HEADED FOR MEZCALA

It was Ben’s birthday so we headed out for a long promised day trip to the small village of Mezcala. Our first stop was the Colibri Gardens Cafe just outside of Chapala where bakers Georgina and Peter serve up a fine cup of coffee and a pastry – even gluten free! Then off to explore Mezcala.

As we wander through the village in our car we note the lake to our right where we find 2 parking lots. A Mexican man with a big smile and a messenger bag waves us in to the first one. An older man with a cowboy hat leaves his bench outside the little tienda (store) next door where his wife and daughter (?) sit and follows us in. “I’m a tour guide” the man with the tattered bag calls out. Ben baulks, “Tell him we don’t need one.” The guy spoke English. He got it. But as we walked toward the water he followed us anyway smiling and spewing out a nonstop history lesson. Jose was pleasant enough, with a big smile and obvious pride in his town and the famous island offshore. As I hand him 100 pesos for his time he touches the bill to his lips with a prayer, grateful.

At the end of the abbreviated malecón I see a family of squatters in a makeshift shanty by the water, a fat piglet tied and scraping in the mud nearby. Within minutes 3 different locals holding menus approach us urging us to come and eat at their restaurants there by the malecón. There was no one in any of them. No one. And I admit that with what I saw around me, I would not eat there (though I’ve read that the fresh fish served is quite good). But it was quickly apparent that the people of Mezcal are quite needy. “They’re hungry,” Ben says, hungry for business. Maybe hungry for food as well. He noted as we walked that no one was selling (though the stores were open) and no one was buying. Except for a workman and a young man in a nice car (go figure!) who bought snacks from a vendor by the plaza. There were very few cars, mostly “rattle-traps”, and no handy gas station, though I noted a PEMEX station on the main road on the way in.

When a mother and her young daughter stop to coo over our pup Tumi and ask to pet him, 3 other little girls nearby are smiling, hopeful, so we stop to let them pet him as well. He doesn’t mind and they are thrilled. Along the way I note an absence of elderly and pregnant teenagers, common sites in some areas of Lakeside. There is also an absence of masks.

The Parroquia de Nuestra Señora de la Asunción (Church Of Our Lady of the Assumption) on the plaza, the empty plaza, was built and dedicated in 1971. (Where is the original church? Did we miss it somehow?) An antiquated stone cross and figure of the Señora stand in small patches of grass in front, the only signs of the ancient history quoted by Jose earlier. “Our town is old, very old.” Mezcala was in fact settled by the Coca Indians around 1400 AD, over 100 years before the Spanish conquest.

The Isla de Mezcala holds the distinction of being the site of the last battles of the Spanish conquest, battles won over 4 years (1812-1816) by the native people with slingshots and sticks, enraged by the treatment of their people. But we’ll take that tour another time.

https://www.chapala.com/lakechapala/the-battle-of-mezcala-island/

A small black dog lies curled up on a plaza bench. He looks peaceful and healthy. Gazing down at him I notice his chest is not rising/falling. He must’ve died peacefully in his sleep. I wonder who’s missing their pup and who will find him there. And when.

Outside the village pavement narrows to wheel size trails (blocks?) with virtually no shoulder, just above the lake. We pass buses, dump trucks, vans and cars, moving carefully to the side each time. Drivers wave and smile. No gringos here. Tucked by the upper roadside are rows and rows of chayote vines, complete with wooden produce boxes waiting to be filled. Under one patch of vines sits a table with several pyramids of chayotes, and in front an old red bicycle, both waiting in dappled sunlight. The mountains here remind us of some of the mountains of North Carolina. We are not surprised to learn that the locals have been fighting to keep their land from developers since 1999. They do not want another Ajijic. They do not want an invasion of foreigners. Theirs is “common land”, collective property, and they want to keep it that way.

In 1999 a wealthy businessman from Guadalajara “confiscated” 25 acres and built his “rest home” (vacation home). He soon had the locals to answer to, causing him to surround “his land” with armed guards. The people of Mezcala took it to the government, a government that declines to declare the Coca as an official indigenous tribe since they have lost their native language and trajes (costumes). Lost in the battles of the Conquest. In 2018 the Coca won the right to keep their land, but the businessman had a few months to contest the ruling. I’ve yet to find the latest information. Did Covid halt the battle? And what happens if the Coca keep their land? I feel their pride but can they thrive on the maize, nopales and chayotes they cultivate? A double-edged sword.

https://www.theguardian.com/global-development-professionals-network/2017/apr/04/the-american-expats-moving-into-the-mexican-riviera-and-breaking-up-indigenous-communities

On the way back to Chapala “Los Mangos Restaurante“, a large pumpkin colored sign by the small highway, screams to be discovered. Tucked in a back street fit only for 4wheelers a middle aged Mexican woman smiles as she stirs a big pot, tending a wood fire as her early teens granddaughter with the striking face and budding figure runs past us smiling. Maybe her restaurante is the best (only?) one around but the nurse/spoiled gringa in me says no way will I eat in this poor, broken down village without knowing more. Not with my sensitive stomach.

“Mow-knee!” the young boys called out with expectant faces as we drive by the tiny unremarkable plaza of the unnamed village. “Mow-knee!” I wish now that we had stopped and paid them to let me take their picture. We found the tiny village after following a dual track road looking for the “Jardínes Agua” announced by the tall, faint road sign.  We found Los Mangos instead. We wave and turn the car around climbing back up to the pristine highway.

Coming and going we encounter smiling “weed whackers” by the roadside holding scythes and waving a red cloth, urging us to stop to add change to the propina bucket secured with a red tie to a broomstick that is topped with another red cloth. Unpaid road crew. Volunteers? Wish we’d stopped.  

On the way back we search for the tall skinny pole that holds the road sign for Tomahawk Steakhouse, an unassuming building.  We keep hearing how good it is so we wander in and encounter great service and mesquite grilled meat and veggies. We’ll be back. 

The main street through Chapala offers up a line of vaqueros (cowboys) and a young woman riding sidesaddle in a long white gown headed where? No time for a picture but it registers that this is not a scene common in the States. And less common here since Covid.

As the day ends the music down the street from our house softens, the neighbor’s dogs are quiet and the bugs (crickets?) buzz their lullaby. I lay my head down and am grateful for another day (finally) of discovering the charm of México.