Yunuen

"Eight severed heads dumped in a bar." "Seventeen people die in a shootout." "The President vows to combat the violence." That's the face of Mexico you watch on TV or read in newspapers. Yet I saw a different Mexico. I saw a beautiful countryside, vibrant historic towns, and gentle people that greeted me with a smile, easy conversation, and often, an invitation to join in the fun and food of their fiesta. I believed that the violence is restricted to drug gangs, and does not affect regular people. That was last week.

In Patzcuaro, my temporary residence, no one locks their front door, nor talks about crime. In the Plaza, colorfully dressed indigenous villagers mingle with town folk, peacefully enjoying the evening. The Federales (Federal Police), patrolling the town holding M16 rifles at the ready, seem so out of place, that I attributed it to an overzealous reaction of bureaucrats in the Capital. That was last week. That was before I found out about Yunuen.

Yunuen is a pretty, if diminutive, woman in her late thirties. Three times a week we occupy adjacent mats in a Pilates class, where we exchange furtive smiles of common suffering. At the end of each class she raises herself on her toes, extends her arms as far as she can reach, and gives me a long warm hug and a smiling Buenos Dias. It is a perfect start to my day. One evening, while strolling in town, I met Yunuen walking with a young man and a boy. She introduced me to her brother Miguel and to her son Sebastian. Miguel had a nice smile, but seemed too shy to speak much. Neither did the boy. Yunuen pointed to her pastry shop, and I promised to visit during working hours. That was last week. This Thursday, Yunuen did not come to class.

Tania, our instructor, took me aside and told me that Yunuen did not show up because her brother was killed. My heart stopped. Yesterday's extraordinary events raced through my mind. First, the morning quiet was interrupted by the incongruous sound of helicopter blades. The helicopter circled over the town center for a long time, obviously searching for something. Driving out of town, my car was stopped at a police road block. The cops told me that the Chief of Police was shot. Probably a corrupt cop, I thought, and went on with my day. Now, Tania confirmed my fears. Yunuen's brother was Patzcuaro's Chief of Police. I did not know how to reconcile my cynicism of yesterday, with the deep sympathy I felt now. Tania and I walked to town to visit my classmate.

A church stands at the corner where last week I met Yunuen and Miguel. The family was inside, participating in the mourning ritual. These rituals will be conducted for the next nine days. Outside, a group of men were engaged in a hot discussion. I moved closer, expecting to hear details of the crime, or maybe plans for neighborhood vigilance. I was wrong. They were discussing the new water pipes being laid in the street.

We entered the church. When the ceremony ended, I approached Yunuen's mother. She stood almost motionless. Her eyes were red, but depleted of tears. This is not her first casualty. Her husband, Yunuen's father, was a drug enforcement agent. A few years ago he was shot to death. She did not speak. In her trembling hands she held a photograph of Miguel, in camouflage uniform, a rifle across his chest, in the company of his police comrades. They were all smiling. My voice disappeared somewhere inside my throat. Without words I shook her hand, and then held her arm until, at last, I could whisper my sorrow. Yunuen was outside the church holding her son's hand. When she saw me she rose on her toes, extended her arms as far as she could reach, and we hugged. We held each other for a long time, Yunuen sobbing softly, and me trying not to do the same. When we finally let go, she took Sebastian in her arms, and introduced me to Ruben, her husband.

I asked Ruben about the events surrounding the shootings, but it was difficult to make myself understood. My Spanish does not contain the appropriate vocabulary, but I persisted. Finally, Ruben took me aside and explained, in perfect English, that Miguel arrested a gang member, the gang demanded his release, and when Miguel refused, he was shot. The shooters were not caught. Everyone is afraid to do anything. That was all he said. Tania later explained that I made an error asking such questions, "Walls have ears". We said our Goodbyes.

This week I understand the headlines and the M16 rifles. I understand that the violent side of Mexico affects everyone. It's just not talked about.

Kimchi in Alamos

A primal instinct compelled Eunkyong to look up from her laptop. Two figures stepped into the island of light that defined the outdoor café. The woman was much younger. They were both white. The woman was slender, and her face was quiet and kind. The man looked powerful, wore a salt and pepper beard, and grew shoulder-length curls. The new arrivals greeted the café owner in fluent Spanish and sat at the adjacent table. Eunkyong returned her attention to the email she was writing to her sister. She has been writing these letters since she left Korea two years ago. She hoped that by writing detailed descriptions of her travels, her family would eventually accept her decision to leave home, leave Korea, and abandon all prospects of a well-matched marriage. Maybe they will understand why she chose to travel with Isaac, a Weguk (foreigner) and worse, twenty years her senior. She wrote about meeting Isaac's friends in California, about the meditation seminar she attended, and about the jar of Kimchi she bought to keep a taste of home during their trip. She smiled thinking of the effort to keep it refrigerated while exploring Mexico.

She started writing about Alamos, their present location. She recalled her feelings at dusk, as she and Isaac entered Alamos main plaza. The bell tower of the large Cathedral was illuminated by the sun, while the other colonial buildings enclosing the plaza were dark outlines against the red sky. In the central garden, a couple sat on a bench holding hands. On the opposite side of the garden, a young man was softly strumming his guitar. A thin dog lazily moved between the two benches. They lingered in this romantic place, and then wandered off into a narrow cobblestone alley. It was getting dark. The only noise they heard was their footsteps echoing off the high walls. It was the perfect atmosphere for a town that is designated as one of Mexico's "Magic Pueblos". Ahead, a café sign illuminated the tables placed in the alley. The comfortable chairs predicted good coffee and the "WiFi" painted on the wall made the place ideal. They sat down besides the colorful cactus mural, she, to work on the laptop, Isaac, to study Lonely Planet.

"Do you live in town?"

The question-mark interrupted her concentration. She asked the bearded man to repeat. He did so. However, the alley acoustics still made communication difficult. She got up and approached his table. After a few sentences both couples were seated together, engaged in casual information exchange.

Fellow travelers develop a quick and efficient way of describing themselves. Andrea and Allandra were also world travelers. Andrea is from California, Allandra is from Louisiana. They have been travelling for four years. They too do not have a home base. They are not married. As the foursome exchanged questions and answers, Eunkyong felt an increasing sense of excitement and anticipation. Each new detail revealed another unlikely similarity between the two couples. Soon, everyone was caught in her excitement. The questions became more personal and the answers more detailed. Eunkyong could not stop herself from asking about their age difference, and was startled to hear that they were twenty years apart. When Eunkyong cited Korea as her origin, it was Andrea's turn to be excited. He described his intimate connection with Korea. He was a practitioner of Kuk Sul Won, a Korean martial art that emphasized the control of Ki (Life Energy) rather than physical force. Students of Kuk Sul Won can demonstrate incredible gymnastics skills such as running up a wall all the way to the ceiling. Through his Korean master, Andrea learned to love Korean philosophy, culture, and food.

"I felt there was something special waiting for me here" said Andrea looking at Eun Kyong. "I felt your Energy even before I saw you".

Eunkyong remembered her involuntary glance into the darkness, but said nothing.

With each question, Andrea's answers became more elaborate. He spoke eloquently, using his arms and hands to illustrate his story, while Allandra affirmed his descriptions with her active silence. Eunkyong listened intently.

Under the tutelage of his Korean master, Andrea attained a sixth-level black belt and opened his own Kuk Sul Won school. After twenty six years of practice, he knew he had to change his life. He closed the school, parted from his wife and grown children and left home. "Another similarity." thought Eun Kyong. One night, on an Alaskan ferry, he felt restless. He got up to the stern and watched the sea churning. Besides him he saw a young woman doing the same thing. As he learned later, Allandra felt a similar urge. That night they stood in silence, shoulder to shoulder, feeling each other's presence as they watched the water. They have been together since then.

"Where did you two meet?" Interrupted Allandra.

"We met in Korea, on a tour bus. Soon thereafter, I was in love" Replied Eun Kyong.

Andrea went on. For the last four years he and Allandra were exploring the globe, letting each new place provide them with new knowledge. Their shared belief in a higher power, and their common interest in spiritual development, made their twenty year age difference, irrelevant. He continued to develop his mastery of the Energy force, using his own understanding, rather than the methods of his former martial art. However, individual practice has it dangers. One day while practicing, he inadvertently directed an energy field towards Allandra. He watched in trepidation as it hurtled forward and entered her chest. He could see Allandra flailing at the entry point. She then became weak and started shivering. He knew she was dying. To his frustration, nothing he did made her better. Eventually, he summoned his old Korean master, who brought Allandra back to health. This incident did not deter him from continuing to practice. With time he gathered
more power, while at the same time growing more comfortable with the world around him.

While listening to Andrea, Eunkyong reflected on her encounter with Ki. During meditation practice in a Korean temple, she managed to generate an Energy ball between her palms. She could move it, spin it, and change its shape. She did not repeat the experiment, despite Isaac's encouragement to improve this skill. Now, listening to Andrea, she could remember the exhilarating feeling of this energy field. She could almost feel the texture, the pressure it exerted when she pressed her palms closer and the pulling force when she separated her hands. She told Andrea and the others of her experience.

"Please generate the Energy now"

Eunkyong extended her hands across the table, closed her eyes, and started feeling the Energy gathering between her palms. Andrea put his hands above and below hers.

"I feel it." He said. "Relax. Breath"… he guided her gently.

The Energy grew stronger. Eunkyong started sensing Andrea's field, and so they sat for a while, silent, joined without touching.

The café was closing but Andrea and Eunkyong could not part. The foursome agreed to walk a bit. Eunkyong and Andrea strolled close to each other, talking softly. Eunkyong described her sensations and Andrea, in turn, provided her with advice and guidance for future practice. They were almost oblivious to Allandra and Isaac walking in front, obscured by the dark night.

"Do you think our meeting is a coincidence?"

To Andrea it was clearly predestined. He needed to meet a Korean who, like him, rebelled against age- old traditions and went her own way. It will help him absolve the guilt he felt for abandoning his practice.

Eunkyong remained silent. She was not so sure.

Eventually, it was time to say Goodnight and Goodbye, yet Eunkyong felt something was missing. In her culture, a student should always pay for his learning, but what can she gift Andrea that would be meaningful? Then she knew. She offered the jar of Kimchi she loved and nurtured all the way here. Andrea was overjoyed. Kimchi in Alamos was a delight beyond his dreams.

That night, before going to sleep, Eunkyong generated her strongest Energy ball.

Noche Del Muertos (Halloween in Michoacan)

On the week before Dia del Muertos, Patzcuaro turns gold. Temporary stalls on the sidewalks are heaped with Marigolds and Flowers of the Soul (type of Orchid) in a continuous tapestry of orange and violet. Indigenous women from the surrounding villages, wearing their traditional embroidered attire, add their own colors to the flower display. By the end of the week, both the city dwellers and the villagers will have purchase these huge quantities of flowers. In the city, the flowers are used to decorate elaborate home altars for the deceased family members. The villagers use the flowers for the Noche Del Muertos (Night of the Dead).

The village of Ihuatzio, like others around Lake Patzcuaro, is populated by the P’urhepecha, which are descendants of the original inhabitants of this region. They celebrate the Noche del Muertos in a creative mix of their indigenous rituals and the Catholic religion. On that evening, families arrive in the cemetery with wheel barrows full of flowers. They overlay the crosses with marigolds, cover the graves with marigold petals, and place the violet orchids for added effect. Fruits, sugar skulls, and the deceased favorite drink, are placed near the headstone as offerings. They believe that tonight, the spirits of the deceased are coming from the underworld for a visit. It’s a long journey, and they are making sure that the spirit is well-fed and happy. When darkness falls, they light candles around the gravesite as a beacon to light the way. Most families will spend the entire night in the cemetery to participate in the “Vigil for the Spirits”.

We came to Ihuatzio because we hoped that unlike some of the bigger villages, the Vigil will not be spoiled by tourist buses and drunken parties. We were not disappointed. The atmosphere was quiet and solemn, but at the same time, full of joy. The few other tourist that arrived, were also quiet and respectful. As we walked among the graves, the families returned our greetings with enthusiasm and asked us to join them. Exchange of the offerings is one of the customs of this night. As part of this custom, we were given some of the fruits and sugar skulls. We, in return, did our share by gifting those to the next family we visited. As the night grew colder we were happy to accept not just fruit but hot Pozole, a corn-based stew. It warmed my body, and surprisingly, tasted great. Up the street from the cemetery, the village provides activities for residents with shorter attention spans. Kids played in Inflatable trampolines and on an outdoor stage, local groups displayed their singing and dancing skills. We endured a couple of the performances, and walked back to the cemetery. As we left (alas, before dawn) I took one last look at the families huddled together around the glowing grave sites. It is a sight I will not forget.

For more of my Noche de los Muertos photos go to the link below. (You may have to copy and paste this on your browser.)

http://picasaweb.google.com/isaac.ohel/Patzcuaro#slideshow/5264519631517419266