The Lake At Pátzcuaro

  Uruapan, Mexico
Wednesday, November 28, 2007

As I pedalled west through the suburbs of Morelia, the driver of a speeding collectivo minibus, cut in directly in front of me forcing me into the gutter. I struggled to say upright before regaining my balance with the aid of the kerb. The driver had spotted some prospective customers waiting at a street corner but, in his haste to garner a few more pesos, he hadn't seen me. I caught up as the passengers clambered aboard. The driver-side window was wound down in the heat of the day. I greeted him angrily: 'Oye cabron!' A middle-aged bloke looked back at me sheepishly - like being called a bastard was just another part of his daily grind. 'Estas ciego?' I spat sarcastically. But no response was forthcoming. So I screamed 'Mira!' (look!) and cycled off into the traffic wondering if I'd taken the crazy gringo routine a bit too far. Thankfully nobody was following me. Outside the city limits a lightly used two-lane road disappeared into a long avenue of trees and I tried to figure out how I knew the word for 'blind man'.

The sense of being out on the open road once more was liberating. The sudden bout of road-rage seemed to have exorcised the demons of anxiety and self-doubt that had been gathering force within me over the course of the previous few days: I'd lost my nerve on the road to Guanajuato; then I'd lost the precious key fo my bicyle lock. A heavy shower on the road out of town washed any remnants of frustration way. Rounding the bare cone of a hill scarred black by opencast mining, the storm clouds parted to reveal the promise of blue sky. The route wound upwards through pine forest towards the spur of a gently undulating ridge. Warm sunshine and a gentle breeze greeted my arrival at the pass. Pausing awhile to catch my breath in the thin air, I considered the prospect of the lush volcanic hills that lay ahead. Then, switching up through the gears, I leant over the handlebars to enjoy the exhilaration of descent coasting down through bend after bend with hardly a car in sight. I was on my way to Indian country.

Grupo Kenda - Purépecha Indian music

The town of Quiroga came into view, nestled in a fold at the foot of the mountains, the two grey steeples of its church rising against the muddy brown waters of the lake beyond. I detoured along the town's main street, in search of nourishment. At the busy marketplace local crafts were on display - elaborate wooden masks and grotesque stone carvings were in much abundance. As I sat outside a café dipping tortilla into a bowl rich beef stew, a brass band marched past in full swing.

I pushed on, along the southern shore of Lake Pátzcuaro's northeast dogleg. A few kilometres further on, a banner across the road announced that a village festival was in progress. Brightly coloured bunting infused with lace-like patterns fluttered across the streets. Stone figures, similar to those I'd seen in the market Quiroga, stood outside artisans' workshops. Passing the cemetery, large elaborate gravestones, topped with miniature replicas of colonial church towers, caught my eye. I turned off the highway and followed a track that curved around the flanks of a long low hill. Partially obscured by trees along the ridgeline lay the ruins of the former Tarascan capital, Tzintzuntzan.

View From the Ruins at Tzintzuntzan

The Tarascan League had successfully kept the Aztecs at bay for many years but was unable to resist the advance of the conquistadores who arrived in the region in the 1520s. Their aim of their mission was twofold: to secure Tarascan recognition of the Spanish crown and to spread the Catholic faith. Initially things went well and relations between the parties were cordial. Then Nuño de Guzman arrived. The new commander was a bloody thirsty tyrant with a lust for gold and little time for diplomacy. After he tortured to death a local chief in an attempt to extract more gold conversions proved much harder to come by. Eventually, the authorities in Mexico City decided that a subtler approach was required. Nuño de Guzman was arrested and sent back to Spain in disgrace. His replacement as governor was the more amenable Don Vasco de Quiroga, a character whose memory is highly esteemed among the Purépecha - the descendants of the Tarascans - to this day.

The complex at Tzintzuntzan was on a modest scale. Along the edge of a raised rectangular platform, covering an area the size of a couple of acres, stood a line of yacatas - elongated step-pyramids built from tightly packed stone. Beyond these fortifications, among the trees, were scattered the indeterminate remains of a number of further structures. I spent the best part of an hour wandering among the ruins, clambering surreptitiously over rocks or just lounging around on the warm thick grass, enjoying the sunshine and the views over the lake to wooded peaks beyond.

Climbing once more, my route wound upwards, past an Indian village hung thick with wooden masks, to the summit of a wooded spur. Freewheeling down through a succession of tight curves, I arrived at the head of the lake's southeast extension. Scarecrows stood guard in the fields while maize swayed in the breeze and the murky waters of the inlet petered out amongst groves of bulrushes. A village appeared, with roaming chickens and stalls offering pineapples for sale, and on the far side of a railway line a busy road junction awaited. The rest of the world caught up with me on the approach to Pátzcuaro.

It was a pleasure to set up my tent again after such a long hiatus. 'You're on a bicycle' interrupted an American lady, 'You must be brave'. I didn't deny it. Along either side of the campground stretched a couple of dozen gleaming white RVs - big fancy camper vans - stretched. Men fanned smoke from barbeques while women put out deck chairs and arranged cutlery on plastic tables. Twanging gringos, fucked-up French, white hair and grey - the snowbirds had landed. Each winter hundreds of thousands of retired and wealthy people from Canada and the colder parts of the United States jump into their 'Recreational Vehicles' and head south to escape the ravages of winter.

Colette was fifty-ish and worked for an environmental agency in Colorado. She was one-zillionth part Irish and came originally from Maryland. She'd met her husband Tony when they both lived in California (one thing that continually fascinates me about North Americans is how open they are to moving vast distances). I told her about my trip and when I mentioned how much I'd enjoyed the U.S. part of it she told me that I simply had to come and join her with her husband, Tony, and their friends for dinner. A few minutes later a man, who I guessed must be Tony, came over, proffering a cold beer.

I stayed at that campsite for the next three nights, and just as during my trip through Canada and the U.S., I was shown great generosity by the snowbirds. They were constantly wondering how dangerous it must be to cycle in Mexico and then offering me food or beer and sometimes both. Having a bicycle was somehow tantamount to being an orphan but I didn't mind - I needed a break from tacos.

The morning after my arrival in Pátzcuaro I set off on foot to explore the former 'Indian capital'. The town, home to some 40,000 souls, is set in a fold beneath a range of wooded hills two kilometres to the south of the lake that bears its name. The first thing that struck me about Pátzcuaro, aside from its obvious beauty, was how great the contrast with its one time archrival, Morelia. Though built in approximately the same era - sixteenth to eighteenth centuries - the style of construction shows an Indian influence in its use of adobe, overhanging eaves and red-tiled roofs. The Pátzcuaro colour scheme of white and ochre - applied uniformly throughout the town - was my lasting impression.

Enclosed by rows of elegant arcaded buildings, the large shady zócalo is reputed to be one of the loveliest public squares in all of México. A ring of tourists watched as a troupe of dancers, clad in native costume complete with masks, performed a lively jig to the accompaniment of a fiddle. From a plinth set amid a cooling fountain the benevolent figure of Don Vasco de Quiroga looked down upon the scene.

Don Vasco came to Michoacán in the 1530s, tasked with repairing relations with the Tarascans following the depredations of Nuño de Guzman. A bishop of the church, he established his capital in Pátzcuaro - to the chagrin of the colonialists at Valladolid - and set about the business of winning souls. In his thirty years in Pátzcuaro Don Vasco established a reputation as a protector of the Indians and he is credited with ensuring their economic future through the introduction of the skilled crafts - such as wood carving and stone carving - for which the area continues to be known.

I turned west and walked along narrow cobbled streets to the edge of town. Here, a sign directed me towards 'El Estribo' and a track climbed uphill through an avenue of cypress, which offered welcome shade. Gaining altitude the grey-brown waters of the lake came into view across the treetops to my right. After half an hour further of huffing and puffing, the forest cleared and a bandstand came into view. perched right on the edge of a perilous drop. The sound of trumpets drifted across the hillside.

Groups of locals picnicked from the backs of pick-up trucks. A sound system pumped out banda and a cowboy offered me some barbequed meat. From the shade of the bandstand a lady with an icebox dispensed bottles of cold beer. Through the dense woods behind, a long straight staircase stretched up several hundred steps to the summit of the mountain. Cradling a cool Corona, I lay down on a warm grassy slope and surveyed the panorama before me, which was truly a sight to behold.

Lago de Pátzcuaro from El Estribo

A dry patchwork of green and brown unfolded across the narrow strip of plain to the lake's edge. Small settlements, guarded over by colonial churches that sparkled in the sun, clustered amidst the fields. At the margins of the lake, channels of water divided around clumps of marshy ground, to form little islets. Above the far shore of Lake Patzcuaro, a dozen kilometres off, rose a green wooded peak, a gently sloping cone near perfect in its symmetry. And, in the distance beyond, lurked more ancient volcanoes, their fertile flanks blanketed in thick forest. From amid the cloudy waters of the lake rose a number of small islands and none of these was more alluring than the stump of Isla de Janitzio, every inch of it's steep sides seemingly covered by building. From a platform atop the isle, a monumental figure of the patriot Morelos, his right arm raised aloft in defiance of imperialism, dominated the scene.

The forty metre high statue of the independence hero Jose Maria Morelos y Pavon atop Isla de Janitizio was conceived and constructed by the government of President Lázaro Cardenas - himself a native of Michoacan - during the 1940s. The left-leaning revolutionary regime had just nationalised the oil industry, much to the chagrin of the United States. The lionisation of a Mexican patriot who had given his life in the struggle against imperialism - albeit of the Spanish variety - was no coincidence.

The fact that Morelos had been a priest was also significant, for in the wake of the Mexican revolution, a vicious anti-clerical campaign had been unleashed.Churches had been closed down and administration of the sacraments had been banned; priests had been imprisoned and even executed. The Church had effectively been driven underground. But the persecution proved deeply unpopular and sparked violent resistance. Under the pragmatic Lázaro Cardenas the anti-clerical campaign was rescinded and priests ceased to be persona non grata.

La Isla de Janitzio

At the harbour next morning I boarded a launch bound for the Isla de Janitizio. My fellow passengers were a mixture of tourists - Mexican and extranjeros - and Purépecha residents of the island. Wading birds looked on as we motored out along a reed-lined channel into the milky-tea waters of Lake Pátzcuaro and set a course for Morelos's house-stacked island plinth. As we progressed towards the isle, the features of the concrete grey statue grew more discernable: the folds in the long flowing robe; the scarf covering the head; the clenched fist salute. The lush volcanic backdrop provided an exotic setting for such a totalitarian monument.

Mirador, Isla de Janitzio

After disembarking, I disregarded the dockside stores pedalling tourist tat and headed for a set of steps. Climbing upwards between tightly packed houses, past the village church and along a bluff running above the graveyard, then more steps, I arrived at the summit of the isle. In a park, formally laid out with low walls topped by bright iron rails enclosing beds of shrubs, towered the Big Brother of Isla de Janitzio - a nineteenth century patriot transmogrified into a socialist hero.

Campo de los Muertos, Isla de Janitizio

Entering the statue via a door cut into the base of the giant's robe, a little Indian girl collected my admission fee. A concrete walkway coiled its way upwards to the patriot's head around the hollow interior. A richly painted series of wall murals accompanied the walkway as it climbed, the murals illustrating graphically - and sequentially - the dramatic events of the patriot's life. While adults paused respectfully to read the captions accompanying the paintings, bored children ran amok. The chamber resounded with the sounds of their shouting, screaming and laughter.

Morelos came from a poor mestizo family in Valladolid - the city that now bears his name. After being ordained he was assigned to a parish where he got on with his priestly duties. When rebellion broke out in 1810 - motivated by local resentment at the Spanish monopoly on power - Morelos threw in his lot with the insurgents, who were under the leadership of his old spiritual mentor, Father Manuel Hidalgo. Hidalgo was captured and executed the following year but the rebellion continued unabated. For the next four years Morelos commanded an army in the west of the country. Though he won several victories against the Spaniards, he was never able to deliver the fatal blow. In 1815 Morelos's luck ran out. After being defeated in battle, he was captured and put on trial. After being found guilty - and labelled a heretic - Morelos was executed by firing squad. The bloody fight for independence went on for eight more years, finally succeeding in 1823.

Lago de Pátzcuaro from Fist of Morelos Monument

By the inevitable scene of martyrdom an old man bowed his head to mumble a prayer. From the hollow of the faux redeemer's head a narrow staircase wound upwards into the raised arm of the statue. I squeezed my way up to emerge in a tiny chamber at the base of Morelos's clenched fist. Narrow, windowless slits offered stunning views across the lake in all directions. Foolishly, I put my head out through a gap and gazed down to the pavement forty metres below. Immediately the bowel-loosening terror of vertigo seized control. My head was still spinning when two fearless, lively little girls arrived and climbed onto a ledge to get a better view. 'A split-second's inattention must prove fatal!' - or so it seemed. But they only laughed when I implored them to get down. It was time to take my own advice. Arriving back on terra firma, I breathed easy again.

The following morning I packed up my tent, said goodbye to the snowbirds and pedalled west. From the southern shore of Lake Pátzcuaro, my route carried me upwards into pine-covered hills. The heat of the mid-day sun was relentless and the ascent proved to be tough going. Just below a mountain pass I lingered for a last glimpse of the enchanting lake and its monumental isle.

Avacado Plantations on the Road to Uruapan

Any regret I felt about leaving Pátzcuaro dissipated on seeing the impossibly lush landscape that awaited me on the far side of the pass. Thickly forested hillsides dropped away into a verdant valley covered with plantations. In the distance beyond, the sugarloaf peaks of the Cordillera Volcanica tapered off into a blue-green haze. Thundering down through the trees I entered the realm of the avocado pear. Line after line of emerald-green bushes, hung thick with dark teardrops of fruit, stretched off across the slopes.

Pyramid at Tingambato

Hidden among the orchards on the edge of the village of the same name, lay the ruins of Tingambato. I was the day's first customer and the superintendent seemed glad of the company, escorting me through the trees to the clearing that housed the remains. The sound of buzzing insects and of squirrels rustling around in the treetops filled the air. After explaining that the site went back over a thousand years and pre-dated the Tarascan era, the superintendent left me to explore. There wasn't much to see - an old ball-court and a small step-pyramid with a triumphal staircase - but the backdrop of fruit groves and green wooded ridges was exquisite.