Mexico Cooks!

Three Generations of Gunpowder

On the Catholic feast of Saint Luke I invited my friend Julia to drive to San Lucas Evangelista with me to meet the coheteros (fireworks makers). It was the final day of the fiestas patronales (patron saint's festivities) for Saint Luke and I knew his little namesake town would be in full party mode.

We drove along the main street of the tiny town looking for the church. Usually a village church is easy to locate—I just look for the church tower and point the car in its direction. This town was different; we couldn't see a tower. Finally I pulled to the side of a narrow street and asked an elderly shawl-wrapped woman how to get to the church.

"Ay señora," she sighed, "No se puede." (You can't.)

I was momentarily puzzled, but then light dawned. "Because of the fiestas?"

"Yes, the whole street is blocked with the rides and booths. You need to go to the last street in town," she pointed, "and park your car there. Then you can walk." She shook her head, scandalized by the madness of the fiestas.

Chuckling, I followed her directions and parked the car almost directly in front of the church, but on the rocky unpaved side street rather than the main street. We walked a few meters to the churchyard and immediately saw that the castillo (the castle, a large set-piece fireworks display) was under construction. We also noticed that the church has no tower—no wonder we hadn't spotted it immediately from the edge of town.

As I approached a group of men working on part of the castillo, they stood up to greet us. "Buenas tardes, how can we help you?"

I explained that I was interested in talking to the boss about the fireworks and that I was going to write an article about the fireworks. The first young man laughed and pointed at a second young man crouched on the ground working. "Talk to him, he's the boss's son. He'll help you." Then he laughed even harder. The young man in question rolled his eyes and grimaced.

"My name is Gerardo Hernández Ortiz, and I'm not the boss's son. I'm just a helper here. You want to talk to the big boss—he's over there." He pointed at another man standing by the churchyard gate. "Wait here a minute, I'll go get him." He socked the first young man in the arm as he walked to the gate. I watched as he talked briefly with a man in a navy blue plaid shirt. He glanced toward me and nodded.

Very shortly that man came over and shook my hand. "I'm Manuel Zúñiga of Cohetería del Pueblo (Town Fireworks Makers). My worker said you wanted to talk with me?" I explained my interest again and he became very serious.

"You have to explain to your readers that my profession is not dangerous. The majority of accidents happen because of juguetería, the small 'toy' fireworks such as palomitas (poppers) and luces de Bengal (sparklers) used by children. Those fireworks are imported from China and are much less stable than the ones we make here in Mexico. Those are very dangerous, very.

"Yes, there have been some bad accidents with our kind of fireworks, like the one in Veracruz in January 2003 (28 people were killed and more than 50 were injured when illegally stored fireworks exploded in a central market), but those incidents are very unusual.

"Our philosophy is that one person dies, but others follow in his footsteps and the work carries on and becomes better.

"My family has been making castillos, cohetes (rockets), bombas (bombs) and other fireworks for three generations. My grandfather, may he rest in peace, started making fireworks in San Juan Evangelista, the next town over there," he gestured to a spot in the distance beyond the church, "and then the whole family moved to Cuexcomatitlán, just up the road from here, and we've lived there ever since."

"It's always been a family business. You might say that we're Zúñiga and Sons." He smiled broadly. "I'm Manuel Zúñiga, at your service. We make a unique style of fireworks and we're very good at it. We've won many contests, including first place in the State of Jalisco. We've been asked to be judges at a pyrotechnics contest in the State of Mexico.

"Most people think that the Chinese are the kings of gunpowder, that China is the world capital of fireworks. We've found out that the tradition of fireworks is very strong in England and that the English are really more knowledgeable than the Chinese. Their designs and innovations are at the forefront. We hope to travel to England one day to see their work in person."

I was fascinated with the construction of the various parts of the castillo. "It looks as if you have to be an engineer to figure out how this entire thing fits together and works," I said, reaching up to move several parts of the mechanism.

"Yes, it's very complicated. Every tube that you see attached to the structure is filled with gunpowder and the chemicals that create the colors of the designs. We use several different kinds of materials to make the framework, like carrizo (bamboo canes) and madera de pino (pine wood). The bamboo is very flexible, the pine is rigid. There are other kinds of wood that we use to give more shape to the designs. Some of the sections of the castillo are hinged so that they move up and down as they spin.

"Designs are made with long thin tubes filled with gunpowder and with the thicker tubes that shoot fire. You might see flowers, a heart, a horse or a cow, or some religious symbols." He walked over to a large section of castillo lying on the ground and traced the outline of the design with his finger. "This one is a chalice with the communion host above it. Can you see it?" I certainly could. "It will look beautiful when it's lit up tonight."

"When it's time to put the whole castillo together, the parts are set onto a pole. We start with the topmost part and then use a system of pulleys to raise it up. Then we add the middle section, and then the bottom part under that."

"Come with me, I want to show you some other things." As we walked to the fireworks-filled storeroom next to the church, Sr. Zúñiga continued explaining the intricacies of his family business.

"Here, this is something different. It's a torito, a little bull. See the shape? Late tonight, we'll bring these out to play." He laughed. "A boy carries this little bull over his head—yes, after it's lit and while it's exploding with color and fire—and runs through the crowd. He'll chase whoever looks like a good victim. He hunts for whoever looks nervous. This torito has buscapíes fastened to it. Those are a kind of fireworks that shoots off the framework of the little bull and skitters along the ground. It literally means 'looks for feet'. It's only a little dangerous." He grinned and winked.

I grinned too, remembering a fiesta night in Guadalajara when a small boy with a blazing torito chased me down a cobblestone street as the festive crowd laughed to see the señora running to escape.

Sr. Zúñiga talked as we walked back through the churchyard. "We work all year round. There are 25 of us who build the fireworks.

"We'll be in Ixtlahuacán de los Membrillos on October 21 for a visit of Our Lady of Zapopan and in Ajijic on October 31 for the last day of the month-long celebration for Our Lady of the Rosary. There will be a castillo in each town. Of course we've already started preparations for the nine-day festivities in Ajijic at the end of November."

We gazed up at the castillo being mounted just outside the cemetery fence. Curious, Julia asked him, "What does it cost to have one of these built?"

"The simplest ones start at $7,500 pesos—about $665 U.S.. The price goes up from that to about $20,000 pesos—about $1,800 U.S.—for more complicated castillos built on a central pole, like this one. Then there is another category of castillo, much more complex, that starts at $25,000 pesos. For that kind, the sky's the limit." He shook my hand. "Can't you stay until we burn this one at around eleven o'clock tonight?"

"I wish I could—maybe next year." With a last look at the work in progress, Julia and I headed for the car. I knew I'd dream of castillos that night. The sky was the limit.    

Tianguis: Mexico's Street Market

The typical Mexican tianguis (street market) is a multi-layered event. It combines wonderful shopping with catching up on friends and gossip. It's a place to restock your larder and recharge your spirit at the same time.  The tianguis is the perfect spot to buy lovely and inexpensive flowers, delicious field-fresh produce, and succulently sweet tropical fruits. I also buy all of my fresh fish, chicken, cheese, and yoghurt right there at the tianguis.  When I tell them where I shop, many friends from North of the Border exclaim, "What! Aren't you afraid of—afraid of—" and their questions fade into puzzled silence.

No, I am not afraid. Not of food poisoning, not of communicable diseases, not of spoilage. After years of purchasing nearly all of my produce, meats and dairy products at the tianguis, I believe that it's just as safe and healthy to buy those items from the tianguis vendors as it is to buy them from a supermarket refrigerator case. I've never been sick nor had any sort of problem from any of the foods I buy from the market vendors. The friends I've convinced to try the vendors report the same thing: unequalled satisfaction and never a problem.

It took me some time to figure out not only what I needed but also where at the tianguis I wanted to buy. You can figure it out, too. My main rule of thumb is to buy where the crowds have gathered to shop and to make my purchases where the fresh foods I want are clean and free of flies. I haven't been disappointed. The quality of meat (particularly chicken) is far superior to anything I've bought from a butcher. The cheeses and yogurt are unbeatable. The fish is inevitably fresh and clean. Not only are the eyes clear but the fish still smell of the ocean.

It's always best to go to the tianguis early to buy products that need refrigeration. During those first hours of the market, the meats, fish, and dairy products are still chilled and the selection is good. Later in the day, some items may not be available and what's left might look a bit tired.

There are usually several fishmongers at any good-sized urban tianguis.  A fishmonger's booth is usually large and filled with a variety of fish. Dorado (mahi mahi), huachinango (red snapper), lenguado (sole), robalo (sea bass), mackerel, crabs, shrimp, octopus, tilapia, and a full assortment of others fresh from the sea compete for space on a bed of ice. You can request your fish entero (whole), filete (filleted), or even molido (ground, for ceviche). If the fish is small, expect to pay by weight for the whole fish even if you ask for it filleted. If the fish is very large, like a dorado, you'll be charged only for the fillets. Occasionally it's possible to make a special request. I've asked for fresh sea scallops when they're in season. If you're making a request for a party menu, it's always best to have an alternative in mind: sometimes the special item you want isn't available.

All of the fish sold by these vendors comes from the Atlantic or Pacific oceans to the main fish market in Zapopan, a suburb of Guadalajara. The vendors are at the market before dawn to purchase the freshest fish to sell in the tianguis.

At some tianguis (but not all) you'll find vendors selling pork and some beef from a tiny table. The table is just big enough for a few large pieces of fresh pork ready to be cut to order, a scale, and a roll of plastic bags.  Some days they also have freshly rendered lard for sale.

I eyed the women lined up to buy, I peered at the meat, and I watched the carnicero (butcher) cutting orders for several weeks before I stepped up to the table myself. It took that long for me to know what I wanted to request: a half kilo (approximately one pound) of maciza so that I could prepare carne de puerco con chile verde. Maciza is the solid leg meat (fresh uncured ham) I used for cutting cubes of pork. You can also have maciza ground for albóndigas (Mexican meatballs) or to mix with ground beef for a meatloaf or Italian meatballs. While I was waiting for my maciza, I noticed the lomo (pork loin) and made a mental note to add it to my shopping list another week.

The butcher told me that he buys only first class hogs and has them butchered at the municipal slaughterhouse. At the tianguis, he and his mother sell either lomo or maciza cut to your specifications. The price for either meat on the day that I talked with Sra. Gómez was $60 pesos per kilo. The meat is not refrigerated at the tianguis, but it is meat-locker cold when it is placed in the cooler where it is kept until it's sold out, usually by 10 AM.

A little over a year ago I noticed that a new chicken seller had set up shop at the tianguis. When I prepared the first skinless, boneless chicken breast that I bought from Guadalajara's Jaime Ribera, I was hooked. Brought freshly killed to the tianguis on Wednesday mornings, Jaime's chicken is the freshest, pinkest, plumpest, most flavorful chicken I have eaten in my life. His chicken is immaculately clean, as is his booth.

The pallid birds of the USA grow even paler in comparison to these glorious creatures. Chicken this good was not available even in the markets I frequented during two months I recently spent in France.

Jaime sells his chicken any way you want it, from a whole bird to just the feet. Breasts can be had with or without skin and bones. If I want the nearly paper-thin breast meat that is used here for preparing milanesa de pollo (breaded chicken), Jaime either has it ready or cuts it for me while I wait. Although the livers are mixed with hearts, I always ask him to sell me just the livers. He carefully picks the hearts out of the mix. When I buy the golden yellow feet—I use them when preparing chicken stock—he always makes sure the toenails are well-trimmed.

Chicken Part	Price In Pesos per kilo
Breast (skinless, boneless)	$56
Breast (with skin and bone)	$35
Leg (with thigh, back portion attached)	$22
Leg (with thigh, no back)	$25
Wings	$15
Whole chicken	$24
Chicken livers	$10
Chicken feet	$8

Like the rest of the vendors featured here, Jaime never touches money with his bare hands. He takes your payment in a piece of plastic wrap or in a plastic glove.

For me, it isn't a successful trip to the tianguis without buying at least one liter of yogurt. Homemade, the yogurt is creamy, sweet without being cloying, full of natural fruits, vegetables, or nuts, and just right for breakfast. My particular flavor is the zarzamora (blackberry), but some friends rarely buy anything but the durazno (peach) and others swear by the nuez (pecan). You'll also find liter jars of mango, celery, carrot, and beet—just about any flavor yogurt you might want. At $15 pesos a liter, it's a real steal. The vendors also sell a variety of cheeses, thick crema (Mexican cream, similar to French creme fraiche), requesón (Mexican-style cottage cheese, similar to Italian ricotta), and flour tortillas. All of the dairy products are kept fresh and cold in coolers during the selling day.

Products	Price in Pesos
Yogurt	$15/liter
Queso Panela (Mexican fresh cheese)	$24/per cheese 650-700 grams
Queso Oaxaca (Oaxaca-style cheese)	$50/kilo
Crema (Mexican thick cream)	$26/kilo
Queso Cotija (Mexican sharp cheese)	$48/kilo
Queso Adobera (Mexican melting cheese)	$22/half kilo
Requesón (Mexican cottage cheese)	$20/kilo
Flour Tortillas	$10/packet

My dairy product buying isn't confined to just one vendor. I usually purchase cheeses from another booth. Santiago and Ana Isabel Valdomillos specialize in cheeses, cream, yogurts, honey, and chicken nuggets, smoked pork chops, and other easy-to-prepare meats. You'll also see small bottles of Yakult, a drinkable live-bacteria yogurt.

Products	Price in Pesos
Yogurt	$16/liter
Queso Panela (Mexican fresh cheese)	$36/kilo
Queso Oaxaca (Oaxaca-style cheese)	$48/kilo
Crema (Mexican thick cream)	$32/kilo
Queso Cotija (Mexican sharp cheese)	$50/kilo
Queso Adobera (Mexican melting cheese)	$40/kilo
Queso Gouda (Gouda-style cheese)	$60/kilo
Requesón (Mexican cottage cheese)	$22/kilo
Miel (Honey)	$25/small  $38/large
Flour Tortillas	$9/packet
Chuleta Ahumada (smoked pork chop)	$54/kilo

Santiago smiled when I asked how long he had been selling at the tianguis. "Altogether, it's been more than 28 years." He gestured with his index finger held straight up to indicate the height of a small child. "I used to help my Dad when I was no taller than this."

I'm particularly fond of Santiago's queso cotija, a cheese named for the town in Michoacán where it originated. It's a sharp and fairly dry cheese which crumbles easily. As it ages, it becomes drier and sharper. It's delicious crumbled over refried beans and enchiladas or stirred into soups.

The dairy and other products are kept cold in coolers throughout the day. The products kept out for sale on the tables are also covered with cheesecloth to protect them from flies.

I think you'll be wonderfully surprised by the freshness, quality, and prices of the fish, meats, chicken, and dairy products offered for sale by these vendors. There's no reason to shop elsewhere for what you'll find on your regular outing to the tianguis.    

Old Guadalajara Bed and Breakfast

I've known Paul Callahan and Arturo Mercado Arreola for much longer than I have lived in Guadalajara, but until recently I'd not visited their sumptuous bed and breakfast lodgings. The unassuming outside of the building purposely tells the passerby nothing about the beauty that waits inside.

"These old city houses were enormous," Paul said, once we were comfortably ensconced in the patio's period chairs. "They weren't built to be elegant or all gussied up. It's kind of odd that people think Mexican architecture is about cupolas and domes and exotic colors. City architecture has always been extremely simple. The old houses were huge, but they were simple to the point of severity.

"This house was once part of the Santa María de Gracia Convent. When we bought the 16th Century house about 30 years ago, it was a white elephant. No one, but no one, wanted to live in downtown Guadalajara in those days. We bought it at a bargain price and started fixing it up."

Arturo continued, "We met here in Guadalajara 33 years ago. Even way back then, when we bought the house, we were thinking of opening a B&B. It took us a while to get around to it, though."

Paul nodded in agreement from his cozy chair across the room. "We've only been taking guests for the last year and a half." He laughed. "At the time we bought the house, it was divided into a lot of tiny rooms, and it had no bathrooms. Now we have eight very large bedrooms, each with a private bath. We have our own quarters, as well."

Arturo gestured across the patio. "Would you like to see where we live?"

I followed the two men across the simple patio that they have planted with elegant bamboo that reaches to the second floor balconies. They led me through a hallway and into another patio which seemed miles away from the bustling Historic Center of the city. In the old houses of Guadalajara, there was often more than one patio, for increased ventilation and light, with each patio surrounded by rooms opening onto it.

Both patios feature covered terrazas (terraces that serve as outdoor rooms) furnished with comfortably soft-cushioned furniture, antique paintings, Oriental rugs, period lighting, and the many small treasures that Paul and Arturo have accumulated over the course of their life together.

We chose our chairs in this terraza and continued our talk. Paul pointed to the back of the house. "That part of the house used to be the stables," he reminisced, thinking of the house as they found it. "This patio was the corral. We didn't need room for clotheslines or chickens, so we put a partial roof over the patio and made it a terraza."

Arturo gave me a pensive look. "You know, so many people have strange notions about what it's like to live in the city. Pollution, crime—you name it, people think it's a problem here. The truth is that it's so safe here. We love the city. And we've had this upholstered furniture out here for years. It's not the least bit dirty from pollution."

Paul nodded. "If I feel like going for a walk at three in the morning, I never feel the least bit afraid to go out. The Historic Center is probably the safest part of the city. Best of all, everything we want is right at our fingertips. Sometimes months go by and we don't take the car out of the garage. We walk, or we take a cab or a bus."

Paul excused himself to consult with a repairman who was working in the house while Arturo continued talking with me. "Our guests just love it here. Even though we've only been open a short time, we've had repeat customers. We don't take children; the B&B is for adults only. The whole house is completely non-smoking. Plus, of course, as Paul said, everything is right here. The Teatro Degollado and the Cathedral are just a couple of blocks away, along with all the plazas, museums, and monuments in the colonial center of Guadalajara."

I glanced around at the beautiful outdoor room we sat in. Lush plantings combined with exquisite antiques to create an atmosphere of quiet luxury. "Arturo, are your rooms usually completely booked?"

"Often all of our rooms are full during the winter, when people want to escape the cold in the north. Summer is less busy. We do love having guests. The people who choose to stay with us are so very interesting, so very sophisticated."

Paul walked into the room again and picked up the conversation. "We don't advertise aggressively at all. You know we have a website, but it's very simple. There aren't a lot of places to click the mouse to go to other pages—it's just that one page. If someone wants to email me with questions, of course I answer with all the information the person needs or wants. But we don't advertise very much."

Paul continued, "The longest anyone has stayed with us is sixteen days. That couple loved it here so much that they just couldn't leave."

Arturo explained that the B&B is gay-friendly and that they do advertise on a gay Mexico travel website. "It's very low-key," he mentioned. "Once in a while we have male couples, sometimes we have women couples, but all of our clients socialize together here, gay and straight alike. Breakfast is always a wonderful event."

I'd heard about the sumptuous Old Guadalajara breakfasts from some of their former guests. "I've heard rumors that you two are quite the cooks," I smiled.

Arturo's eyebrows jumped up. "Not me!" he exclaimed. "Paul's the cook. He prepares exquisite breakfasts for the guests. Tell her, Paul."

Paul grinned. "Of course we set the breakfast table with linens, crystal, china, and silver. There are always fresh flowers. Our guests come downstairs and gasp—then they have to run right back up to get their cameras, the table is so beautiful.

"We start with freshly squeezed juices, excellent coffee, and English teas on the table for him or her. There are always four or five types of seasonal fruits on the table. If a guest wants something special, a tropical fruit like guanábana or carambola, we make sure it's on ready for him or her. Then we serve eggs any way the guest wants them, or hotcakes, or any number of things. There are always breakfast meats, such as smoked pork chops, bacon, or sausages. I always make muffins—they're served with my own homemade marmalades. Sometimes I even make my own butter. I'd much rather prepare too much food than have a guest want something that isn't available. No one staying here has complained about not having enough to eat."

"My goodness, Paul, I just might show up for breakfast myself some morning." I was practically drooling over his descriptions. "All of that sounds out of this world. Do you offer lunch or dinner to your guests?"

Arturo laughed. "You should have seen him at Christmas. The rooms were full and on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day nothing in Guadalajara was open. Paul prepared a full dinner buffet for the guests on Christmas Eve—and then did it all again on Christmas Day so that our guests wouldn't have to go out hunting for food. They would never have found a restaurant open."

Paul shook his head. "It was a lot of effort, but it was so good to see our clients so happy. We had a wonderful time with them."

"And are there other services that you offer your guests?"

"We do keep ice on hand for people who want to have a drink here, and we're thinking of selling some good table wines to those who want them during their stay. There's not a liquor store here in Guadalajara's Historic Center that stocks that sort of thing. Our guests sometimes want to have a glass of wine here and then go out to dinner. It would be a convenience for them." Paul motioned to Arturo. "Let's show her the guest rooms and the rest of the house."

We started our tour with the kitchen, a well-used and obviously well-loved area. The stove, a professional model, dominates one wall. Cooking equipment including an Italian ice cream maker cluttered the counters. "I built this kitchen for me," Paul said. "I love to cook and we rarely eat in restaurants, so this is my retreat."

Through the swinging kitchen doors is the formal dining room where breakfast is served. Across the first patio, we climbed a flight of stone steps to the second floor guest rooms. A collection of antique Mexican masks hangs on one staircase wall; paintings of every style and age cover the other walls.

At the top of the stairs, Paul and Arturo guided me into the first guest room. A bed draped in hangings from a princess's fantasy stood against one wall, antique rugs hung on another, and more paintings covered the rest of the walls. The room is at once simple, graceful, and very well furnished. The bathroom is well-appointed and large.

As we walked along, we talked about the décor and the various styles of art and artifacts found in the B&B.

"We don't want the house to be too fussy," Arturo said. "We want our guests to have the experience of elegant luxury of a kind they wouldn't find in a hotel."

"How have you priced the rooms?" I asked.

Paul answered, "We still charge just $125 USD per night for a room, whether it's occupied by one or two people. All our rooms have queen size beds, and of course they all have private baths."

"You'll see that all the baths are very simple—large, but simple. All of the tile is white, all the shower curtains are white, and all the towels are white. White is sparkling clean, which is what we emphasize. Beauty and cleanliness are our hallmarks."

Arturo mentioned again that the neighborhood is exceptionally safe, even late at night. "Our guests enjoy going to hear the Philharmonic, going to a late dinner at one of the restaurants near here, or staying out late for drinks and talk. There's never been a moment of concern for anyone's safety.

"We cater to real travelers, people who have experienced several different cultures and want to experience Mexico in all its glory. We think we offer that experience right here in the heart of Guadalajara."

I think so too, and so will you.

The Old Guadalajara B&B  is located at Belén 236, Centro Histórico, Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico.

For more information, see the Old Guadalajara B&B  website at www.oldguadalajara.com or Email: [email protected]

Spiritual Healing in Mexico

The road to Concepción de Buenos Aires.

The drive deep into the mountains was long, more than two hours from my home in Guadalajara. Many kilometers of the twisting road were rough, pocked with deep potholes. I got stuck behind a slow-moving slat-side truck full to the brim with plastic bags of raw chicken, huge crates of vegetables and fruits, bags of bread and other foods. I was in a hurry to reach Concepción de Buenos Aires, a tiny town well off the beaten tourist path, where I was to meet Sr. Cura Manuel Cárdenas Contreras, the pastor of la Parroquia de la Inmaculada Concepción—the parish of the Immaculate Conception. I'd heard a little about him and his healing work from an acquaintance, but I really couldn't imagine what lay in store for me.

When I arrived, I discovered that it was tianguis (street market) day in Concepción de Buenos Aires. The streets around the town square were closed, blocked by vendors' booths. Rock music blared and the dusty cobblestones were crowded with men in jeans and cowboy hats, women in red-checkered aprons buying vegetables for the day's comida (dinner), and little children tugging at their older siblings' hands as they pleaded for a candy or toy. I squeezed into a parking space and navigated through booths of bolis (a frozen treat), flower arrangements, and DVDs to get to the parish steps.

I made my way through the church to its inner courtyard, where there was a great deal of bustle. A big truck—the very loaded-down truck I had followed along the road to town—was being emptied. One of the women helping with the truck explained to me that all of its contents had been donated for the poor of the town. The food was being divided into bags for individual families. "We do this every week," she beamed. She led me to the entrance to the parish office. "He's in there, just go on in," she encouraged me.

La Inmaculada

Religious pamphlets, candles, and pictures crowded sales shelves in the dim anteroom. What I assumed to be the secretary's desk was unoccupied. I waited a moment for a prior visitor to come out of the priest's office. When the visitor left, a gravelly voice welcomed me. "Come in, come in."

Padre Manuel rose to greet me and we chatted for a bit. A steady stream of townspeople arrived to schedule Mass intentions. "I'll close the office at 12:30," he said, "and we'll go over to the house to talk further. We can have some privacy there."

Just then a tiny elderly woman wrapped up in a shawl came into the office. She was looking for the church secretary, who was indeed taking the day off. Padre Manuel said, "What do you need?"

She said, "I'm looking for a hand."

Father Manuel held up one of his, fingers spread apart. "Here's one."

"Ay, padre, not yours, no no no. It's that I fell and broke my hand, and I promised the Virgin if it got well I'd hang up a hand to say thank you." She wanted to purchase a small milagro, a metal token that she'd hang near an image of the Virgin as a way to say thank you for her healing.

Detail above the altar of La Inmaculada.

He asked to see her hand, which from where I was sitting looked bruised and still a bit swollen. He started rubbing her hand a little and she winced. He said, "You have sugar, don't you?"

"Sí, padre." She nodded her admission of diabetes.

"And I can tell that your hand still hurts. Who were you fighting with?"

"Ay, padre, I fell down!" She giggled. "I guess I was fighting with the ground. The doctor just took the cast off and yes, it still hurts."

He prodded at her hand with his big fingers and then yanked her little finger. Then he prodded around her thumb and yanked a bit. "Move your hand." She tentatively moved her fingers. "No, really move it, bend it, make a fist, wiggle your fingers."

She did, and a slow beautiful grin spread across her face. "It doesn't hurt!" He nodded.

Milagros mexicanos, including human body parts, animals, and other symbols.

Then he said, "How's your hearing?"

"Ay, padre, since my husband died three months ago I can't hear, my ears are stopped up." He put an index finger into each of her ears and snapped them out again in an abrupt motion. Then he tapped one of his index fingers, hard, on the crown of her head. And again. Then he whispered, "What is your name?" No reaction. A little louder. No reaction. And again, this time very loud.

"Consuelo Alvarez Martínez, padre."

He repeated his ministrations, and from behind her, whispered very softly in her ear again. "What is your name?" She answered instantly.

Then he said, "You have trouble with your blood pressure, right?" 

"Sí, padre." He put his hand high on the bony part of her chest and pressed hard. Then he asked her if she got dizzy when she bent over.

"No, padre, but after I bend over and then stand up, I get dizzy."

He said, "Try it."

She did. "A little, padre."

He pressed on the bony part of her chest. "Again."

"Ay padre, still a little."

"Now try." And she said she was fine, no dizziness.

It was all very matter of fact. There were three other people in the room, including me. She went happily on her way, saying she'd be back the next day to pay her debt to the Virgin.

In just a few minutes, Padre Manuel finished writing up the Mass intentions and ushered me through the church, down the sacristy steps, and into the spacious office where he receives people who are looking for his help. Settled at his desk, he began talking about his life.

"I was born in 1931 in Valle Florido, a rancho that's part of the municipality of Concepción de Buenos Aires, to Manuel Cárdenas García and Petra Contreras Cárdenas. I never knew my father. He was killed by eight men just six months after he married my mother. She never remarried, so I was an only child. When I was seven years old, I started primary school out in the country.

"By the time I was thirteen, I had started thinking about what I wanted to be when I grew up. In those days, there were only a few options. The diocesan seminarians from Guadalajara came out to the rancho on vacation in August that year, and I began to be interested in knowing more about God. I liked the catechism and I decided to go ahead and enter the junior seminary.

"For the first two years, I studied in Tlaquepaque to finish school. Then I entered Señor San José Diocesan Seminary in Guadalajara. After I studied three years of theology in the diocesan seminary in Mérida, I finished my theology studies in Guadalajara and then was sent to the state of Tabasco. I was ordained a priest in Tabasco on July 9, 1961, by Archbishop Fernando Ruíz Solórzano."

Padre Manuel paused and tapped a finger on his desk. "How long were you in Tabasco, Padre?" I asked.

"Sixteen years, all told. Then at the request of the bishop of Ciudad Guzmán, I came back to the archdiocese of Jalisco."

I was puzzled. "How is the archdiocese of Jalisco divided, Padre? I didn't know there were other diocesan divisions."

He smiled. "Yes, we have the archdiocese, with its base in Guadalajara. Then we have three other diocesan seats within the archdiocese: Ciudad Guzmán, San Juan de los Lagos, and Autlán." He ticked the names off on his fingers. "So I was called to the diocese of Ciudad Guzmán and came back to Concepción de Buenos Aires on April 30, 1973. Then in May, I was called to Tuxpan to help with the fiestas of Nuestro Señor del Perdón. On June 13, 1973, I was named pastor at the parish of Teocuitatlán de Corona, in Jalisco.

"I was there for nearly ten years, and then I was asked to be pastor at another parish in Jalisco.

"Finally, in 1994, I was named pastor here at La Inmaculada, in my home town of Concepción de Buenos Aires. And I've been here ever since, eleven years now." He shook his head incredulously at the rapid passage of time.

El Señor Cura Manuel Cárdenas Contreras

"Padre Manuel, many people have told me about your remarkable ability to bring about miraculous cures. Tell me something about how that started."

He leaned forward and looked intensely at me. "I don't cure. God cures. I'm only the means. As a human being, I don't really understand what happens.

"More than twenty years ago, I suffered a lot from terrible back pain that affected my right leg. For eleven months, the pain was intense, day and night. I went to many different doctors, different specialists, as I looked for a cure, but the pain wouldn't leave me and the doctors weren't able to cure me. I was desperate.

"In one of God's mysteries that we as human beings can't understand, I was sent to a doctor, a specialist, in Guadalajara. He was a trained medical specialist, but he also used alternative healing methods. He utilized an alternative energy, he did some things that I can't explain even now. In twenty minutes the pain was gone and I could stand up straight. I went back twice more, and I was cured." Padre Manuel held out his hand and drew in his breath.

"The doctor told me that I also had the gift of healing. I told him no, no I didn't. He said yes, yes I did, and that he would teach me how to use the gift. I refused, over and over again.

"Then one day the doctor said to me, 'So, you wanted to be healed, but you don't want to be an instrument of healing? You wanted to receive, but you don't want to give back?' That stopped me in my tracks. How could I continue to refuse?"

I felt a chill run through my body as I listened to Padre Manuel tell his story. "Please go on," I encouraged him.

"The doctor asked me to come back four times a week, four hours a day, for four months. He said in that length of time he could teach me to use the power for healing that he felt in me. He taught me about the positive energy that comes from women, the negative energy that comes from men, and how they complement one another, the yin and the yang. He taught me about chakras and auras, he showed me how to use ordinary scissors to effect healing.

"I've talked to thousands of people since then, from all social classes. People with health problems come here from everywhere, eager to be healed. Now I'm only able to see people on Fridays and Saturdays. Working in this way is extremely draining, very tiring.

"Recently a family brought one of their daughters to me, all the way from Texas. When she came, she was walking with crutches, with great difficulty. The girl had just had an operation that cost $40,000 USD, an operation that the doctors told the family would allow her to walk again.  The operation was a failure." Padre Manuel pointed to my left. "Look, those are her crutches. When she left here, she could walk as well as you can."

I felt the sharp sting of tears in my eyes. "A friend of mine came to you a few years ago, with terrible back pain. Maybe you remember him—Eufemio García?" Padre Manuel nodded.

I reminisced about his story. "Eufemio had rescued an enormous old crippled dog that had to be bathed frequently to keep her from smelling bad. He used to strip down and hose her off in his patio so he wouldn't make such a mess in his house. One evening he bathed her, let her in the house onto the tile floors, and she slipped and couldn't get up. Eufemio tried to lift her and he slipped, doing the splits on the tiles. Not only had he pulled his muscles, but he developed a bad back injury that prevented him from taking anything but baby steps. He couldn't walk up a flight of stairs and he couldn't step up onto the high curbs we have here.  Some other friends brought Eufemio up to Concepción de Buenos Aires to see you."

Padre Manuel took up the thread of the story. "You know, I cure using scissors. Of course the scissors never touch the person, but they draw energy and cut pain and—well, we don't know exactly how it works, but it does. If I remember your friend, he's a big man, right?"

"Yes, Padre, he's well over six feet tall. Not as tall as you are, but tall."

Padre Manuel nodded. "I would have had him stand in front of me while I passed the scissors over his head, his neck, and down his back. It doesn't sound so impressive or important, but what did he tell you happened to him?"

"He told me that he could have sworn you pressed the scissors against his body as you worked with him. He said he felt their pressure, but one of his friends who was here that day insists that the scissors never touched him. He felt them move over his body in just the way that you described."

The priest nodded again. "She's right, the scissors never touched him. What else did he tell you?"

I thought for a moment. "He said that the pain lessened immediately. He said you told him to bend and touch his toes. He could do it, and there was no pain. Then you asked him to do some knee bends, and again there was no problem. He said he could take normal steps right away, and in about ten minutes he was completely back to normal. He told me he took some teas that you'd prescribed to supplement the healing. He said his pain never came back and he's had no problem with his back since then."

Once again Padre Manuel nodded. "That's excellent, I'm so glad to hear it. Tell your friend to treasure his health.

Blue agave--tequila--fields near Concepción de Buenos Aires

"You know, a Japanese woman, a chemist in Tapachula, brought her daughter to me because she couldn't raise her arms or use them. Now that she has been here, she can. In Spanish, we have a dicho (saying): Querer sanar es media salud (to want to be healed is half of health). I can't explain the mysteries of God in curing people of their problems, but I know it is God who cures. What I do is work with God's energy and the energy of the person who has the illness. That woman you saw in my office earlier today? With God's help, her problems will be healed.

"Just tell people that it is God who heals, it's not me." Padre Manuel clasped my hands and walked me to the door of the church. "Remember, I'm the instrument." He bent down and hugged me. "Vaya con Dios."