Tequila, Pole Dancing and More
Tequila
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Yesterday John and Carol, Leo, our
gardener, and I took a trip up to the top of the sacred Mountain, Volcan de
Tequila.
Tequila Mountain dominates a huge
section of Jalisco, can be seen from Guadalajara as well as from my own yard.
We are aware of its majestic presence whenever we think to notice.
John had walked over the day before to ask if I would like to join them. I hesitated a few seconds, shook myself
and said yes to a chance to see more of this country I have come to love.
Perhaps I might explain my slight
hesitation. After my first run-about with John and Carol, I had said loudly
that I would never ride with John again. He is a terrible driver. Carol, bless
her and she is right, of course, says John is the best, safest driver she
knows. And, of course, I have taken my life into John’s hands since then,
mostly to nearby restaurants.
On one such trip, John asked me if I
were afraid of his driving. “Scared” is the word he used. I gulped and said,
“Yes, in certain situations,” and blathered it all out. Perhaps he had noticed
me white knuckling the passenger door. Perhaps he’d caught me slam my foot on
the passenger-side invisible brake. So, John knows. This is not secret stuff
I’m revealing.
We left early in the morning, took
sweaters, jackets, scarves, hats and gloves. It is cold on top of Tequila and
the wind always blows. We drove into the city of Tequila, an hour drive from
Etzatlan, through the center of town, on up the cobbled road to the top.
I made that sound so easy. Cobbled
road. Narrow. Built around fifty years ago by the communications companies to
service the towers atop the mountain, right at the edge of the caldera.
Cobbled, not necessarily maintained. We bounced like b-bs in a pinball machine,
over, around and through potholes, washouts, and gullies which interlaced the
cobblestones like gaps in a first-grader’s teeth.
Straight up, the mountain tops out
at 9,613 feet. Mountain roads do not run straight up. Our ascent took two hours,
maybe longer. The scenery up the mountain is worth every bounce, jounce, and
jerk.
We stood on the edge of the caldera and marveled at the tall
rock stupa standing in the center, gaped at the sheer size of the bowl. When we turned our backs on the caldera, a
huge Monopoly board of fields, cities, smaller pueblos, arroyos, highways and
dirt roads spread before us like a skirt reaching across the valley to the
mountains to our south.
What goes up must come down and so did
we, so did we, down through the oak forests, through the pines, onto expanses
of blue agave fields from which comes the drink which gives the town its fame
today, and into the center of the city to find food.
Complaining of hunger, we followed
Leo through the Plaza to a restaurant he had in mind. Five men in bright beaded
regalia stopped us in our tracks while they prepard to re-enact the sacred Danza
de Los Voladores (Dance of the Flyers), or as I call it, the pole dance. It is
a spectacular sight. We watched with appropriate respect and awe. I’ve seen the
flying pole dancers three times now and it seems more phenomenal each time.
Four men secured with rope halters
dangle from the platform high atop a pole and swing upside down in
ever-expanding circles until they reach the ground and upright themselves.
While they are swinging, a man atop the pole plays a curious instrument
combining the music of a pipe and drum.
On to the restaurant, we satisfied
our appetites with a variety of delicious Mexican foods; my choice, shrimp in
tamarind sauce. A duo serenaded us, singing in perfect harmony. Our waiter
attempted to ply us with offerings of flavored tequilas: chocolate, coffee,
mango and almond, oh, my.
The town of Tequila is home of the
Jose Cuervo distillery among many, many others. I suspect all that is needed to
make tequila, like any home brew, is a few agave plants, a vat or two and
copper pipes. Copper? I don’t know. I’ve heard home brew can be had.
After our day on the mountain, content with filled bellies,
we headed home, happy. Despite my trepidation, perhaps aided by my silent
vigilance, John drove us home safely, mouthing the instrumentals, shouting out the
song with one word, “Tequila”.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
January 31,
2019
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