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Return to Hierve El Agua June 13, 2023

I hear the song and immediately stop in my tracks.  So distinctive, so familiar, but the memory comes from far away, to the north, in the redrock canyons of the Colorado Plateau.  It seems out of place here, but I have no doubt of what it is.  

The tune goes like this:  a long whistle, plaintively trailing off at the end; then, after exactly one second, another whistle, the same except a step lower in pitch; and so on, descending 6 or 7 steps.  This birdsong belongs to the canyon wren, whose range extends through the arid American West, reportedly reaching as far south as Oaxaca, which I can now confirm.  

This melody is the song of riparian canyon country, which is characterized by a flowing water source, lush vegetation, and shaded stone walls.  In this sense, it is the music of a garden oasis.  At the base of a petrified waterfall called Hierve El Agua, we are in just such a place.   

The decision to revisit Hierve el Agua with Patricia and Vane is straightforward insofar as all roads to the north remain closed by protesting teachers, which means Patricia cannot yet return home to Cuernavaca.  Even the ADO bus terminal is closed, and there have been random blockages on the major Periferico that surrounds the old city.  However, Rte 190 east to Mitla is clear and presents an open opportunity to escape the 90-degree heat.

Unlike the last time Vanessa and I took this 80-km journey—cheap, beautiful, but long and rather jarring—we travel this time in the relative luxury of a private yellow cab.  The friendly driver, Julio Cesar, is much more down to earth than his tyrannical namesake, gladly offering restaurant recommendations, as well as descriptions of the many mescal operations we pass along the way.  There is one, in particular, that he highly recommends (perhaps he receives a commission for bringing potential customers), but we wave him on.  

Not surprisingly, the flat plains are covered with the requisite agave, planted in narrow rows like a dry field of bayonet bouquets.  There is a growing industry relying on these plants, which leaves only scarce space in the valley for the maize and other produce that sustains Oaxaqueños. Nearby there is roadside shack.  A smoldering cauldron within reduces the Maguey pulp, while a campesino walks a mule in tiny circles, rotating a heavy grinding stone to pulverize the heart of the plant for the cauldron.

The 190, better known to travelers as the Pan-American Highway, becomes a toll-paying road (Cuota) east of Mitla, so a 100 peso bill allows us to skip most of the rough dirt roads over the mountain.  The starving passengers are thus able to reach Memelitas con queso and coconut water at Hierve el Agua in just 90 minutes.  Soon after, we quickly pass by the many pool-loungers and bolt for the steep trail that takes us down toward the valley below for a better view.  

The canyon wren and I are not alone at the base of the travertine falls.  Antonio, a man about my age, leans against a tall walking staff at the end of the trail, with small rivulets of water trickling across his path.  He is wearing a flannel work shirt, baggie trousers and ancient leather sandals.  His straw hat is tilted back to afford him an adoring view of the geologic wonder before him.  He must see this everyday, but I guess it never gets old.

Imagine a still picture of suds spilling out of a washing machine, but the size of the pyramids of Teotihuacan, and you have a sense of the shape and scale of Hierve el Agua.  This bizarre and critical source of water has been prized since antiquity.  Over two millennia ago, using the precipitate of the supersaturated springs as building material, the Zapotec constructed a network of parallel irrigation canals, something believed to be unique in Mesoamerica.  Moreover, numerous archeological discoveries point to the spiritual and ceremonial significance of Hierve El Agua.  With the floor of the canyon still hundreds of feet below, priestly orators could not hope for a grander altar.  Perhaps this is what Antonio is looking at.   

Antonio lives here, and one source of income is guiding tours to Hierve el Agua, but this is clearly more than business for him.  Indeed, his passions quickly flare when Patricia asks about the effects of foreigners and development.  “Canadians” is the only part of his heated testimony that I can make out at first, but there is no doubt that the northerners make Antonio angry.  

Specifically, the Canadian mining industry, which has run roughshod over Mexican resources for years, made its presence known in Oaxaca when a company began exploratory mining for gold and silver directly across the canyon from Hierve el Aqua.  To reach the sites, they “improved” roads all over the mountain, promising an array of other benefits as well, in exchange for mineral rights.  Once the explosions began, local sentiment grew outraged, reverence for the sacredness of this piece of earth stirred, and the agreement was unceremoniously scrapped.  The Canadians were told to take their heavy machines with them and go, but to leave the roads.   

The return to Oaxaca de Juarez is smooth and uneventful, at least until we hungry travelers request a dinner stop before reentering the city.  Julio Cesar knows a good authentic buffet at a large family restaurant in the neighboring town of San Augustine Yatareni.  We are almost home, but it is getting late, and Julio Cesar informs us that he needs to make a stop  in the city, though he will return for us when we are finished eating.  He gives us his phone number.  Foolishly, we pay him full fare for the day—“hasta pronto”—and that is the last we ever see of Julius Caesar, the tyrant.  I guess we should have said yes to the mescal.

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