El Tule August 3, 2023
“Two thousand years ago…this whole area was lush, embedded in a swamp; now it is arid semidesert for much of the year, and only the Tule tree, with its vast roots and great age, survives to tell the tale. What else, I wonder, has El Gigante seen? The rise and fall of half a dozen civilizations, the coming of the Spaniards, the whole human history of Oaxaca.”
Oliver Sacks, 2002
It has taken me more than a year to travel the 7 miles out of the city to visit Mexico’s most famous tree: Árbol del Tule. The destination otherwise holds little appeal, as the tiny hamlet of Santa Maria del Tule seems to exist to serve but one master; and, despite the church upon whose ground the mighty and mellifluous Ahuehuete clings, tourism trumps piety on this holy earth.
The Zapotec revere the tree, believing the Aztec myth that it was planted in the first millennium by a priest to honor his god of the wind. Rigorous dating methods confirm at least the timing of this by placing the age of the Montezuma Cyprus at approximately 15-18-hundred years old. The esteemed 19th-century explorer Alexander von Humboldt once declared that this tree was surely the oldest (he guessed four-thousand years) and largest in the world, and he was at least partly correct—whereas it is neither the oldest nor the tallest tree in the world, El Gigante is considered the widest. A nickname like El Gordisimo might be more apt, if less dignified.
An adolescent girl in plastic sandals walks up to me and offers a tour, in Spanish. I have never heard of a tour of a tree before. Her asking price on a weekday morning is 40 pesos, which seems to be the going rate for museums, famous homes, and ancient ruins, not to mention hotdogs. Still, I confess, it seems a bit steep for a guided description of a single tree, however long it might take to walk around it.
She certainly knows something I do not. Maybe she knows a way to get inside—after all, the diameter is more than 30 feet, which is over a foot wider than the largest California Sequoia. If this Ahuehuete (pronounced “a way way tay”) were hollow, it would likely make for a decent studio apartment. However, the child, confused by my line of questioning, assures me we will not be entering its interior, merely circumnavigating it. I politely tell her, “Ahorita, gracias no,” and give her 5 pesos for her trouble.
Hardly dissuaded, she chooses to follow me approximately one-eighth of the way around the perimeter, pointing and naming features, as if I could possibly miss the obvious elephant face in the gnarled bark. Perhaps she is anticipating a second coin to continue the tour, but I am out of change. Besides, why is this girl not in school right now?
Lunchtime approaches, as street vendors arrive with their wares from nearby Tlacolula. Coals are stoked around the dusty plaza for tlayudas, which will, in short order, satisfy even the grandest appetites. To eat one these half-moons is to devour an entire pizza’s worth of toasted corn masa, traditional string-cheese, mashed beans with epazote, shredded meats, and grease drippings. The mere sight of a single tlayuda, smoke-seared on the concave skillet, makes me bloat. A fine yellow dust generated by foot-traffic and colectivo taxis from the city can only add to the daunting heft of those meals. Water bottles are for sale everywhere, as the day heats up and the drought persists.
Scientists have determined that this majestic tree has been dying for decades, mostly due to lack of water, but increasingly as a result of pollutants from the surface. The best thing to do in order to prolong its life is probably to abandon the giant altogether, and restore its natural aquifer, but that will never happen in Santa Maria. They love this Ahuehuete, which means “old man of the water,” and one cannot abandon that which is truly loved. Árbol del Tule is thus destined to be loved to death, which is, I suppose, not the worst way for a wind god to go.