Atonaltzin November 16, 2022
Weary of the scarcity of water and overabundance of standing garbage, we take to the hills northwest of the city, passing the tranquil villages of Etla, and drive for two hours with Angel’s hiking gang, almost to the border of Estado Puebla. Our destination today is Tamazulápam, self-designated as “Puerta de Mixteca,” or gateway to the lands of the Mixteca people, Oaxaca’s second largest indigenous population.
Tamazulapam is a sleepy town of small cement homes arranged on a grid. A few small shops line the central streets surrounding a beautiful plaza. The neoclassical Palacio Municipal, built in 1902, seems directly aimed to please Porfirio Diaz, and its Ionic columns do indeed add a touch of class to the basketball court and meat market next-door. Beneath one glorious archway, a vender with a wheelbarrow sells “Dedos de Brujas,” or witches’ fingers, a dark, strangely-elongated grape from Sonora that looks like a tiny eggplant, or, in this case, the gangrenous digit of a misunderstood woman.
Outside of town, the hills and plains are parched. Nopal trees dot the horizon like bouquets of beaver tails. Stingless Melipona bees crowd the flowers. Golden fields of corn, and even some wheat, suggest a productive harvest, thanks to Tamazulapam’s greatest asset—the mineral springs of Atonaltzin. The slightly sulfurous water flows briskly out of limestone at two principal sources, Ojo de Agua Grande and Ojo de Agua Chico, blue ponds that extend deep into the earth. The calcium-rich waters are then channeled toward numerous purposes, including copious irrigation canals and a pleasant travertine waterpark.
If one is able to navigate the unmarked dirt tracks, there are many other access points to the mineral springs. Along the banks of the clear creek are century-old Eucalyptus trees, as well as majestic Montezuma Cypress trees, which locals call Ahuéhuete, a mellifluous Nahuatl word meaning “old man of the water.” The creek forms many pools on its meandering path through dry meadows, providing perfect spots for picnics and floating on a hot day. Below the surface of the still water, mud turtles and some kind of black minnow swim across calcite floors. I have never before seen such clean water in these parts. But for the mild rotten-egg smell, Coca-Cola would have been filling bottles here long ago.
In some places, the creek cuts though the limestone crust to create plunges, shaded canyons, and a rich riparian habitat, suitable for ferns and bamboo. I imagine that Oliver Sacks’ quest for arid ferns in Oaxaca might have taken him to a place like this. As I am gradually learning, Oaxaca is filled with these natural oases, but, as was true in Chiapas, they require an experienced guide to reach. Fortunately, Angel is a mostly able man for the job. His weekly hiking group continues to grow, which gives me a rare chance to mix with the foreigners, primarily through overhearing loud conversations.
The handful assembled today all moved to Mexico during the pandemic, and each is still trying to find his or her way on this “suspect terrane,” as geologists say. One digital nomad from California is recovering from the trauma of an armed assault on Fortin a few weeks ago, while another worries that her Marin-based astrology-yoga may not be a good fit for her new hometown. They nevertheless exude hope and curiosity, despite anxiety over an uncertain future, which is merely the natural state of the traveler.
“Oaxacans [sic] are so conservative,” the astrologer-wellness instructor complains. “They’re afraid of new ideas. Either that, or it is me.”
It is her, I am fairly sure. I might suggest San Cristobal as a better fit for her particular skill set, but her sickly dog-child would likely succumb, either from the cold or the feral street dogs. Indeed, it is difficult to envision that any of these people in Angel’s hiking gang will ultimately find their way, here or anywhere else, for that matter. For the moment, we have at least found Atonaltzin, although Vane and I are certain we would not be able to find it again. Meanwhile, somewhere around here is the gateway to Mixteca. The plump witches’ fingers in our bag point in all directions.