Cerro del Fortin August 21, 2022
The most prominent hill in the city is Cerro del Fortin, poking out of the valley just west of downtown. This is the prime scene for the Guelaguetza festival, which just concluded last month. A long flight of steps climbs out of the metropolis to the tent-covered stadium, surrounded by radio towers that broadcast Oaxaca’s pride and joy to the larger world. Today the place is mostly empty but for the dog-walkers, masochistic joggers, and one group of rain-dodging gringo hikers. Our destination is the summit to the north. One member of our party, a graduate student from Princeton, shares recent Trip-Adviser reviews with the wary:
“Like many I wish I had read the reviews before climbing this mountain. My partner and I just thought it would be a nice climb and have been in Mexico a while and felt Oaxaca was very safe. At the top of the mountain alone with no where to run a man pulled out a knife on us and demanded everything we had. We then had to walk again alone all the way back down extremely shaken.”
“My partner and I were mugged at knifepoint while on a hike recently not even that far past the amphitheater. We weren’t wearing anything flashy, and it was in broad daylight. He slashed my knee and took our phones and wallets. Reported it to the police but no real investigation followed.”
“The gist of it is that this IS STILL AN UNSAFE area. In fact, the US State Department recently listed it as the only danger area in the entire state of Oaxaca. All of us expats in Oaxaca know at least one person who has been robbed up here. And it HAS NOT abated.”
I suppose there is safety in numbers, and it is somewhat of a relief to know that this is the “only danger area” in Oaxaca. If we can only avoid the muggers, we will be able to say that we have effectively tamed this foreign land and made it welcoming to all. Just hearing myself say this almost makes me cheer on the muggers.
All of this reported danger pales when compared to what Cerro del Fortin must have been like when it first erupted. Unlike the shales and metamorphosed sediments of the adjacent hills, the stone here is volcanic and riddled with gas bubbles. This hill’s arrival on the plane must have been explosive, reminiscent of the street tacos aftermath at Iglesia San Francisco.
The final ascent brings us past a monument of stone marked “La Escarpada,” the Escarpment, and a sturdy cement crucifix indicating the identity of the conquerors. Here, too, are the first signs of mountainous vegetation—a marginal grove of long-needled white pines that call to mind the monoculture of the Chiapas hills—although the parched soils ensure that the trees’ struggle for survival is forever precarious. Among the pines and thirsty eucalyptus, modest terracing and irrigation ditches are evident. Someone is taking care of these plants, that is, when they are not assaulting tourists.
Darkness falls as we descend the steps back to the city. Several cops patrol the beat beneath the stadium. Perhaps they are present to keep the peace, or maybe they are just here to share the loot with the muggers—one never knows. In the distance, horns blare and drums pound on a Friday night outside Templo Santo Domingo. It is the familiar parade of stilt-marchers, flamboyant Muxe dancers, and the omnipresent whirling white globe, for the festival that never truly ends, on the earth that never truly settles.