<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We head for Victoria, where there are hundreds, perhaps thousands\nof petroglyphs, according to an excursion brochure. It doesn’t say whether\nthese are incised or painted on the rocks, only that they mark a prehistoric\nshamanic site.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The brochure gives a phone number to call for bus tour\nreservations. We figure we can find the place on our own. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
“We” are Carolyn, our friends Bill and Sally and myself,\ndriving through Mexico’s central highlands in northern Guanajuato on a day trip\nfrom San Miguel de Allende. A few hours\u2019 drive on MEX 110 and we find Victoria,\npulling up to a food vendor\u2019s station fronting a dusty parking lot. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
There are no signs reading TO PETROGLYPHS,<\/strong> which seems odd to me, considering this is an attraction big enough to draw bus tours. I approach a white-haired man wearing a straw hat and brown jacket, sitting in the shade of the food cart umbrella.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDonde esta <\/em>petroglyphs?<\/em>\u201d I try. <\/p>\n\n\n\n A polite but quizzical smile. Friendly enough guy. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I try again. No luck. A few onlookers converge.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Inglese?” <\/em>Someone goes into a shop for a younger\nwoman said to speak English. We are becoming a project. The woman with reputed\n\u201cInglese<\/em>\u201d skills appears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPetroglyphs?” I try again. She nods, barely perceptibly, but\nenough that I become convinced she understands. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I wish I were quick enough to try a Spanish construction rather\nthan to continue repeating \u201cpetroglyphs\u201d derived from Greek. \u201c<\/em>Rock paintings“<\/em> might help, but I can’t remember the Spanish word for\npaintings, my dictionary is back in San Miguel and I don\u2019t know the word for\nrock, either.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She points down the street confidently, her wrist cocked toward\nthe left. Perfect.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A white pickup with lights on top and SEGURIDAD POLICIA <\/em>on the side stops alongside us, engine running.\nWe wonder if there is a problem somewhere in Victoria, but move on toward our\nrental car parked facing south.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Nosing down the street, we take the left turn. The adobes get lower and there is less paint on the storefronts.\u00a0 Pleasant-looking people walk past rangy dogs as we inch over topes<\/em>, concrete speed bump sof varying height and width. Still no signs for petroglyphs, only for various brands of Mexican beer, and we are getting further out of town.<\/p>\n\n\n\n For some reason I glance in the rear-view mirror and see the white\ntruck with colored lights following us at a distance which is gradually\nclosing. Finally, it is directly behind, matching our speed precisely. Bill and\nI agree we should pull over. This might be the time, I am guessing, to deploy\nthe U.S. dollars I have carried folded in a ready spot for the last five weeks\nin Mexico on the advice of guidebooks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We watch in silence as the truck pulls slowly alongside. Two\nteenagers riding with the thirty-something uniformed driver roll down their\nwindow. He calls a question toward us across the teenagers. <\/p>\n\n\n\n We roll down our window too, and ask him our now-standard\npetroglyph question. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He starts his own questions over again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Nothing is working. He pulls ahead of us and gets out of the\ntruck. This would be a really good time, I think to myself, to know Spanish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Somehow, I don\u2019t get the feeling we are in trouble, at least legal\ntrouble. He is smiling, jovial. Despite his black shirt and sunglasses, I don’t\nfeel really threatened. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I get out of the car and meet him halfway. We need room to use hand\nsigns, to see each other\u2019s face and body language, to hear syllables watching\nthem come out of somebody\u2019s mind. He shakes my right hand and claps me on the\nshoulder with his left in sort of a half hug. This must be a comfortable\ndistance for him but it isn’t for me, a Wisconsinite talking to police in the\nmiddle of a Mexican road.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBuenas tardes,\u201d<\/em> from\nboth of us. Good afternoon. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He goes on with a few words in English, enough to let me know he\nwants to help us find our destination. Which was\u2026what, exactly?<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPetroglyphs.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n I try out a normal sentence slowed to a crawl. \u201cWe ––<\/strong> heard ––<\/strong> there ––<\/strong> are —<\/strong> some —<\/strong> near —<\/strong> here.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n His smile is unbroken. He doesn’t nod. <\/p>\n\n\n\n We both sense the language game is up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He apologizes for his minimal English. In Spanish. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I do the same for my Spanish. In English.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Only one thing remains to do, which is to deliver his entire plan\nin Spanish and hope for the best. English is out of the question. It is time\nfor real communication, not dancing around the obvious in a foreign language,\ni.e. mine. <\/p>\n\n\n\n We are getting ourselves lost; he knows it and we know it. The\nonly thing he is not sure about is where we are getting lost going to<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I pick up \u201cInglese<\/em>\u201d and\n“Presidencia.<\/em>\u201d His arms swoop\nthrough the warm dry air as if drawing our car toward his truck. Clearly, we\nare to follow. <\/p>\n\n\n\n OK, so maybe we are in trouble. But he\u2019s not pulling out a\nnotebook or a clipboard, anything with paper on it, not even a little pad of\ntriplicate forms. Nobody has started to remove our license plates. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The buildings get sturdier and more painted the further we follow\nhim back into town. I feel like a police trophy as our car creeps along behind\nhis truck, rising and falling over the topes.\n<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Suddenly a quiet green space opens up in front of us. Trees. A\nfountain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He stops the truck and indicates where we should park. Sally and Carolyn wait with the car while Bill\nand I follow him along a red-clay tiled portico edging the Jardin<\/em>, an oasis of trees and flowers. <\/p>\n\n\n\n From an office in the wall the cop produces a man in a pressed\nwhite shirt wearing chrome-rimmed glasses. A picture ID reading ADMINISTRACION <\/em>across the top hangs from\nhis shirt pocket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cInglese!<\/em>\u201d announces the\ntriumphant policeman, nodding at our newest resource. The administrator feels\nhis English skills have been oversold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo Inglese<\/em>,\u201d he\ndisclaims. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I wait, hoping.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Go there,” he begins, pointing along one side of the Jardin, <\/em>pushing his hand forward and to\nthe right, looking at me for confirmation of understanding. I nod. <\/p>\n\n\n\n When his directing finger crosses the edge of a cerulean house he\nstops. We both know my comprehension of any further routing advice will be nil.\nIf it cannot be seen, we cannot be directed to it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCasa azul<\/em>?\u201d I try,\nassuming the blue house is where we are to turn out of town. Then what?<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSi, si<\/em>.\u201d He seems\nsatisfied with the extent of our conversation. Everybody is nodding now. He\nmoves back toward his office. He and the cop exchange a couple of words. The\ncop points at the floor. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAqui<\/em>.\u201d Right here, this\nspot. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWait two minutes,\u201d in English.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He raises a finger toward the portico ceiling. It will not be long\nnow. They disappear into the office.<\/p>\n\n\n\n This must be the Presidencia,\n<\/em>I think to myself. <\/em> Presidencia\n<\/em>must mean \u201ccity hall.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Bill drifts toward the end of the portico where an ancient man\nsits on a folded blanket leaning against the white stucco wall. He is selling\npeanuts, skinny grayish-husked ones, from a rolled-down burlap bag. The man\noffers him some. Street peanuts? Maybe we are over-cautious. Maybe another\ntime.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGracias.<\/em>\u201d Bill backs\noff, ambling toward the cluster of people which has now formed outside the\nadministrator\u2019s office, our situation turning into a mix of hospitality\nchallenge and entertainment del dia<\/em>. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The word \u201cguia<\/em>\u201d comes\nup. I realize from having seen the word on the cover of our road map, part of\nthe GUIA ROJI<\/em> series, that we are on\nthe verge of getting an English-speaking guide.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The cop strides confidently out of the city office followed by the\nadministrator, drawing on all the English they have between them. <\/p>\n\n\n\n To my surprise, a few Spanish words filter out of my mouth as\nthough I had actually planned them. I imagine my Spanish teacher pushing a\nrecall button. <\/p>\n\n\n\n At last I gather they have phoned someone who they know speaks\nEnglish and who also knows where the petroglyphs are. Unfortunately, that guia Inglese<\/em> is \u201cno disponible,\u201d<\/em> but an alternate solution is at hand. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Both of them turn toward a casually smiling bystander next to us.\nGraying curly hair sticks out below his eggshell-white straw hat. I make\ndrawing movements on the wall and raise my eyebrows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSi, si<\/em>.\u201dHe nods. <\/em>We are on track.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The cop\u2019s job done, he places his hand reassuringly for us on the\nman\u2019s shoulder, smiling continuously and shaking our hands. He has saved\nhimself a huge problem, i.e. us<\/em>,\ndriving our dust-covered Neon out of Victoria toward a destination he knows we\ncannot find and from the vicinity of which he would have to retrieve us come\ndarkness, lost without water. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Happy guy, back to cruising the streets of Victoria.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Our guide sits mute in the front passenger seat, pointing at\nplaces to turn when they come up. We are unsure of how much English he knows,\nthough he has not given evidence of understanding a syllable. We are lucky, we\nsay to each other, to have made it even this far; this whole episode will be a\nhigh point of the trip. We begin chattering and laughing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At one point our guia<\/em>\nglances toward Bill and I wonder again if he is picking up our conversation. I\ndecide to test with some Spanish words about the beautiful countryside. No response\nfrom our guide, though my attempt silences the others.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The asphalt road, narrow but in good shape, straightens out past\nfreshly plowed garden-size fields. A few thin brown cattle graze shrubby\nvegetation near a couple of wells, one with a galvanized tub perched next to\nthe bucket rope as a watering trough. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Just as Bill begins to speed up, our guide abruptly pumps his open\nhands toward the floor and points off the left side of the road to a dirt\ntrack.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Swerving off the blacktop, we bounce along the track toward a hill\nof globular camel-colored rocks, passing beneath formations that seem ready to\nroll off onto us. We park beneath a mesquite tree, its new leaves feathery and\nchartreuse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At the base of the hill, our guide points to some faded dark red stick\npeople painted on rocks. We are in the right place. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He talks briefly to a boy tending a dozen goats. The boy points\nupward behind where he is sitting. The guide, in dusty black leather walking\nshoes, leads us up the hill springing from rock to rock, eyes alert in an\nangular face above a grizzled stubble. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Are these the works of his ancestors, I wonder? Does he even know?\nHow would we start that discussion when we can’t even ask for directions?<\/p>\n\n\n\n He points out figure after figure, some human, some deer-like,\nsome abstract. All of reddish-brown pigment, some nearly worn away. Others are\nso arrestingly fresh we begin suggesting to each other that the goatherd may\nhave developed an interest in creative pictography. <\/p>\n\n\n\n In a narrow shady gap between enormous rocks two scorpion images\nnearly ten inches long crawl directly in front of my face when I edge into the\ncrevice. The images are so lifelike I abruptly look down at the sandy floor. No\nscorpions. (OK, breathe).<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then there is the sun painting. About nine inches wide, it is a\nset of centrifugal finger strokes of red paint radiating from the rim of a\nsolid red circle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The guide talks quickly now, repeating brief phrases two or three\ntimes and looking at us when he finishes. <\/p>\n\n\n\n We can understand barely a thing, yet he makes the same intuitive\nleap we did in English, that by simply repeating a statement often enough, its\nmeaning will eventually become obvious to someone who doesn’t understand the\nlanguage. It’s fair; we had tried Spanish and given him hope. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Actually, it is productive. I begin picking up words, as does\nCarolyn. We have just finished ten Spanish lessons at the Academia Hispano\nAmericana in San Miguel de Allende. Eleven would have been better.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cVeinte uno Marzo<\/em>,\u201d we\nhear, and \u201cPrimavera<\/em>.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n March the 21st<\/sup>, and Spring. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Could this be an equinox observation site? The sun painting would\nfit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSi, si<\/em>,\u201d he nods\nvigorously as I repeat the date. Maybe I\nwas getting it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMuy gente<\/em>.\u201d He points\nto the top of the hill above us. Many people, I think he is saying, come to this\nspot to observe the spring equinox.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMas<\/em>?\u201d He holds his right index and middle fingers\nvertically, pointing upward at his own eyes. He indicates higher up the hill;\nhe points across the flats to another set of hills a mile off which look identical\nto the one on which we are standing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We pause to converse among ourselves. How many pictographs do we\nreally want to see? How long will it take to get home? How much daylight is\nleft? We have another stop to make, the ghost town at Mineral de Pozos.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We decide we have seen what we came for.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo mas,” <\/em>I say,\n“llegamos San Miguel<\/em>.\u201d \u201cNo more; we arrive San Miguel.\u201d How weird,\nbut it’s the only vocabulary I have. Bill points to his watch and makes\nsteering movements. The guide nods once, his head lowered slightly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Back at the car, we reconsider whether we are missing something\nbesides several thousand more rock paintings by leaving now. We leave anyway. <\/p>\n\n\n\n (Weeks later, we learn that two thousand people come here from all\nover the world at the spring equinox to watch the rising sun appear through a\nuniquely situated rock cleft, above which lies the triangular hewn tomb of a\nprehistoric chief, both at the top of the hill on which we were standing).<\/p>\n\n\n\n Scraping bottom, Bill swings the car onto the pavement and we head\nback into Victoria. Not that small a town, as it turns out. Three vehicles line\nup behind where we initially pull over to release our guide. <\/p>\n\n\n\n A traffic cop in a brown uniform moves us ahead a few yards, out\nof the way. We ask the guide to stay \u201cuna momento<\/em>\u201d and I fish some money out\nof Carolyn\u2019s purse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He declines it, \u201cNo, no.<\/em>\u201d\nI point in the direction of a Corona label painted on the building where we had\nfirst stopped for directions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCervezas<\/em>,\u201d I say,\nnodding toward the beer ad. He smiles, accepting the pesos. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGracias<\/em>.\u201d We shake\nhands and part.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Several steps toward the car, I look backward for a last glance. <\/p>\n\n\n\n So does he.<\/p>\n\n\n\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" We head for Victoria, where there are hundreds, perhaps thousands of petroglyphs, according to an excursion brochure. It doesn’t say whether these are incised or painted on the rocks, only that they mark a prehistoric shamanic site. The brochure gives a phone number to call for bus tour reservations. We figure we can find the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-347","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-personal-essays"],"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/sahwNU-victoria","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.jamesbrueggemann.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/347","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.jamesbrueggemann.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.jamesbrueggemann.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.jamesbrueggemann.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.jamesbrueggemann.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=347"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/www.jamesbrueggemann.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/347\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":448,"href":"https:\/\/www.jamesbrueggemann.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/347\/revisions\/448"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.jamesbrueggemann.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=347"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.jamesbrueggemann.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=347"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.jamesbrueggemann.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=347"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}