San Miguel de Allende
It is still dark but dawn is not far away. I have slept enough but have no urge to leave the comfort of my cozy sleeping bag. From out in the yard I can hear the steady chink, chink, chink of the sculptor’s hammer – chipping away pieces of stone. That right breast must have been calling to Gorge all night long. Unwilling to leave for work without carefully shaping its contour he is up before dawn to release more of the figure from its stone prison.
I lie for a while, breathing the cold morning air and picturing him with his warm coat on, chips of stone lodged in his beard, surrounded by his other works – finished and unfinished. Looking down upon him will be the life sized figure of Christ on the cross – carved out of mesquite – the wooden eyes impervious to the charms of the slowly uncovered, rather buxom breast. To one side, a more complex figure containing the devil, a succubus, a prostitute and other shadowy shapes carved out of a tree trunk. On the other side a conquistador on horseback prepares to behead a kneeling, native figure. Gorge works by the light of a single bulb with only the shadowy shapes of his sculptures for company.
Gorge is totally self taught. Somehow his spirit looks inside the block of stone or wood and traces the outline of the figure he is about to release. He works quickly and surely – his medium is speaking to him and he listens carefully.
My mind drifts off to other images left over from my walk through San Miguel yesterday afternoon. The charming Spanish Colonial architecture, the rich colors, the textures of the buildings, the tiny, tiny old ladies – wrapped in shawls, making their way slowly down the narrow streets on legs so thin it hurts my eyes to look at them. If they walked these streets as children, or young adults; if their young families once trotted over the cobbles alongside them, then there will be much that is familiar because so much about the streets they slowly walk along and the buildings which line them has not changed. It must almost seem – as they look around - as though the city they have know for so long has been taken over by aliens. Tongues speaking in languages they do not understand, strange clothing, noisy vehicles belching fumes at them. It is hardly surprising that, from time to time, they sit at the edge of the sidewalk – a wrinkled hand covering their eyes, the other wrinkled hand held out hopefully.
This is a town full of stories that beckon to me as I walk by. The ornate door polished smooth with deep patina where the hands of centuries have pushed and gripped it. The passageway leading to a generous courtyard overlooked by balconies with a fountain at its center whispering a message of peace. The worn stone steps. The gracious town square with benches under the shady trees where people meet in the cool of the day. There are stories in the faces that pass by, in the work hardened hands, the worn shoes, the colorful clothes. Stories of hope and dispair, joy and sadness, love and fear. Some whisper quietly in my ear whilst others seem to burn themselves into my consciousness. Each and every one of them is tantalizing and incomplete.
As the sky lightens the chink, chink of Gorge's hammer ceases. I climb out of bed into the cold morning air, pull on some clothes, and make my way through to the kitchen. The packets that I placed on the shelves last night are on the floor again – the shelves are narrow and the rats try to squeeze along behind the items stored there. I walk over to the large, stone sink – filled with several days worth of unwashed dishes – and look out to the rear of the building. I see the burro standing, tethered to the tree, patiently waiting for old Florencio.
It was Florencio’s father who began construction of the compound we are in. The buildings fronting onto the road are older and used for commercial properties. Through the heavy, wooden double-door from the street one steps into the work area used by Gorge. Further back the work area opens up into a bare, unkempt garden area which contains the living quarters. These are still a work in progress. The downstairs contains two large bedrooms, one small bedroom, and the kitchen as well as two rooms with dirt floors which are open onto the garden – no doors, no windows. Stone stairs lead to the upstairs which, so far, has only one room. It is a long time since anyone did any work on the house.
Behind the living area is more unkempt garden and here the burro stands patiently. Occasionally the two dogs rush towards it, snarling and barking but the burro is wise to their tricks and, quietly ignoring them, does not even twitch a muscle. Florencio (age 72) rides his burro down here from his ranchero outside of town, ties it up under the tree whilst he visits his family, then rides it back home again. He has no sanitation at his small ranch so makes use of the meagre facilities here whenever he can. There are so many stories in the lines of his face, his rough hands, the way he walks – I would like so much to talk with him and hear some of those stories directly but his English is no better than my Spanish so we smile and shake hands and continue with our business.
Before I make breakfast I must clear a space amongst the mess - wash a plate, a knife and a cup. The soul of a home is its kitchen. At some time in the past food was lovingly prepared here, the family gathered and ate, birthday parties were held, births and deaths were honored. Now, the soul of this home seems to be having an out of body experience. Perhaps, one day, the soul will return. Or, maybe, the soul is departed for ever and this home is flatlining.
Out in the country I see small patches of tilled soil on the hillside. They are too small to be cultivated mechanically and those who till the soil cannot afford mechanization anyway so the plow is pulled by a burro. As we drive out of town we see individuals, couples, even whole families walking along the grass at the side of the road. It is already miles from town and there will be miles more before they arrive at their destination. They are laden down with the goods they walked into town to purchase and there is a stoicism in their features as they walk in the hot afternoon sun. They have done this walk before, and they well do it again – many times.
I think back to the tiny, tiny old ladies wandering the streets in downtown San Miguel and wonder if they feel as though the aliens have taken their families away from them. It feels to me as though something has been taken away from most of the people in this area. Not just taken away from them – taken away from their ancestors, taken away from their descendants. It was taken away so completely and so long ago that they no longer consciously notice the loss. I see in the tee shirts, the jeans, the motor cars and scooters, the televisions and the small alters at the side of the street that they have been given something in return – a hunger for a lifestyle they cannot afford and a longing for a society that they cannot belong to. Mostly they work hard to make up the difference – to fill the hole - but somehow, they never are able.
The local newspaper gives numbers, statistics, to illustrate the depth of grinding poverty that the people of the area exist under. Poverty so deep and so grinding that just one day’s work in Houston at minimum wage would almost equal a whole month’s income for one of these poor families. At one time the ancestors of these poor people might have lived comfortably on less. You might have given them a hundred dollars each week and they would have smiled and used the notes for fire lighting or decoration. Each week they would have had more and more of these worthless pieces of paper and had nothing they needed to spend them on. Yet they would have been immeasurable more wealthy than they are now. This is part of what has been taken away from them.
Tiled background on this page is derived from a photograph by Donna Durbin.