Cutting through the hills up close reveals them to be crumbly stratified rock with cacti beard-stubble on top. The mountains rise higher and higher. Arid pink-stone layers smushed together by time look like the perfect environment for preserving fossils. No wonder the world’s oldest corn survived here.
I get the point. In Stockholm Syndrome, a kidnapping
victim bonds with the perpetrator after the fact, but what do you call it when
they beg for abduction beforehand? Angelita is quite pretty. Still, she’s too young
for me, both in terms of having meaningful relationship and clearing police
check points. (I’m a romantic and a
pragmatist.) So, what am I doing trapped for hours on this bus between ancient
fossils and adolescent girls? Let me explain.
Brace yourself for a wildly irresponsible
generalization. The world can be oversimplified as three civilizations that
used three rivers (The Nile, The Indus, and the Papaloapan) to irrigate three
grasses (wheat, rice, and corn) and make three beverages (coffee, tea, and
chocolate). Maize is the CORNerstone of American culture.
Ancient people in what is now Mexico crossbred
and domesticated wild grasses into maize over 5000 years ago. Life was forever changed. Exhausted and hungry hunters and gatherers without
time for hobbies (beyond watching grasses have sex) were now footloose and
carbo-loaded.
Cities were soon built. Lean and mean migratory
tribes, who previously stalked wild herds and harvests, settled together in
corn-growing centers that offered folks the chance to marry someone who wasn’t
their cousin. Imagine the thrill! With abundant food, intellectual types
devoted themselves to art, literature, philosophical bullshit, and calling the
farmers hicks. Thus, high culture was born.
The earliest corn fossils known are 7000 years
old and come from caves near Tehuacan in the state of Puebla. So that’s where I’m headed. My intention is to pay homage to those long-ago
plant matchmakers who spared my lame jokes from being the corniest things in the
Americas, but I also remain open to any opportunities for crossbreeding that
might come my way. Let’s just say fertility is my middle name. (It’s not; we’re
just saying that.)
The Tehuacan Valley is a high desert biosphere
with over 200 cactus species surrounded by even higher mountains. Yet, this
remote region can claim widespread impact. Jeans are made locally for The Gap,
Old Navy, and Guess. Peñafiel and Garci Crespo mineral waters come from nearby
springs. Still, one can hardly imagine the area ever topping its ancient
contribution to global culture: edible corn. Feeding a hemisphere is a tough
act to follow.
Like the Sacramento River where the California
Gold Rush began, or the Mississippi Delta from whence sprang the blues, or the
Boston Harbor where new world independence ignited, so is the watershed of
Tehuacan Valley that gave birth to new world food. I am nearing sacred ground.
He who has ears to eat let him hear – and give thanks. (Corn may have been
domesticated slightly earlier at lower and wetter elevations, but such sites
didn’t preserve fossils well enough to confirm this at present.)
I have no idea what to expect on reaching this
historic site, but I do have a vivid conception of what was happening here
thousands of years ago. Imagine a typical rainy season. Dark clouds and fierce
winds are hurling down the Tehuacan Valley, as family clans loaded down with
children and food supplies hustle for the cave shelters from every direction
across savage unpredictable terrain.
Early arrivers are already unpacking. A teenage
boy grabs the driest sleeping spot he can find among the caves then wonders
what a certain girl he hung out with the previous rainy season looks like now.
He deeply hopes she’s one of this year’s returning survivors.
His sister is busy cooking gourds and squashes
while hanging the precious few strips of dried meat they have left from hunting
season – venison, turkey, and dog. She absentmindedly chews on a stem of grass. The stalk has a good flavor, but
it’s too woody to consume and the tiny fragile husk that allows wind to release
the seeds makes it impractical for cultivation. This is corn’s wild ancestor.
The teens’ father thinks the grain could be
selectively bred for edible and farmable qualities. This would feed everyone he
claims. No one should have to die (as he remembers his grandmother did) when
the hunt comes up empty. Still, his shaman father-in-law warns him about tampering
too much with nature, while his wife says he must stop dreaming and focus on
his real job.
How many rainy seasons did people stare out of
cave mouths at the drizzle before some of them got bored enough to patent
new-and-improved maize? We don’t know. Did they do it to feed the hungry, to
make a fortune, or to impress the babes? We don’t know.
Yet, that mundane can of corn that moderns keep
in the pantry for a culinary last resort represents more cultural advancement
than the paintings in The Louvre or the inventions in The Smithsonian. So, here
I am following those ancient footsteps up the valley toward the caves.
Curiously, it’s starting to rain.
Arriving in Tehuacan presents a bustling
commercial city packed with stuff to buy. Some outlying barrios are trashy, but
the historic downtown is more than agreeable. I walk from the bus station past greasy
taco vendors and pirate music hawkers to the Hotel Casa Real.
These accommodations are cozy. The lobby has
soft worn leather couches with an understated style and comfort that can’t be
overstated. An intricately-carved oak cabinet revels in suit-of-armor motifs. A
bronze Native virgin with pottery jars sits across from a mahogany Saint
Francis with forest animals. There’s an oil painting of succulent fruits, a candle,
and a mandolin.
Yet, most eye-catching of all is a glowing
stained-glass window of budding grapevines, classical columns, and a regal
peacock. Everything is rich and ornate. Nothing is faux or commercial. The
ceiling is wood-paneled and the floor is inlaid marble. A Persian carpet looks
so old and raggedy that it must have been purchased from ancient Moors during
their occupation of Spain. I dig this hotel. Free internet and breakfast buffet
never replace history and culture.
Every turn of the Casa Real corridor unveils a
bubbling stone fountain or a potted plant rainforest. My suite has a sparkling
bathroom of chrome, crystal, and mirrors that transforms a teeth brushing into
a holy ritual at the temple to a healthy body. I plunge onto the king-size,
cherry-wood bed and sigh.
Breakfast finds me in the hotel’s central patio
restaurant amidst rustic quilted tablecloths and blue-and-white Talavera pottery.
The papaya, watermelon, pineapple, and cantaloupe fruit plate is juicy and the
café Americano is strong. Sugary fibreless juices cannot replace nature’s
healthy and sensual seed-packets. There’s a reason Adam and Eve weren’t tempted
by a smoothie.
Likewise, I don’t wish to go to heaven, if
there’s no coffee there. Of course, I may not be on the guest list anyway.
Somewhere along life’s journey, I got confused about the map. I now seem to be
barreling down a highway right behind AC/DC. Hopefully, I haven’t passed the
last U-turn option.
When I must eventually explain my erratic and
reckless driving to the cosmic highway patrol, I plan to bring a gift, open
with a joke, and meekly suggest that overlooking the infractions of a guy like
me would instantly give hope to millions. It’s a desperate ploy, but it’s all
I’ve got. “Your Honor, I didn’t see the stop sign because I was drunk and my
moral speedometer has never functioned all that well” seems unlikely to impress
the court. Light a candle for me, would ya? We will continue my quest for the birthplace of food and the source of redemption in my next post.
A starkly beautiful landscape.
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