bellas Artes. I’d actually seen it before, in Denver of all places, when the Denver Museum of Art had a Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera exhibition. The Rockefellers had commissioned Rivera to paint the original version of this mural—known as Man at the Crossroads—at the Rockefeller Center in New York. However, after the mural was completed, Nelson Rockefeller told Rivera he had to paint over the portrait of Lenin (you can see ol’ V.I. Lenin just to the right of the central character, between the propeller wings).

Rivera refused and later that year, the Rockefeller Center plastered over the top of the mural, destroying it. Luckily for all of us, Rivera had taken black and white photos of the mural, anticipating that this might happen. He used those photos to recreate the mural—which he renamed it Man, Controller of the Universe—at the Palacio de Bellas Artes.

This art-deco building is primarily a performing arts space but it’s also filled with art. While Rivera’s mural is probably the most well-known piece, the palace is filled with other enormous, floor-to-ceiling murals on the walls overlooking the central atrium. Definitely worth the visit and it’s a gorgeous space—the details are super cool and I’d love to see a performance here. But I’m going to skip to the final museum now, which might have been my favorite of the three.

There isn’t much I like more than an activity at museum. I still have a postcard I made about ten years ago at the Denver Art Museum. So when I learned that not only was there a printmaking museum (Museo Nacional de la Estampa) but that you got to make your own art? Sign me up.

It’s a smaller museum dedicated to Mexican graphic arts—printmaking, lithographs, woodcuts. It heavily featured one artist—Patricia Soriano—although I think they change the exhibits pretty often. She had an interesting mix of pieces, most of which were pretty bizarre and a little dark.

You can see she’s pretty varied in her style of art and this is just two of MANY. No painting the same pond of water lilies over and over again here. It’s that woodcut style, though—the one on the left—that I really like. And guess what? When you’ve finished your tour of the museum, you can go into the workshop and make your own. Which I did. If you want to see them, you’ll have to come to my house. But if you don’t go to my house, you should definitely go to this museum.

Ya estoy de vuelta

It’s been over five years since I’ve posted here. There have been many, many trips in between now and then but I hadn’t felt particularly inspired to set anything down about any of them. But this trip is a little different. We’ve decided to spend a month abroad but in just one place—Mexico City.

We were here before, almost exactly four years ago, visiting a friend who worked for the UN High Commission on Refugees and who’s posting put her here for several years. By the time we arrived, she’d been here a bit and knew the city quite well, so we definitely benefited from her knowledge. Not having to parse a guide book to figure out where to go, where to eat, what to do? Skipping the tourist traps? No doubt her tips contributed to the fact that we kind of fell in love with the place. I’m pretty sure we made immediate plans to come back within a year. And then—COVID.

It took us four years but we’re back. Our friend has been posted to Brussels, so while we have lists of places to eat and things to do, we’re also solo this time. And technically, we’re trying to do things a bit differently. Instead of straight up tourists, we’re going to live here for a bit. Which is nothing revolutionary—walk down any of the streets in the neighborhood where we’re staying and you’ll find expat gringos at every coffee shop, bar, and taco stand. And this isn’t new, either—Americans have been coming to Mexico to live for centuries. Who can blame them? Cheaper, nicer weather, good food, diversity, rich history and culture—sign me up.

But despite all this, it’s interesting to inhabit one place for an extended period of time. I think every time I’ve spent more than a week abroad, it’s either been for school or on some sort of whirlwind trip through multiple places. I haven’t picked one city, one apartment, and just lived there, as an adult, with no syllabus or itinerary dictating what I do. It involves the mundane tasks of going to the grocery store to buy breakfast staples and trying to find cleaning supplies. And while there will be some sight-seeing, I’ll be spending the mornings doing work. It feels easier in some ways—not so pressed for time—but also harder, because I don’t have a sense of routine.

It’s been a bit eye-opening to realize how much I’ve gotten used to my life at home. The grocery store is straightforward. I know where to get anything I might need. I know what to eat to make my stomach feel ok. I can do a regular exercise routine. My bed is my bed. And here, I’m having to learn to adapt, (um, there’s no bowls) which is a skill that I think many of us forget as we get more settled into our ways. As we get old, I guess I should say.

I also don’t have very good Spanish language skills—I’ve been taking online lessons for weeks now but being confronted with actual, living, spoken Spanish made me realize how woefully inadequate my abilities are. I speak at a patchwork, preschool level. I struggle to ask for things (especially politely). It’s sometimes humiliating and always humbling. I hope to get better but there’s just enough English around that it makes it hard. But there’s also just enough Spanish that everything is somewhat of a challenge.

So that’s part of what this particular adventure is all about. It’s not, perhaps, as adventurous as a rail trip across Russia, or visiting a wildlife reserve in Mozambique. But it’s an experience that I hope will stretch me in different ways and get me back into the habit of adapting (that might be an oxymoron).

This Is Why They Make Guidebooks

We spent the last three days in Agonda, a smallish community on India’s western shore, in the southern state of Goa. Think Indian Riviera - lots of little hotels lining the beach with open air restaurants, cabanas, beach umbrellas, cows (yes, cows - even sacred animals like the shore) - and a long, clean sandy beach. The beach was gorgeous. Gentle breakers, bathtub-warm water that you could swim in forever without getting cold, lots of flounder, rays, hermit crabs in spirally shells, and slightly larger crabs whose pincers definitely work. I know because I tested them out. Twice.

Sea cows.

Goa, Scott tells me, isn’t “real” India - it’s very easy (almost too easy - I kept looking around and wondering what the catch was) and feels like touristy beach places everywhere. Lots of good food and souvenirs and there was very little noise, traffic. The air was the freshest I’ve experienced since being here. And it was a definite improvement over what we’d done just prior.

You see, more than anything, I wanted to try to see a tiger while we were in India. Not in a zoo, not someone’s pet. An honest-to-goodness tiger, out in the wild. And while I knew the odds of that were only slightly greater than catching sight of Bigfoot, I wanted to give it a shot - get out into the Indian jungle, see some monkeys, see tropical birds and maybe, just maybe, get a glimpse of a man-eater.

So Scott, being the dutiful and adoring husband, booked us into a hotel in an area called Dandeli, which was home to a tiger preserve. After a 6 hour drive (!) over half-finished highways, crowded with all manner of vehicles (see previous entries), we drove up and up into the mountains, on winding narrow roads, through very jungle-y scenery. A tiger could have appeared at any moment. It didn’t, but it could have. And then we arrived at the Buffalo River Resort where it became quite clear that we had made a serious error.

Think the worst parts of summer camp and you’ll be able to envision the Buffalo River Resort. Mildewy cabins. Frogs in the shower. Mediocre food. Cow pies. Mosquitos. All for an incredibly high price (in booking, they misquoted the price to us). But it was too late to go looking for something else and we quite likely would have ended up at the same type of place, slightly different location. So we decided to suck it up and stay the night. We opted out of the archery, the decaying ropes course and the whitewater rafting, in which you could pay even more money to strap on a helmet and life vest, and paddle around in a what amounted to a large bathtub, while going over one tiny rapid. It was so depressing that I failed to take any photos.

At precisely 6:30pm, the PA system came to life with extremely loud Bollywood music - just in time for the happy hour portion of the evening. Dinner would not be served until 8 - in the interim, you could watch locals try to learn Bollywood dancing. We were not in the mood but we kept telling ourselves it would be worth it because we would be seeing tigers (Tigers!) the next day.

After a sleepless night on stained sheets and lumpy twin mattresses, we got up at 4:15am, packed up our stuff and made a beeline to the car. 45 minutes later, still in the dark, we arrived at the gates of the safari, along with about 30 other sleepy people. They crammed us into an open-air safari jeep - back row - with a big Indian family. And then everyone started talking loudly and taking selfies. In the dark. With flash, without flash, from every angle. The jeep started down the jungle trail and they didn’t even bother looking for animals. They just took selfies by the dozen. It was like a fireworks display - any animal in its right mind would have seen us coming and bolted the other direction.

Needless to say, we did not see any tigers. We saw some deer (boring). And two elephants that were chained up (depressing). No monkeys. No fancy birds. Not even a peacock. Although we did get this nice view out over the neighboring national park. Silver lining?