Butterflies

In memory of Yael

For me, travel is a magical adventure. I prepare a little, I plan only in broad strokes, and mostly, I let the people and events I meet along the way determine the actual itinerary. I think that is why Adventure and sometimes Magic feel welcome to join my travels.

We were on our way to the state of Michoacan to visit a Monarch Butterfly Reserve. Lonely planet names three of the four reserves, and claims that the one near the city of Zitacuaro "by far" the best location. Traversing Mexico City traffic took more time and more energy than I anticipated, and it became clear that we would not reach Zitacuaro that night. I remembered that Valle de Bravo, one of Mexico's Magic Pueblos is along our route. It was easy to substitute a large industrial city with a small colonial town. We arrived in Valle de Bravo just as the sun was setting over the mountains. The town is nestled among tall, forested mountains, and its steep cobbled streets lead down to a pretty lake. The Zocalo at the town center is an elegant example of colonial architecture. This was a charming place, and I thanked the traffic jam that brought us here.

The familiar image of the Monarch Butterfly jumped at me out of a brochure lying on the hotel's front desk. Apparently, there is a butterfly reserve near town. I was skeptical. First, we were in the State of Mexico, not in Michoacan, which is "Home of the Monarch Butterfly". Second, if Lonely Planet did not mention this place, it could not be very good. However, I felt that unlike my younger son who avoids restaurants unless they have a Zagat rating, I could afford to make mistakes. I reasoned that this could be the fourth reserve, the one not named in Lonely Planet, and that half an hour drive is worth the try. I decided to postpone our departure for Zitacuaro by one day.

We left early in the morning. As we ascended the scenic road leading to the reserve (Elevation: 3000 meters), an orange blur passed by the windshield. Then another one and then many more Monarch Butterflies were in the air. I slowed to a crawl, not wishing to harm any of the pretty creatures. A short distance further, we met the local guides and their horses. We hired a guide, declined the horses, and entered the dense forest. As we ascended the steep dusty trail, the butterflies diminished in numbers, and then disappeared. It did not make sense.

"Where are the butterflies?" I asked the guide.

"They have a different way down" she answered shortly, in a typical Indian style.

Seeing the question mark on my face, she continued.

Each day, she explained, as the sun warms the forest, the butterflies fly down from their habitat in the fir trees to a water source below. They all return up the mountain just before dark.

As we neared the rim of a narrow wooded canyon, we were confronted with a dreamlike vision. Beams of sunlight, made visible by the dust in the air, shone through the tall dense forest. Like floodlights, the sunbeams directed our attention towards the main characters of the scene. Thousands, if not millions of golden butterflies, formed a fluttering, undulating river flowing just below the canyon rim. The silent river shimmered orange and gold in the sunlight. After absorbing the view, we resumed climbing the winding trail. As we turned one corner, another miracle happened. The trail, and the butterfly river merged, and we found ourselves immersed in the three-dimensional flying river. The three of us fell silent, appreciating the wonderful encounter. I was transfixed, I stretched my arms, and large, beautiful, airy creatures flew around me. They flew close, but did not make contact, and unperturbed they continued on their way. I lost track of time. The butterflies looked so light, calm, and free. If there are spirits, I thought, that is what they would look like. I had to force myself to start walking again.

Luckily, we were first on the mountain. On our way down, we encountered a large group, some on foot some on horses. Their laughter and chatter may not have disturbed the butterflies, but it would have certainly broken my spell.

On the road home, we encountered the butterflies again. I drove only slightly faster than walking speed, extended my arm out of the window, and keeping pace with the butterflies surrounding my hand I wished them good bye and good luck in their travels.

P.S.

This encounter occurred on the morning of Tuesday, March 3.

Carnaval

Day 2

Wailing sirens stopped me from the final act of despair. I was getting ready to stop the horror. Four hours ago, I took my place on the cold metal bleachers waiting for the opening parade of the Veracruz Carnaval, and I was still waiting. I tried several remedies for my growing frustration. I walked the parade route one mile in each direction, I watched bikini-clad girls gyrating their hips on an elevated stage, and I attempted to meditate in the midst of thousands of people. All the attempts failed, and my depression deepened. I watched street vendors dispensing gallon-sized beer bottles, and maybe perversely, decided against this sort of depression medication. After the warning sounds, the crowd in the street below started moving slowly but uniformly away from the direction of the sirens. Soon, a police phalanx, carrying transparent shields, and wielding long batons, cleared the route. The parade has arrived. One uninspired float followed another, interspersed with marching bands composed of middle-aged men. Only one Samba school, featured feather plumed, half-naked dancers, and managed to introduce a bit of sex appeal into the festivities.

It was after eleven pm when the parade ended, and we hurried to the masked ball at the Cultural Center. We arrived just as the costume competition was about to begin. Formally- dressed guests sat around an elevated walkway and voted by clapping. The costumes were elaborate. It was clear that the competitors put a lot of thought and effort into the preparation. The audience eliminated my favorite contestant in the first round, but I have to admit that the winning costume was colorful and imaginative. When the Danzon band returned and dancing resumed, Adi and I got onto the dance floor. Danzon classes as well as Wednesday night practice in Oaxaca, allowed us to have fun without embarrassing ourselves. In fact, several of the guests provided us with compliments as well as dance tips. Another dancer who also drew attention was Cha-cha-cha from Guanajuato. He competed as "El Danzonero" wearing a bright red suit with matching hat and shoes. His color and flair stood out, as he masterfully guided several partners through elegant Danzon maneuvers. It did not take long for Cha-cha-cha to ask for my permission, and escort Adi to the dance floor. I watched them dance, and after concluding that although he is a better dancer, I look better; I relaxed, and accepted the invitation of an elderly senora. Around two in the morning, the band concluded, and we bade goodnight to our new acquaintances. Before departing, Cha-cha-cha made us promise to meet him at tomorrow's Danzon event.

Day 3

Torrential rain hitting the roof woke us up the next morning. Towards evening, the storm subsided, allowing the parade to proceed as scheduled. We decided to skip it. Armed with a schedule of the Carnaval activities, we went to the first public event of the evening, a Salsa band. Salsa was another subject of our dance curriculum in Oaxaca, and we happily joined the celebrating crowd in the small plaza. As happened the previous night, being obviously foreign, and displaying a passable skill at Latin dancing, we attracted several new friends. As I warmed up with the fast-paced Salsa and lavish praise, I had my epiphany. Carnaval is about dancing in the street, not about sitting in a parade.

"Hola amigos" a loud hoarse voice hailed us.

I turned to see Cha-cha-cha, weaving his way across the packed plaza, wearing the same fancy red outfit. Soon he was dancing with Adi. At the end of that dance, a short white-haired octogenarian saw his opening. He stood up from the bench where he sat with his son (sixty plus), and asked Adi for a dance. The cute couple had great fun inventing comic variations of the traditional Salsa. The son and I watched them intently. I was looking for a good camera angle, while he probably hoped that this would not end in a stroke. The dance ended safely to the thundering applause of the audience surrounding the plaza. As the band concluded the last dance, Cha-cha-cha, again, promised to meet us at the Danzon event.

Getting to the Danzon plaza required a taxi ride: Skip. Another stage featured a rock band: Skip. The Zocalo main event was already too crowded for fun (See day 1): Skip. We chose a Latin band playing in another small plaza. With his back to us, next to one of the tables surrounding the plaza, we saw Cha-cha-cha in his flaming red suit. He did not go to the Danzon. We chose a different table. He came to our table to talk, but did not follow up with an invitation to dance. Maybe he suspected we were avoiding him. For the rest of the night it was just the two of us. We danced Salsa, we danced Cumbia, we danced Son… We danced until our shirts were wet and our feet were sore. Then we went home. Carnaval is fun.

Day 1

I did not forget day 1, I just try to ignore it.

Dense fog on the highway made the four-hour trip from Oaxaca a ten-hour ordeal. I had to apologize to the hotel receptionist for being irritable. After the annoying check-in process, we walked to the Zocalo. It was after ten PM, the main event was already in progress. I could hardly see Alejandro Fernandez (A Mexican celbrity) on the giant TV screen, let alone the stage itself. We walked back to the hotel.

Day 4

The Carnaval will continue without us. We headed for the beaches of Costa Esmeralda to decompress.

Post Script

Just prior to publishing this blog, a crowd was gathering in the center of Jalapa (Home of the Jalapeno chili) to watch a mini Carnaval parade. I learned my lesson, and went instead to "Shalom", an Israeli restaurant, to try their Labane. It is almost authentic.