The Monarch Butterflies of Michoacan

Butterflies by: Mary Dow Brine (1816-1913)

butter

Creatures of golden, sunshiny weather, Coquetting with blossoms for hours together! Happiest ever when skies are blue, And sunshine your merriest moments woo! Bright-robed and beautiful, artless and gay, Merrily idling the summer away. Much ye remind me, butterflies bright, Of a winsome maiden, with heart as light And fickle as yours, as the days go by; Fit for only a sunshiny sky! Coquetting with hearts and love awhile, Then off and away with a careless smile. But when the summer at last has fled, Butterflies' holiday, too, lies dead.

Butterflies are everywhere in Mexico, once you really start paying attention. During this time of year,  I often see them fluttering about in my garden lured by the colorful  lantana bushes. They appear as intricate tattoos on young women's torsos, and frequently play a starring role in local artwork.

I have been on many adventures in Mexico but few that have been as renewing as my latest trip to the beautiful state of Michoacan. Two weeks ago I left San Miguel de Allende, along with a contingent of twenty five adults and children, on a long anticipated pilgrimage to see the billions of monarch butterflies who make their winter home in the area's boreal forests. Monarch butterflies spend their summers in the United States but, have you ever wondered where they go in the fall when the cool winds descend and chilly winter is just around the corner? The Monarch butterfly is susceptible to the cold winters of the northern climes so in an act of self-preservation, they migrate south and hibernate every fall and winter. Monarchs east of the Rocky Mountains  migrate 2500 miles on their tiny wings to the Oyamel fir trees of Mexico. Their flight to Mexico's forests can be compared to the annual migration of birds flying south for the winter.

The monarchs' winter vacation spot is a 60-square-mile area in Central Mexico's volcanic highlands.  This region is 129 miles west of Mexico City situated near the small former mining town of Angangueo in the state of Michoacán.

This charming, traditional colonial village, at an elevation of 8,400 feet, is composed of  winding cobblestone streets and quaint little white stucco homes with red-tiled roofs. The houses are adorned with terracotta  flower pots brimming with red and pink geraniums. Clotheslines are strung across rooftops, laden with brightly colored children's clothing flapping in the breezes.

This area's  geography is part of the Trans-Mexican Volcanic Belt and the Sierra de Angangueo. Some locations receive rain only in the summer and others all year round making for  luscious green vegetation. The area is mostly covered in forests of conifers with pines, oyamel and juniper as well as mixed forests of conifers with broad-leafed trees such as cedar. Much of the municipality is part of the Monarch Butterfly Biosphere Reserve.

There is one main road in Angangueo, which is called both Nacional and Morelos. This road meanders its way up the canyon and ends at the Plaza de la Constitución. The main plaza is flanked by two churches, the parish of San Simón and the Inmaculada Concepcíon.

 The Inmaculada Concepción church was built by a single family, in pink stone in the Gothic style in an attempt to imitate Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, France.  When someone from my party inquired about the odd placement of two churches in such close proximity to each other, two local men, who were lounging in front of a large wrought-iron gazebo, informed us that "one church was for the rich folks and one for the poor."

One of the unexpected highlights of the trip was a visit to the ex-hacienda, Jesus Nazareno, located on the way into town.

 It's ageing, crumbling walls, strategically placed high on a hill, were quite picturesque, serving as a lasting reminder of a by-gone era.

 One of the most lovely features of the property was a beautifully maintained chapel with an intricate hand painted design on the ceiling. An old woman sat outside the chapel, selling the drink-pulque  to anyone with a spirit for adventure.Pulque is an alchoholic beverage made from the fermented sap of the maguey plant. It is traditional to central Mexico, where it has been produced for many centuries. It has the color of milk and has a somewhat off-putting consistency. Pulque is quite viscous with a sour, yeast-like taste. It looks a little like someone has just spit into a cup, if you ask me.

When our stomachs began to grumble, the entire group eagerly descended on a teeny, tiny restaurant on the main road into town.

 The proprietor, Wily, was very welcoming and ushered us to the back of the restaurant and right out the backdoor. Behind the restaurant, the owner was in the process of building  a new dining room. He and his staff set about quickly, gathering chairs and tables from far and wide in an effort to accommodate our large party in the half finished concrete structure. Lunch was tasty and reasonably fast. People devoured large sandwiches filled with chicken or beef milanese or plates of carne asada (grilled beef), served with rice and beans. Pitchers of home-made lemonade and beer were consumed with gusto.

Next, we hopped into our cars and began the steep ascent up the mountain in an effort to check out the site of the El Rosario Butterfly Sanctuary. My friend's 4-cyclinder vehicle struggled to make the the climb with five people and a pile of luggage in tow. The view through the pines of the surrounding mountains was absolutely breathtaking.

 When we reached the sanctuary staging area, we were greeted by a gaggle of little children selling a variety of touristy goods, things like tiny butterfly earrings, refrigerator magnets, t-shirts, hand-embroidered tablecloths, napkins, table runners, and other items of that ilk. My favorite handicraft were some intricately hand-woven pine needle baskets. I met a woman who kindly offered to demonstrate how she made the baskets and her hands were deeply calloused from the process.

 Her daughters assisted her, fetching us every style that she made. Her youngest daughter was my favorite. She had a very dirty face, punctuated  with an extremely runny nose and blackberry stained mouth. She was just precious.

 Three little boys approached me, singing an unrecognizable ditty in hopes of wrangling some spare change. It worked, I succumbed without so much as a grumble.

There were a number of cook tents and shacks devoted to feeding the masses of people who descend on the sanctuary during the winter months. The ladies who worked there were cooking over archaic-looking wood burning stoves fitted with comals.

 They were selling blackberry atole,  hand-made blue corn quesadillas filled with huitlacoche or flor de calabaza, and roasted ears of tender white corn slathered in mayonnaise and cheese.

Atole is a traditional masa-based hot beverage common in Mexico. The drink typically includes masa (corn hominy flour), water, piloncillo (unrefined cane sugar), cinnamon, vanilla and optional chocolate or fruit. The mixture is blended and heated before serving. It is classic Mexican street food at its finest. Huitlacoche is a fungus that grows on corn and flor de calabaza are squash blossoms.

After spending a delightful evening of wine drinking and tale telling in front of a roaring fire, our  group  rose early the next morning and returned to El Rosario Monarch Butterfly Sanctuary to begin the hour-long trek to see the butterflies.

The morning air that greeted us was quite chilly and we started out wearing multiple layers of sweaters and jackets. As soon as we began, I knew that I was in trouble. The air is thin at 8,989 feet  and I spotted a sign that stated that we were climbing to the height of 11,942 feet where the air gets even thinner. The beginning of the walk was not terrible as there were shallow steps that eased my discomfort. But these soon fell away to reveal a dirt path that endlessly snaked through the hills. You do have the option of hiring a horse for half the journey but, the horses don't go the distance and I certainly needed the exercise.

The signage along the way reminded me about the life cycle of the butterfly -the four stages—from egg to caterpillar to chrysalis to the winged creature we are most familiar with. I considered the wonder of this  magical transformation and the even more astounding phenomenon of the butterfly's migratory cycle.

I climbed and then climbed some more and at some point I abandoned the group. I needed to resort to some self-talk to get me through the tougher parts. I had just spent the last two months on my living-room couch, side-lined by some health issues. The intensity of the climbing experience reminded me of an outward bound exercise. The steep ascent up the mountain  required a concentrated effort and a keen desire to see the promised spectacle.

More than once I was tempted to whine like a child and ask, "Are we there yet?" Towards the end of the trail I was more than a little winded. The terrain had gotten very steep and there was nothing to hold onto.  I had to resort to side stepping to lug my old carcass the last few feet to where the crowd had settled. I found the younger folks already perched on the hillside with cameras at the ready. Everyone was speaking in hushed whispers so as not to disturb the sleeping masses of butterflies that covered the towering trees. The  invigorating scent of pine needles wafted through the crisp morning air.

It took a while for the show to begin. As spectators, we watched with rapt attention as the morning sun began to filter through the canopy, hitting the tree branches that were sagging heavily under the cumulative weight of  thousands of butterflies. The Monarchs covered every square inch of the surrounding pine trees.

 They were clumped together in great masses with a weight so burdensome that the trees appeared to be covered with carpeting. Slowly, as the sun warmed their wings, the butterflies began to wake up from their slumber and began their flirtatious dance. One butterfly fluttered by, and then another and  then another. Soon, there were so many flitting about against the backdrop of the bright blue sky that it looked a bit like orange snowflakes dancing above our heads. The brilliant tangerine color of the butterflies blanketing the trees brought back fond memories of the autumn colors of the local maple trees back in my old stomping grounds in Western New York. If you listened very closely, the fluttering of thousands of  wings made a sound a bit like a soft rain hitting the trees.

A butterfly  came in for a landing on a nearby woman's back and people stopped and stared in disbelief, fascinated by its close proximity.

 The butterflies were soon everywhere, landing on people's heads, feet, and fingers. Children and adults alike giggled with pure delight. My thoughts wandered to stories of woodland faeries from my youth. I could imagine the origin of the tales, as the dancing monarchs possess such a magical quality.

Eventually, hunger got the better of me and I began the slow descent back to the car. By the time I reached the bottom, my legs felt like jello and shook just as much. This truly was a life changing experience and should be on everyone's bucket list.

Sadly, it has come to my attention that a great deal of deforestation has occurred  in this part of the world as a result of illegal logging in the protected preserve. I can only  hope that the Mexican government can get a handle on the practice or the worst case scenario could happen....the butterflies will have to find a new winter home and this beautiful marvel of nature will be just a distant memory.

Here's a link to a website that will explain the vital function of the oyamel forest in protecting the butterflies from freezing.

 http://www.learner.org/jnorth/tm/monarch/SanctuaryFactsOyamel.html

In Guad We Trust

                                                 bumper sticker  lenabartula@gmail.com

Living in Mexico has brought many surprises. One very special phenomenon that bears a mention is the manner in which the Mexican people revere Our Lady of Guadalupe. One can't help notice her ever-present existence in the minds and hearts of every Mexican national. Her shining image appears everywhere.... on bumper stickers, baseball caps, wallets, car windshields, truck mud flaps, mirrors,  keychains,

taquerias, jewelry, t-shirts, scapulas, votive candles,

 and the most obvious place....church altars. Her saintly memory lives on, gracing young men's chests and biceps in the form of elaborate tattoos,

 as well as in people's kitchens, her angelic face decorating dinner plates, napkins, and  kitchen aprons. The beautiful Lady's image even appears as  life-sized murals on people's houses who hope that it's presence might discourage vandalism and graffiti.

                   
                  photographed at the home of local artist, Anado McLauchlin

 Every December 12th, Mexicans celebrate La Virgen Morena or La Virgen de Guadalupe, also known as Tonatzin, Mother of all Gods.

I think it is rather important for my fellow ex-pats to understand the culture of the people that  they live with everyday. So here goes. As legend has it, on December 9, 1531 a humble Nahuatl Indian named Juan Diego was walking past the sacred hill of Tepeyac, on the northern edge of Tenochtitlan (close to what is now Mexico City) when he heard sweet sounds that brought to mind the singing of many  heavenly birds. As he looked towards the summit, he glimpsed a brilliant white cloud with light as bright as a thousand suns and surrounded by a rainbow. As he watched in awe, a beautiful lady appeared in lustrous garments. The lady told him,

“I am the Ever-Virgin Holy Mary, Mother of the God of Great Truth.”
(Nican Mopohua, 16th century Nahuatl document)

Our Lady of Guadalupe instructed Juan Diego to tell the bishop in Tenochtitlan that she wanted a church to be built on the hill to serve as a source of loving compassion to all who seek her guidance. Juan Diego followed her request and gave her message to the bishop, who was too busy to listen to the raging of a poor, indigenous man and promptly sent him away. Juan Diego returned to Tepeyac the same day and pleaded with Our Lady to find a more appropriate messenger, someone who might be believed. She advised him to return to the bishop and tell him that he was sent by “the Ever-Virgin Mary, the Mother of the God Teotl.” (Teotl is  the God or Goddess head of the Nahuatl-Aztecs).
This time, the bishop told Juan Diego to return to him with a sign that would validate his claims. The Virgin reappeared to Juan Diego, and told him to scale the hill and gather the flowers growing at the top. Once there, he found roses which were blooming mysteriously. They were a variety of roses only found in Spain that could not have bloomed in chilly December at such a high elevation. Juan Diego picked the roses and collected them into his tilma, a cloak woven of maguey (maguey is a plant common to Mexico that is also the source for the alcoholic beverage, pulque). The lady instructed him not to open his tilma for anyone until he was in the company of the bishop.

When Juan Diego returned to the bishop’s office and opened his tilma, the miraculous roses tumbled to the floor,
revealing an image of Our Lady inexplicably embossed  on the tilma, serving as unquestionable proof of her existence. The bishop and his assistants fell to their knees and cried for forgiveness to the Blessed Virgin. Later that day, the bishop journeyed to Tepeyac to see exactly where Our Lady had appeared, and before long the church and hermitage were built.  This site is  the current location of the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe. One can visit this site today and see the original Tilma displayed.
 It is worth noting that this story led to thousand of conversions to Christianity and established  Catholicism as the primary religion in Mexico.

So where is all this leading?.....to my humble experience in the hood, my little colonia, Olimpo. My neighbors take great pride in celebrating this great lady and the festivities go on for days. We have a total of three shrines to the Virgin in my little corner of the world. Each shrine is unique.

The artists paint the lady in similar fashion but, they tend to have a signature style that shines through. Each shelter that is built to surround the lady is different and very special.  The shrines are lovingly cared for by the local people throughout the year. Bouquets of fresh flowers and candles appear on a regular basis.

 The shrine around the corner from my house even boasts a working fountain with live gold fish.

Preparations  for this special day begin approximately a week before December 12th. All the neighbors bring pictures of the Virgin (dramatic images in guilt frames that normally hang  in a place of honor in their homes) to the shrine. These pictures of the lady along with photographs of the Pope are lined up against the wall and arranged in a pleasing fashion.

In our naivety, the first time my husband and I saw this practice from a  distance, we both thought that they were conducting an art sale. It wasn't until we got closer that we realized our mistake. Colorful paper pennants flap in the breezes, strung from house to house.

 A schedule appears on the wall which acknowledges the ladies of the neighborhood  who  will be leading the various prayer services for the week.

Next, benches appear where worshipers can gather to pray to our lady. Two days before the event, enthusiastic young men erect a greased pole, the width and height of a telephone pole, in the vacant lot at the corner. It will be used for a unique game called palo encebado.

The game involves young boys who struggle to climb the length of the pole to reach the top, where a special prize has been attached. Usually there are many failed attempts and much excitement before the young lads figure out a scheme where working cooperatively,  they climb atop each other's shoulders to reach the pinnacle to collect the treasure. Getting down is the most thrilling part of the  event. The larger boys gather at the bottom of  the pole and encourage the fellow  at the top to slide down the lard covered pole at breakneck speed like a fireman racing to a fire, in hopes of being caught at the last second. The only thought that occurred for me the first time I saw this happening was , "this stuff could only happen in Mexico" and "where's his helmet?"
On the day before the 12th, things move into full gear. The truck carrying an enormous rented sound system arrives as well as the sawhorses that will prevent cars from disrupting the proceedings.

 Firecrackers ( referred to as fuegos artificiales in these parts) begin to explode every few minutes. Their thunderous cracks set off my dogs, as they don't seem to appreciate the noise that reverberates off the concrete buildings. One dog hides under the bed while another runs to his post on the stairs where he answers the call with his high-pitched bark. The blaring ranchero music, that takes me back  to the days when I  danced the Polka back in Buffalo (the trigger is probably the accordions), begins in earnest and  people congregate for dancing and singing. This year was particularly joyful in that  we experienced a Locos parade that went down my street and then later, four hours of Indian drumming commenced.

 

The Indians wore elaborate costumes made of deerskin with headpieces constructed of feathers and animal bones.

They smeared war paint on their faces and arms and rythmically pounded enormous drums as they whirled about, dancing to the beat with practiced intensity. Even a tiny baby was seen strapped to one of the warrior's back, dressed in full regalia.

Later, the Locos (men dressed as women and various cartoon characters) staged a special dance.

As a bystander, I was almost dragged into the fray by an overly enthusiastic reveler. After my loud objections, I was reluctantly allowed to continue on my way. One enterprising individual had the presence of mind to erect a taco stand, doling out carnitas and  beverages to  the throng.  The music continued for  two days and  throughout the following night. As I drifted off to dreamland that evening, after much tossing and  turning as well as a fair bit of grumbling, the last thing I heard were the strains of the ever popular birthday song, Las Mañanitas. Upon waking the next morning, to my surprise, that same tune was still playing.  I  guess the disc jockey had gone home to his family but, had forgotten to turn off the music. An hour later, on my way to the corner store for a carton of  milk, I couldn't help giggling at the sight of  one last straggler who  had finally succumb to all the fun and frivolity and possibly a bit too much tequila. He was blissfully asleep, curled up like a  cat at the base of the Virgin's feet, oblivious to the world around  him.

My plan for next year's party......a  nice pair of earplugs.