Morelia (lit. "Place of Morelos")
10/13/2009 at 21:52 from (19.85, -101.033333)
We dedicated the entire next day to discovering more about Morelia's namesake, José María Morelos y Pavón. Morelos was the Mexican Revolution's equivalent of Nathan Hale, George Washington, and Frederick Douglas, all rolled into one. An inspirational figure, he embodied the complex cultural and racial threads that weave Mexico's great tapestry. Born in Morelia (then called Valladolid, and the seat of a number of prominent families whose power derived from the Spanish crown) to a poor, mestizo family, Morelos was keenly aware that there were classes in society, and that he did not occupy the highest of them.
Through his formative years, he worked in a number of manual labor jobs, traveling throughout Mexico to find work. All the while, he saved his money and studied Latin and Spanish, intent on becoming a priest. He enrolled in the seminary at Vallodolid's Colegio de San Nicolás and studied under Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla, who would eventually launch the Mexican independence movement.
As a result of his friendship with Hidalgo, he became involved in the independence movement early, distinguising himself and rising quickly to the rank of generalisimo after Hidalgo's capture and execution. Under Morelos' command, the revolutionary army made a series of successful and increasingly daring assaults on Spanish forces, decimating the imperialists and taking control of central Mexico. Morelos quickly became known for his lightening raids, brilliant strategy, and a staunch refusal to surrender, even when surrounded and besieged.
With his success on the battlefield came prestige and power. He was offered titles and positions of supreme authority in the new government, but refused them all, adopting instead the humble title "Servant of the Nation". And, as he found his voice, he began to agitate for radical changes to the status quo, demanding unprecedented levels of equality throughout the new country. At the height of the Revolution, Morelos called a congress, in which he presented a document formalizing these ideas, something he called "Sentiments of the Nation" (analogous to a combination of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution).
In it, he called for a ban on slavery and racial distinctions (all Mexicans, no matter their breeding, were to be called "Americans", he declared), dissolution of Spanish authority, return of Spanish-controlled lands to the people of Mexico, and an end to torture, monopolies, and to a system of tribute that had subjugated Mexico's population for centuries. And, as if that all wasn't radical enough, the document outlined a new and independent, democratic government, founded around the executive, legislative, and judicial branches.
These articles were largely watered down before adoption, and this marked the moment Morelos' luck began to turn against him. He suffered a series of defeats after the congress. A little over a year later, in 1815, he was captured by the Spanish, transported north of Mexico City, and executed by firing squad, ending a brilliant and singular life. He left behind a number of inspirational writings and a legacy dedicated to liberty, equality, and self-determination. Even to this day, he serves as a sort of hero for indigenous and minority groups throughout Mexico, who can easily relate to his background and message, and who identify readily with his fierce hatred of oppression in all its forms.
His untimely death, perhaps ironically, makes him one of Mexico's least complicated revolutionary figures. While many of his compatriots lived on to be corrupted by power or to fade into impotent obscurity, he, like Hidalgo before him, died a martyr for the revolution, unequivocal and relatively uncontroversial. This unambiguous heroism is reflected in the shrines to him that dominate Morelia. Even among Mexican cities, which are renowned for their dedication to historical figures, Morelia distinguishes itself as singularly focused. The city is, essentially, one massive memorial to the memory and deeds of José María Morelos y Pavón.
Our tour started with Morelos' residence, a few blocks south of our hotel, in the shadow of Morelia's mighty cathedral. Along the way, we admired the architecture that saturated an area known in colonial times as the Garden of New Spain for its beauty, wealth, and abundant fine art. Evidence that this was once the stomping ground of the colonial elite is everywhere, in the palaces and mansions that crowded our route and surround the ornate plaza, in the gardens and plazas that we happened upon every block or two, in the many stone temples, churches, museums, and universities that seem to crowd and jostle Morelia's center.
When we arrived, we were disappointed to find the building undergoing repairs and restoration. We poked around as much as we dared, given all the hammering and drilling and painting and sawing, then headed to Morelos' birthplace, which was only a few blocks away, right next door to the cathedral of San Augustín. The "modest" (according to the literature, not to our eyes) house that he was born in now functions as a museum, playing host to various articles and documents spanning his illustrious life. From the fount that he was baptized in to letters in his own hand to first-hand accounts and depictions of his execution, each room served to clarify and illustrate each stage of his life as he progressed toward martyrdom.
Soon, though, the building was awash in school children, scattered everywhere in their matching uniforms, on some sort of field trip. Satisfied and feeling a tad out of place, we moved on, past taquerias serving tacos al pastor, past Morelia's flamboyant pink buses, past ancient buildings jutting like elaborately weathered stones out of the current of unbroken traffic. We made our way east, to the park on the fringes of the historical center, and had a brief rest. We watched the geese in the fountain, each perched on and jealously guarding their own little island of stone, and we watched the other people watching the geese, who were at least as interesting, if not so territorial.
SIDENOTE:
Al pastor is a singularly odd culinary tradition for a country with such strong Western European roots. If it weren't for the distinctly Latin flavor of the meal, passersby would rightly assume that Mexicans were making a poor attempt at Greek gyros. The equipment is the same -- a vertical spit with a grill at the back -- but that's where the similarities seem to end.
Instead of a big hunk of ground and spiced lamb, al pastor is created by skewering large cuts of chicken (liberally marinaded in a bright orange bath of spices, of course) on the spit until the mass of meat resembles a huge basketball, then it is all topped off with half a pineapple. As the ball turns, the flames from the grill at the back gently char the outer layers, while the juices from the pineapple drip down over it all, providing a faint -- yet delicious -- glaze.
Thin, vertical strips of the dense, flavorful meat are rapidly sliced off by the tenders of the spit, who wield massive, razor sharp knives and artfully shave the meat onto tortillas -- waiting warm and near at hand -- where they are soon accompanied by onion, cilantro, and lime. Simple tacos are the default and preferred vessel, but tortas (sandwiches), burritos, and quesadillas also prominently feature the delicious meat in these parts.
On the east side of the park, after weaving through yet more construction, we passed under Morelia's imposing aqueduct to a huge plaza dedicated to... you guessed it, José María Morelos y Pavón. At its center was a massive statue of Morelos, with his trademark handkerchief tied around his head, mounted and regal. On the far corner of the square, across the street from another plaque dedicating the site to the city's son, was a homely-looking church (by the standard set for us thus far) called the Sanctuary of Guadelupe, one of the city's most prized historical landmarks. Curious to see why something so comparatively plain could deserve such high esteem, we wandered around and saw nothing in particular to suggest that this was an important place, only the telltale signs of years of use and occasional neglect.
When we ventured inside, however, we were taken aback. Every inch of the interior (which is far larger than appearances would have had us believe) was covered with vibrant, pastel flowers and brilliant white crosses, trimmed in gold and meticulously carved. The walls bore paintings depicting the "salvation" of the natives by Spanish missionaries and the alter seemed to be crafted from one solid mass of shimmering gold. The only light of note in the whole of the echoing interior trickled through the windows high up inside the central dome or at the rear of the church, casting an alien, purple hue on everything.
After a lot of wandering about and snapping photos (and remarking at how often the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe can be recycled in different scenes, historical or mythical), we headed back; past the fountain to the north, where the aqueduct is forced to make a sharp turn; back through the multitude of schools that serve as Morelia's chief source of income; down the streets lined with little shops full of music and chatter and wonderful smells. Finally, our stomachs could handle the temptation no longer, and we pulled into an al pastor taqueria to sample the bizarre and famous preparation.
We each ordered a different incarnation of al pastor: Marijana got a torta, I tried the burro (a massive burrito), and Max got a simple platter of meat topped with cheese, with tortillas on the side. All were good, but Marijana's deserved special praise. The bread, meat, and cheese complemented each other perfectly, we agreed. We departed with full stomachs and aching feet, and began to head homeward so as to soak up our meal in a more horizontal posture. We charted a course west that brought us through new neighborhoods and new sights.
We visited the Temple of the Cross, a more modest church that, nonetheless, was once one of the richest in all of Mexico. We walked down the Avenido Madero's promenade, passed through the plaza to the west of the cathedral, turned north to see a couple more towering churches and former convents, then collapsed in bed, too tired to move.
