Shards of Glass

Chapter 1... Watering Alamos

I went to Alamos, Sonora Mexico in 2007 to immerse myself in the Spanish language and explore the possibility of living there. A friend of mine had been to Alamos many years before. She described it as beautiful, colorful, artsy, and magical. The town is best known for the week long Music Festival of Dr. Alphonso Ortiz Tirado, which attracts many classical performers and enthusiasts worldwide. The whole town fills with tourists, artists and musicians alike. Each hotel, inn, and casita are booked to capacity. This once very wealthy town captures and displays the colorfully rich history of Colonial Mexico. Festivities abound in the Plaza de Armas, and whole families attend, arm in arm, from babies to great grandparents and even teenagers. 

Alamos is a medium sized, middle-class town in the foothills of the Sierra Madres Mountains, with an elevation of around 1500 feet. In the 1800’s it was one of the wealthiest towns in Mexico because of the silver mines in the area. Some of the most prominent Mexican families lived there during those booming times. For what ever reasons, they stopped working the silver mines. Possibly the silver ran out. Maybe they got bored with all the hard work and decided drugs might be more fun and profitable. Especially after the US instigated the “War On Drugs.” There was now great demand for a crop that thrived very nicely in their vast hidden mountain ranges. Huge profits were now possible and it didn’t require a college degree or being born into Mexico’s elite to reap the hefty rewards. There was work for everyone now, whether they wanted it or not. Whole families of poor peasant farmers were recruited by the drug czars to help with the business. If they refused, the family was killed. It was that simple.

 The many abandoned and once beautiful colonial styled haciendas and town homes were being bought up by the Canadians and North Americans, and for very low prices. Using cheap labor, the gringos were fixing these old bargain houses up and returning them to their original glorious state. They are absolutely stunning. In the Colonial era, walls were erected around the whole property as a form of protection against outlaws, burglars and the occasional unwanted mother-in-law. They would place broken shards of glass on top of the walls to prevent the unwanted from climbing over. These were usually multicolored pieces of glass which were decorative as well as functional. Although because of Mexican ingenuity, the outlaws soon discovered they could just throw a blanket over the broken glass and climb over unhurt. Then resourcefully using the blanket they were able to put all the stolen items in the blanket for a much easier cash, stash and carry method. Simple yet effective.

Once inside, by means of scaling over the tall white stucco walls or entering through the more civilized method of the front door, it became an exotic oasis. Saltillo tile floors paved the way through tropical gardens of multicolored plants all in full bloom. Bougainvillea's hanging from above rafters and wrought-iron trellis’, bursting with bright greens, pinks, reds, and whites. Mango trees, fallen ripe mangos everywhere, precisioned rows of agaves, and huge ancient turtles still as rocks, resting in the shade.

Color was everywhere you looked. Even in the carefully placed laundry hanging along the fence rails, spindly tree limbs and the Dr. Suess-like plumbing fixtures. Mexicans are not afraid of color or where they hang their laundry. It is a joyful, playful, and inspiring, beautiful color wheel of life.

 The old doors of the haciendas whispered and hinted of history. They were weathered, stained, old and repaired, a mixture of chipped paint and varnish, brilliant and faded colors, rough, smooth and sanded, sad, hopeful and welcoming. Some were made of thick planks of mesquite bound together with black iron brackets and simple but ingenious latches. Crafted by Mexican artisans, built by hand in old corrugated tin shops. While I was there I took many photos of the doors of Alamos. The photos are somewhere in the memory of an old laptop, as lost as the friend I gave it too. But the memories are as vivid to me as if I were still there.