SAN JERONIMO DAY IN JANITZIO
By Daniel McCool

Simon had fled Manitoba and the world of eternal winter with enough money to live two years in Mexico, and hopefully a plan by then for a new life. His divorce had been difficult, and now he wanted just to hide out, recuperate, rest, and paint. He loved Michoacan and thought he might want to live in Patzcuaro or maybe one of the villages nearby. In any case, these first few weeks were just a chance to get a feel for things before committing to anything long term.

In his typical contrary way, Simon decided that if the majority of tourists visited the island of Janitzio in Lake Patzcuaro, he would have to be different. He bought a ticket to Yunuen, farther from the boat dock, and reportedly quite dull. That would be perfect; he wanted some peace and quiet.

The mossy green water was calm and shallow as the boat approached the steeper side of Janitzio. The island looked heavily populated and quite cheerful and folkloric, with traditional houses and women mostly in their regional costumes and braided hair. The boat curved around the far side of the island to the dock, which had a few other boats tied up. As the passengers got off, some children immediately ran up and did some little recitations and tricks for a peso. The area was busy with people—it turned out that September 30 was San Jeronimo Day, Janitzio’s patron saint, so festivities were already getting under way. After 25 or so passengers got off, there were only seven or eight left heading to Yunuen.

Yunuen was exactly what Simon had hoped for. It was small enough to walk the whole island in less than 45 minutes, which is when the captain said they would be leaving. There were a lot of open spaces, old stone structures, exotic plants and trees and gardens, and very few people. School was out for the day, as most were gone to the celebration in Janitizio. It was completely peaceful.

Some boys who had been on the boat came along and said that their teacher had sent them to fetch some others who hadn’t gone to Janitzio. They were polite and inquisitive and told Simon that they would teach him some words in the Purepecha language. Simon asked them if that was what they spoke at home, and they said that their relatives would speak Purepecha when they didn’t want the children to understand, so there was a very strong motivation to learn!

Halfway back to Janitzio, they already could hear the music and see many other boats and much activity. Simon decided that he wanted to climb up to the top of the hill to see the Morelos statue and maybe do a few sketches. Along the narrow stairway, handicrafts vendors were selling ceramics he wanted to buy. Although they claimed they were produced there, he later was told that they were brought there from Tzintzuntzan, Quiroga and other villages.

Outside the statue of Morelos, which is about five stories tall, there was a kiosk selling pulque, the fizzy alcoholic “beer” made from maguey cactus. Simon decided he had to try it, which made the dizzying climb up the inside of the statue even more dizzying. The history of Morelos’ role in Mexico’s first revolution was written out on the inside walls of the statue, and could be read as one ascended. Simon climbed and read and read and climbed, but having a fear of heights became distracted as he approached the lookout at the top.

There was nothing to prevent someone from climbing outside on top of the statue, and some boys doing just that made Simon feel sick to his stomach. Of course, after they left, he had to do the same. When his baseball cap blew off with the force of the wind, his pulque-courage left too, and he went back inside. The view over the lake and the surrounding islands and lakeshore was amazing, and it gave him a strange feeling to be in the place pictured on the back of the 50 peso bill.

Wandering through the streets back down the hill in the direction of the first fiesta, he thought that it was the women who ran the economy of the island. Mostly women tended the souvenir stands and shops, and they were tough bargainers. Later he saw that the men seemed simply to arrive earlier at the fiesta. Another celebration with another band was going on away to the left from the boat dock. At least 90% of the women were in traditional dress, wearing big, bright embroidered aprons with sequins sewn onto them. He was told that unmarried women would show off their handicraft skills in this way to attract suitors. Most of the women appeared to be full-blooded indigenous, with beautiful skin and teeth. A few of them were startlingly beautiful. Simon felt out of place, being one of fewer than a dozen European-types among hundreds, if not thousands, of Meso-Americans.

While watching the crowd watching the show, he noticed a couple of Indian women in their 60s wandering around with a jug giving away drinks of something. It was comical the way they looked at him quizzically, not sure whether to offer him their moonshine. When they did, he wanted to pay for it, but they refused. It tasted like well-aged raicilla, and after a few drinks, he found that he was suddenly feeling pretty talkative. He struck up a conversation with a guy who also seemed to be alone, and whom it turned out was visiting from Tzintzuntzan for the fiesta. The young man, Martín, was shy, but interested in knowing a foreigner. He showed Simon the cemetery next to the festival plaza where legend says the Day of the Dead celebrations originated.

They wandered back to the other fiesta closer to the boat dock, which was going very strong. Simon saw a few people leaving a store with bottles of some sort of liquor, but when he went and asked, they said there was none. Perhaps it was because of problems before with foreigners, but Martín went and spoke with a few of the more influential-looking locals, who in turn spoke to the shopkeeper, who reluctantly sold Martín a bottle of charanda to share with Simon. It tasted like sweet tequila, but was quite smooth.

By the time the two men got on the boat, they were in fairly high spirits. Crossing the lake as the shadows started growing longer, the subject of ‘diablitos’, or devil spirits, came up. Simon was shocked to hear Martín say that there were ‘diablitos’ living in the higher mountains surrounding the lake. Simon thought Martín was pulling his leg, but Martín claimed that, although he hadn’t seen them himself, he had an uncle who had. Simon asked him if he thought maybe his uncle had been drugged or drunk. Martín said that he didn’t think so, and that he had heard stories from enough people that he believed them. Simon had a hard time processing all this, since everything else about Martín seemed pretty rational and normal. After thinking that he had related well with Martín on everything that had happened that afternoon, he was surprised that now they were this far apart in their beliefs.

As he said goodbye to Martín at the boat dock, he asked himself, how he could possibly imagine that he could adjust to living in rural Mexico where 90% of the people had much less in common with him than Martín did. At least Simon had to admit that he had always been one for a challenge!