“We do not conquer mountains, nor tame elements.
The true conquest lies in penetrating the self-imposed
Barriers, those limitations within our minds.”
- John Amatt, One Step Beyond:Rediscovering the Adventure Attitude
Chilpancingo, Guerrero, Mexico January 2, 1983
I remember the bus stop in Cuernavaca. I waited for the bus to Chilpancingo, Guerrero in an empty lobby, unusual for Mexico, but it was the middle of January and even in the city of eternal spring, there are lulls and pauses. The name "Cuernavaca" is derived from the Nahuatl phrase "Cuauhnāhuac" and means "surrounded by or close to trees". Cuernavaca was nicknamed "City of Eternal Spring" (ciudad de la eterna primavera) by Alexander von Humboldt in the 19th century.
I remembered as I waited for the bus still coming from D.F. that earlier I had eaten camote y atole in the street corner with my friend, Naim. He was on a student visa and about to graduate. He worried that he’d have to return to Iran when he graduated unless he could afford the lawyer’s fees to get a work permit and be able to stay and work for Pemex in Campeche. In Iran, Baha’i’s could be imprisoned, tortured or even killed for their beliefs, and Naim hoped to avoid such consequences.
As the lone passenger in the station, I patiently waited, but the anticipated bus wasn’t showing up. Time passed and I began to suspect that no bus from D.F. would come. I began to conjure up Plan B and said a few “remover of difficulty” prayers to myself.
Awhile longer and an empty bus appeared out of nowhere as if it had descended from heaven on a white cloud. Apart from the driver, the bus was eerily empty. A ghost bus perhaps? The bus was very new and spotless. The short indigenous lady at the ticket counter called to me in a gentle voice: “Señor, si quiere puede usted ir ahora.” Slightly startled as if I’m waking from a dream or going into one, she explained to me that the bus was going empty to Acapulco, but I could get off in Chilpancingo. Chilpancingo: that clean city in the mountains where bulls are groomed for the bullring; where men in sweaters grow ideas in their heads about having a better revolution in the spirit of Zapata and who were proud of their intellectual eruditeness. Chilpancingo: from the Nahuatl word chilpan, cingo meaning the 'wasp place, or a small' 'small hornet'. Chilpancingo was where I wanted to visit a friend who I had recently met at a Bahá’í winter school in Querétaro who was from Chilpancingo and who had told me when I mentioned that I would like to visit him there that life was boring even with its history of revolution and of raising los toros for the ring.
The bus driver gave me a friendly smile as he watched me negotiate the stairs into the bus with my crutches. I was free to sit anywhere on the bus. I chose a window seat close to the front. After a couple more friendly greetings with the driver, he assumed his role in the driver’s seat and remained quiet. I don’t remember the radio being on. I had entered a clean silence of a new world with a panorama of sunlit, dry hills to take in for the next three hours. My knowledge of the history of the region was sketchy at best, but from what little I knew my mind began to think about Guerrero being the state where “warriors” were born in the rough countryside and raised to revolt like the sting of hornets. Long-suffering described the terrain I watched outside the bus window; wild and rugged, dry and desolate. I remembered a passage from the Writings of Bahá’u’lláh:
“Be unrestrained as the wind, while carrying the Message of Him Who hath caused the Dawn of Divine Guidance to break. Consider, how the wind, faithful to that which God hath ordained, bloweth upon all the regions of the earth, be they inhabited or desolate. Neither the sight of desolation, nor the evidences of prosperity, can either pain or please it. It bloweth in every direction, as bidden by its Creator.” (Gleanings from the Writings of Bahá’u’lláh, p. 339)
The desolation I watched from the bus was more imagination than reality. From the air-conditioned comfort of my padded bus seat, my experience of desolation was a fantasy that I enjoyed, rather than a hardship I had to endure. Had the bus broken down in this bleak, rocky stretch of highway and left me without air-conditioning with hours to sit waiting for repairs, then maybe I could have begun to feel a sense of what desolation might be, but it wasn’t this dreamy journey on a brand new bus that seemed to have been made just for me. Later, long after this short trip was over, I’d read more about those who struggled for freedom, for peace, for human rights in these hills in similar ways at different times; real warriors facing the bleakness of human existence.
Warriors, like heroína Antonia Nava de Catalá, known as "La Generala" in the Mexican War of Independence. When the revolutionary army, surrounded by the army loyal to Spain and starving, agreed to begin sacrificing one another for food in order that most of them could survive, the women offered themselves as a sacrifice instead. Antonia Nava said it was better to die fighting than to sacrifice themselves saying "Give us women weapons and together we will break the siege." In the middle of the night the women armed themselves with machetes and clubs and went out to fight the enemy and eventually the trapped army escaped. Antonia Nava lost three sons in the struggle.
Warriors, like Emilio Zapata, famous during the Mexican Revolution of 1910s for leading an agrarian reform movement, the Plan de Ayala calling for substantial land reforms, redistributing lands to the campesinos of Morelos. Zapata died in an ambush in 1919 at the age of thirty-nine.
Indigenous populations, largely dominated by the extensive Aztec empire by the time the Spaniards arrive, continued to be oppressed under the Spaniards and much of their history didn’t get preserved in written records.
The rugged terrain passed by quietly and too quickly for me to see much more than mesquite and of cacti. My ignorance of history made the blood-covered land seem innocent though jagged. The most desolation that I could claim to have witnessed was windblown memories of the dust they left behind.
My mood varied during the journey. For a while I felt exhilarated by the adventure that comes from travel through the new to the unknown. Movement itself quickened my heart and the landscape outside stimulated my thoughts. My mind pondered Chilpancingo and meeting my Bahá’í acquaintance. I wondered if it would be possible to connect with any indigenous people. Such thoughts plunged me unexpectedly into doubt and made me become preoccupied with the logistical questions of lodging and getting around. The dream-like adventure suddenly sank into a sense of dread and I started worrying about what could go wrong. The predicament of not knowing usually came with a fear of disaster, until I convinced myself that everything was good. I had prayed and decided that I was going for the right reason, to visit an isolated Bahá’í who seldom received visits, and who was aware that I intended to visit him.
Closer to Chilpancingo, bulls began spotting the landscape. I was entering the land of Los toros. Bullfighting was a popular spectator sport in many parts of Mexico, though there was a growing sentiment to ban it, as a cruel, outdated ritual. I had no interest in viewing the ritual, romanticized by Ernest Hemingway in The Sun Also Rises and described in glorifying detail in Death in the Afternoon. Depicting man’s struggle between fear and courage (at the expense of the dispensable bull), Hemingway wrote: “Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter's honor.”
Seeing the dark and horned creatures added to the harsh reality of the landscape. From my comfortable pew, I gazed on world of danger, hardship and long-suffering. No doubt many ranchers and bull raisers had a kinder indebtedness to the land.
Approaching Chilpancingo brought a different presentation of harsh reality. The twin, white towers of the Cathedral of St. Mary of the Assumption were the prominent features when Chilpancingo came in view. Consecrated to the purity and saintliness of the mother of Jesus, the cathedral depicts the station of honor differently than Hemingway’s macho honor of bullfighting. Historically, churches symbolized the conquering of an indigenous people by a foreign, relentless invader, one that merged military power with religious authority. The two together left little doubt who was the boss. After five centuries of domination, sin and violence didn’t cease and perhaps were on the increase. On the other hand, the concept of honor in many native cultures was often linked to mutual respect (at least within the bounds of the tribe). Honor is similarly expressed that way in the Bahá’í Writings: “The injury of one shall be considered the injury of all; the comfort of each, the comfort of all; the honor of one, the honor of all.” ‘Abdu'l-Bahá
The driver dropped me off by the bus terminal, my dreamy ride completed. Arriving at a place for the first time required a pause to assess the surroundings and ponder the options. I decided it best to secure lodgings before looking for Martin, my Bahá’í acquaintance. I found a reasonable place near the plaza by the cathedral. In addition to connecting with Martin, I hoped to possibly visit an indigenous village at least for prayers.
I connected with Martin by phone and he said he could meet me in the plaza by the church. He came shortly afterwards, and we had a pleasant conversation. He repeated what he had told me at the Bahá’í winter school that he thought life in Chilpancingo was “boring”. He said he was the only Bahá’í in Chilpancingo. I asked him about visiting indigenous areas and he told me that the indigenous people lived farther up in the mountains several hours away. He sounded discouraging. We didn’t visit very long before he indicated that he had a commitment to attend to. And I didn’t see him again.
With Martin gone and no Baha’is’ to look for, I did what I understood one does when the next step is uncertain. I found a comfortable place to sit in the plaza and opened my prayer book. I had kept a commitment to visit Martin and just experienced an extraordinary, fantasy-like journey on a magic bus. That, in itself, was worth the trip. I didn’t need to rush off and could stay the night and think about traveling into the mountains. I didn’t feel a strong impulse to decide. As I sat reflecting on what my new purpose was being in Chilpancingo, a young woman wearing a white dress greeted me. I think she was curious about my crutches and that I looked like a lost gringo, but I wasn’t sure. In my ever so cumbersome Spanish, I told her that I had come to see a friend and now was relaxing. She told me that she had come from Acapulco with her mother to pick up a document she needed. She had to come to Chilpancingo for the document, but by the time they arrived from Acapulco the office was closing, and they were told to return in the morning. This seemed to be a common story world-wide that the document one needs can only be obtained in an office far away and the office will probably be closed by the time you reach. I inquired if her mother and she had a place to stay for the night, and she kind of indicated yes, but meant no. I told her that I had a room in a nearby hotel, and if they needed, I would be willing to rent a room for them. She smiled and indicated that it was not necessary. Her mother had gone to find them a place already.
I introduced the Bahá’í Teachings to her, and she expressed interest. I gave her some prayers and literature in Spanish. She saw my camera and asked if I could take her picture. I agree and promised to send her a copy when I had the film developed. This was before digital photography. She posed for a few photos and I wrote down her address in Acapulco. As the afternoon began to fade, her mother came for her and we greeted each other. Her mother, apparently, had found a relative or an acquaintance where they could spend the night. We parted with her saying she would be looking forward to receiving the photos. I didn’t see her again.
The next day, after realizing a trip to the remote regions in the mountains wouldn’t be practical going alone, I went to the bus terminal to go to Mexico City. In a moment of not thinking clearly, I passed by a second-class bus also headed for the mountains destined to a place I could not pronounce, Atlamajalcingo, being boarded mostly by indigenous persons; some loading burlap bags of goods; grandmothers and mothers with small children and others dressed like campesinos. The smell of exhaust and hot brakes filled the air around the bus. As if by involuntary impulse, I purchased a first-class ticket to ride comfortably on an airconditioned bus. Why not? Money wasn’t an issue me with my US dollars, and making better time sounded good. I boarded the express bound for D.F. mostly filled older, stylish women; students in nicely pressed clothes; and a couple foreigners like me. We passed by the same rugged mountains and rough terrain where the black bulls wandered. I wanted to believe that heroic souls like Antonia Nava de Catalá and Emilio Zapata had fought and died for justice and human rights, but I wasn’t sure their struggles had made any lasting difference in the lives of the people. I doubted if my presence in Chilpancingo made any difference to anyone but myself.
My opportunity to experience what country folk usually experience on an old secondhand bus was gone. Maybe if I took more journeys through Mexico in the future, I would be more determined to take that bus seldom traveled by the affluent and tourists and rather choose to be part of the world of those living with the land. I was headed back to Querétaro to connect with friends there. My dream ride had ended, and I was back in the “normal” pace of Mexican life.
Once I was home in Puerto Rico, I had the film developed and I mailed copies to my friend in Acapulco along a few Bahá’í pamphlets. I think her name was Juanita, common enough. I’ve since lost my copies of the photos and her address. I never heard from her again and I don’t know if she ever received the photos and Baha’i pamphlets. I guess the details on how the story might have ended wasn’t important. Some things are best left in the dream world.
NOTES AND POEMS
I: THE WORLD IS BUT A SHOW
“The world is but a show, vain and empty, a mere nothing, bearing the semblance of reality. Set not your affections upon it. Break not the bond that uniteth you with your Creator, and be not of those that have erred and strayed from His ways. Verily I say, the world is like the vapor in a desert, which the thirsty dreameth to be water and striveth after it with all his might, until when he cometh unto it, he findeth it to be mere illusion. It may, moreover, be likened unto the lifeless image of the beloved whom the lover hath sought and found, in the end, after long search and to his utmost regret, to be such as cannot "fatten nor appease his hunger." (Gleanings from the Writings of Bahá’u’lláh, p. 328)
II: THE REALITY OF THE EXTERIOR WORLD
“Certain sophists think that existence is an illusion, that each being is an absolute illusion which has no existence -- in other words, that the existence of beings is like a mirage, or like the reflection of an image in water or in a mirror, which is only an appearance having in itself no principle, foundation or reality.
This theory is erroneous; for though the existence of beings in relation to the existence of God is an illusion, nevertheless, in the condition of being it has a real and certain existence. It is futile to deny this. For example, the existence of the mineral in comparison with that of man is nonexistence, for when man is apparently annihilated, his body becomes mineral; but the mineral has existence in the mineral world. Therefore, it is evident that earth, in relation to the existence of man, is nonexistent, and its existence is illusory; but in relation to the mineral it exists.
In the same manner the existence of beings in comparison with the existence of God is but illusion and nothingness; it is an appearance, like the image reflected in a mirror. But though an image which is seen in a mirror is an illusion, the source and the reality of that illusory image is the person reflected, whose face appears in the mirror. Briefly, the reflection in relation to the person reflected is an illusion.
Then it is evident that although beings in relation to the existence of God have no existence, but are like the mirage or the reflections in the mirror, yet in their own degree they exist.
That is why those who were heedless and denied God were said by Christ to be dead, although they were apparently living; in relation to the people of faith they were dead, blind, deaf and dumb. This is what Christ meant when He said, "Let the dead bury their dead."[[1 Matt. 8:22.] (‘Abdu'l-Bahá, Some Answered Questions, p. 277)
III POEMS
Camote
“¡En verdad, digo!
Nadie ha comprendido la raiz
de esta Causa…” – Bahá’u’lláh
I cannot see far behind me
My father’s youth exists,
But is beyond me, like a root
Hidden in the soil of memory.
I surmise what emotions
Filled his life in those early years.
I only know him from what he is to me now;
The tree that he has been to my life, my childhood,
My emotions. The future is less clear.
Captured in the irony of time; surrounded
By timeless realities. I am trapped.
I go from meal to meal, from pain to pleasure
And back again. I feel coldness, hotness, hardness,
Anxieties of the hour, a euphoric moment, from dream
To dream, rotation of the earth from light to dark,
Then dawn comes up like a relative, an inconsistent friend
Under the absolute sun.
I struggle, endure darkness, and yearn for daylight.
A girl sells camote on a Cuernavaca sidewalk.
Curious, I ask about its name, its life. It is a root
Come up from the dark underworld for our pleasure.
The girl cuts one for me to share with my friend.
Eating it is a humble joy, we thank her and give her five pesos.
She smiles in the morning light and says, “de nada,”
O, but it is!
- C. S. Cholas
24 December 1982
Cuernavaca, Morelos, Mexico
DUST IN CHILPANCINGO
Dust settles on us even when we walk;
Haunts us, warns us.
Kicked by bulls, dust pours from our mouths.
Blood burns as we try to escape.
There are only dry hills to hide in.
Hills where dust is stored like grain for winter.
The flies on our bread search for sweet specks
left from our lips; the moisture they thrive on.
The coffee is dust.
It steams into our nostrils, and we, like bulls,
turn our heads to watch women pass with children,
metal pots and handbags of fruit.
We have been gored
by lonely moments and empty greetings.
Stung by hopes we thought would save us.
The dust at sunset hangs in the air like a net
waiting to reclaim our moving forms
of dust.
- C.S. Cholas
Chilpancingo, Guerrero, Mexico
January 2, 1983
