Indian Territory
By Don Adams © Don Adams 2002

“You’d better be careful up there. Those Indians don’t care much for visitors.” I almost flashed back to similar warnings I had received in the early 60s on a different continent, warnings I didn’t pay attention to then or now. I operate more or less the same as Mona, Feline Mistress of All She Surveys in that I assume that no matter where I go folks are just absolutely thrilled to see me. Luckily, in this case, unlike earlier times, that turned out to be the case. Anyway, I had an invitation this time. More or less.

Xill Fessenden had asked me to drive about five hours up into the mountains of Michoacán to the village of Cocucho to pick up a couple of pottery makers and bring them and their wares back to Ajijic for the big Dia de la Raza and Purepecha Festival on the plaza. I had general directions, the name of one of the artisans, a full tank of gas, and Ms. T as shotgun rider and navigator so when the day came I was ready to roll. As we always say when traveling together “It was a five hour trip but we managed to do it in nine.“ We tend to get lost. And to dawdle. And to stop at any semi-interesting sight or site. Just let it suffice to say that we eventually got to the Tarascan village. Four hours late. Or twenty hours early, depending upon who’s idea of which day we were to arrive you want to believe. Like so many things in Mexico, time was really a minor consideration so things worked out well in the end.

The potters hustled around and got ready to go and Ms. T and I found that those particular Indians did care for visitors. Here’s how it shook out.

First we rolled up to house of one of the potters after getting directions from some folks hanging out by the church. She was expecting us the next morning so of course she wasn’t ready to roll but she got that way in a hurry. It worked out to our advantage because we got to learn a bit about the pottery making techniques developed by these folks.

For a beginning we saw a stack of burning logs surrounded by a few clay pots lying on the ground of the bare dirt backyard. I thought those pots were drying from the radiated heat but when the pile collapsed a pot sitting beneath the pile was exposed. That was the one being dried. One of the ladies of the house immediately grabbed a long stick and inserted it into the mouth of the jar to lift it from the fire. She laid it on the bare ground and picked up a bundle of switches which she dipped into a dirty white liquid and then splashed onto the hot jug, forming a dark glossy finish and design.

I asked later and found that the Purepecha glaze is nothing more than atole. Actually just water and masa without the canela. The potter laughed that the pots couldn’t taste the cinnamon. I don’t know for sure but I’m inclined to believe her.

With my short attention span I can spend only so much time ooohing and aaahing over primitive craft techniques so I quickly headed out to find something more exciting. I heard a band off in the distance somewhere and headed for the sounds of the brass and the bass drum. Within a few blocks I stumbled onto a wedding. A shotgun wedding I suspect because neither the bride nor the groom looked anywhere close to happy. Or even mildly interested. She looked bored, he looked panic stricken. The mothers of the two victims seemed to be extremely pleased with the whole affair.

His Mama was roarin’ drunk and dancing in a small circle and her Mama was only slightly less wasted and tripping daintily about in a right/left, forward and back box -step, both totally oblivious to the beat and meter offered with gusty enthusiasm by Heberto Alpert’s New Tarascan Brass.

And then disaster struck.

At all of these village celebrations (as I later learned) there is a woman who is chosen to carry out certain important functions; among them ensuring that everyone gets as drunk as Cooter Brown and stays that way as long as possible, that everyone takes multiple and prolonged turns around the dance floor (in this case the middle of the main drag), that the band takes few and short breaks, that food is tasty, plentiful, and lavishly shared, and that the gringo gets the hell scared out of him.

This particular lady, called the “Encargada” seemed up to each and every one of the assignments, especially scaring the hell out of me. She accomplished that by first dragging me onto the dance area to strut my stuff as her partner and then by informing me that she and I would be getting married. Immediately. And that then I would be responsible for paying for the services of the band which had been imported from a neighboring village.

And paying for the food. And the beer.

Actually nothing in the preceding list fazed me except the getting married part. That scared the hell out of me. I’ll have the same response when it’s my turn to marry Jennifer Lopez. It looks like Liz and the Gabors are going to bite the dust before they call my number but J-Lo has a long run left. Luckily I escaped when she followed me to the home of La Presidenta de la Artisanos of the village. She passed out in the living room and I slithered away.

Not before I got a tour of the facility though. La Presidenta was trying to get Ms. T involved in the local artisan political scene while I chatted up one of the other potters to learn how those huge pots are made. In sections. She builds a portion, lets it dry, builds a bit more until she gets it as tall as she wants, then sets on a pre-molded top section that forms the small opening at the top. That particular craftswoman then placed the pot in her kitchen and built a drying fire in there. Her rafters and shelves gave charred evidence that on more than one occasion her curing activities had gotten a bit out of hand. Her method is still cheaper and more space effective than building a huge kiln. Besides, you need to leave room in the yard for the dogs, cats, pigs, and chickens to sleep.

The real excitement was yet to come.

After roaming the village for awhile and digesting the plates of food and the few beers consumed at the wedding dance I returned to the truck to find that the artisans were loaded and ready to go. More or less. Mainly more.

The bed of the truck was packed and covered and the back seat of the truck was loaded with bodies, one of which was the rather large carcass of only one of the two artisans I was supposed to pick up. She was accompanied by two surly pre-teen girls, a younger girl of about ten or eleven, and the darling and pride of the clan, a six or seven year old girl. Needless to say there was no room for the other artisan. Now this was really no problem for me since I was ready to offload the asses of everyone but the two potters. However, Ms. T took me aside for a quick seminar on cultural differences and sensitivities and a reminder that I could very quickly become buzzard food in one of the nearby canyons if I resorted to my usual charming ways. When the woman is right, she’s right so I deferred to her judgement and kept quiet and out of the way. She passed on the word that one person in the truck had to get out to make room for the up to then shunned señora who had produced much of the pottery loaded in the truck bed.

The whole episode actually turned out to be fairly amusing if you have a mean streak in your makeup. The princess was chosen to disembark. She was not pleased with that decision. I hear folks talking about how well-behaved and polite young Mexican children are. Not that one. She spent about forty-five minutes bawling and squalling, and stoutly resisting all attempts to pull her from the truck. I sat down on the sidewalk to watch since raising two and grand fathering two taught me that the child would be the center of attention for quite some time.Eventually one of her tias prevailed and we were free to boogie on out of town.

Seven of us inside the truck, with lightning flashing and rain threatening to make the nighttime journey home anything but enjoyable. Luckily there are times when Jesus really does love me, so everything (and everyone) held off on any pyrotechnic or emotional displays and we managed to get home without any more problems. Again, mainly because Ms. T kept me from dragging the two pre-teens out of the truck and leaving them at the café where we stopped to get a snack and take care of normal pit stop business. They wouldn’t get out together so the others in the back seat could get out. They got out one at a time so at least one blocked the others, preventing them from getting out to get food or use the bathroom.

That little episode helped me remember why I will never walk into a classroom again.

Because I had to head back to Texas for medical treatment before the festival ended I didn’t take the folks home but several times I saw them on the plaza and it looked as though they were doing a good business and that the young girls were actually helping the craftswomen with the selling and keeping things in order. My faith in the future of the country was somewhat restored.

And I did find out that not all of those Indians don’t care much for visitors.