PLAIN AND PRETTY

MISSIONS, SIERRA GORDA: MARCH 7
The village by the lake is too tempting. I leave Tilaco and ride up the pass. A side road snakes down through the hills. The village is small, houses scattered. I ride slowly and am greeted by each person as I pass. The chapel is at the far end of the village. It was built by villagers and completed in 1904. It is plain as a Methodist chapel. Trees shade the facade. A pickup is parked outside. The driver sports a diamond ear-stud. I ask if he has worked in the the North. Yes, for five years. Will he return to the North? There is no reason to return. He saved well. He bought the pickup and is building a house.
Inside the church four villagers are wood-paneling the wall behind the altar. A woman brings glasses of fresh lemonade. I ride back through the village and round the lake. Everyone bids me good-evening and goodbye. I am having a very good day.

DISCOMMUNICATION

MISSION TALACO, SIERRA GORDA: MARCH 7
Two painters are at work at the mission. I ask one why redecoration is undertaken every seven years. He doesn't understand. I am a foreigner. I must be speaking an unknown language. I repeat my question slowly. Two young women are taking photographs. The painter asks them to translate. We conduct an odd conversation. I speak in Spanish to the young women. They speak to the painter in Spanish. He answers them in Spanish. They relay his answer in Spanish.
The crux of the conversation? They paint the church every seven years because they paint the church every seven years.
The interior is tranquil. I sit a while, pray a little.

FRANCISCAN MISSIONS

MISSION TALACO, SIERRA GORDA: MARCH 7
Mission Tilaco is 14 Ks down a side road that twists up over a pass. A lake gleams down in the valley, freshly ploughed fields, a sprinkle of white houses and an ocher church tower. The tower is too plain to be a mission. Turn the next corner and Tilaco is below on the side of the next valley. The valley channels the wind, cooling in summer, now chill. A line of pencil thin Cypress trees twitch beneath the wind and the wind whips the heads of palm trees. Dragged all in the same direction, the gleaming fronds recall poster art from 30s Germany and the Soviet Union: blond Valkyries victorious and standing erect in the turrets of their tanks to accept the applause of the conquered. Yeah, yeah...
Warm this morning and Jalpan is in a lower valley: idiot that I am, I left my leather jacket at the hotel.