in zapata country with johnny...
I FIRST MET JOHNNY OWENS IN THE MID-1970s...
SHORTLY AFTER MY WIFE AND I HAD DIVORCED. He was a Professor of History at the University of Houston. One morning at the local gathering place for early morning coffee called The Avalon Drug Store on the corner of Kirby Drive and Westheimer Road, he told me that he was he was about to be on his way to what he called Zapata Country in order to study the life and legend of Emiliano Zapata, the proud man who became the revolutionary leader of the 400 citizens of Morelos in order to use the law to settle their grievances against the government of Mexico back in 1909. Johnny, who was aware that I was somewhat depressed over my recent divorce and by the fact that I could no longer see my 2 children on a daily-basis, invited me to tag-along with him, mentioned how attractive the women in that particular portion of Mexico were, and since I was unemployed at the time and would not mind the company of a good-looking woman or two, I immediately said Yes.
The village of Tepoztlan was about 60 miles south of Mexico City, among the mountains of Morelos. Behind them other mountains rose, big and broad-shouldered, with darkened silhouettes of still more beyond. Each day, as Johnny and I walked to town, they became as familiar as the road itself. I quickly learned that this was where the legend of Zapata lived. To the village residents, Emiliano Zapata wasn't simply a character in a movie, a figure in a mural, or a name in the history of the 1910-1920 Mexican Revolution. He had lived, he'd fought, he'd died here. I would soon learn that in that fine, tragic 1952 version of the great revolutionary leader that Marlon Brando played in Viva Zapata, the movies got it right. Viva Zapata might be of limited use as literal history, but was absolutely true as legend.
The town of Tepoztlan has existed since about the time of Jesus, and was dominated by the Aztecs for a century before the arrival of Cortez. Today it is laid out in the same basic design as it once was. The great mounds of chilies, corn, beans, tomatoes, and chocolate; the ceramics and masks: Were all sold in virtually the same way in Aztec times, under the same colorful arrangements of tents and poles. After lunch on our second day in Tepoztlan, we walked under the hot, scoured Mexican sky to the center of town to meet with a woman by the name of Valentia Perez in a small cafe called El Cirelo, where we ordered coffee. Valentia had been in the town of Chimaneca on the 10th day of April in the year of 1919, which was the day that Zapata had been assassinated at the age of 39. She was a a 10 year-0ld girl back then and was now a woman 66 years-of-age, with a finely-chiseled face and dark-brown eyes and cascades of curled salt-and-peppered hair.
Valentia began telling us the entire story of that day by saying that in March of 1919, a colonel in the government army named Jesus M. Guajardo agreed to join forces with Zapata, defecting with guns, ammunition, and more than 100 men. Zapata was suspicious but intrigued. He decided to meet with Guajardo, made arrangement for delivery of arms and men, and told Guajardo that he would soon be a general in the Zapata army. Guarjardo then invited Zapata to a fiesta in Chinameca, where the could celebrate the new alliance. Ignoring the rumors of a trap, Zapata came to town on April 10th.
Leaving most of his troops standing guard down the road, Zapata entered the hacienda with 10 of his officers. Guajardo's men were standing guard on the patio, their weapons in the present-arms position. A bugle sounded 3 times as Zapata passed through the gate, and on the 3rd note, Guajaro's men raised their rifles and fired at Zapata and his men. Zapata turned his horse, his pearl-handled pistol still in his holster, stood in the stirrups with his arms out thrust and then crashed to the ground. His companions fell with him. His bullet-riddled body was then draped over a horse and then taken to Chaulta, where it was unceremoniously dumped on the floor of the Municipal Palace for all to see. Valentia ended the story with tears in her eyes. She then paused and gave a small smile. "That is where the legend began," she said. "Many said he was still alive. He was said to have gone to Nicaragua or Arabia to fight for freedom there. Others said that he was close to home and could be seen back in the hills dressed in white peasant clothes and riding - not the sorrel on which he had been killed- but a fine, white horse of happier days...All of Morelos followed him. Right to the end. He was the revolutionary master of these mountains..."
We then walked with her and soon discovered that the name of Tepoztlan doesn't explain the beauty of the place, or its moods, or its ghosts. Valentia said that sometimes they all appear after the sun has vanished, and you can walk at night with no sense of menace that stains the night in almost all the cities of el Norte. On the dirt roads of the lower town, we saw strangers pass in the dark and murmur hello. Somewhere, but never seen, dogs were barking, and the odor of jasmine thickened the air. We walked along a small rutted road, gazing up at the black silhouette of the mountains, the wind shifted subtly and a cloud acquired the gleaming texture of mother-of-pearl: still, beautiful, perfect. A lone dog howled. And I swear that up on the ridge, high above this dark valley in Morelos, I saw a fine white horse...
...And when I asked Johnny if he had seen it too, he said Yes and Valentia smiled and wispered Viva Zapata...
I FIRST MET JOHNNY OWENS IN THE MID-1970s...
SHORTLY AFTER MY WIFE AND I HAD DIVORCED. He was a Professor of History at the University of Houston. One morning at the local gathering place for early morning coffee called The Avalon Drug Store on the corner of Kirby Drive and Westheimer Road, he told me that he was he was about to be on his way to what he called Zapata Country in order to study the life and legend of Emiliano Zapata, the proud man who became the revolutionary leader of the 400 citizens of Morelos in order to use the law to settle their grievances against the government of Mexico back in 1909. Johnny, who was aware that I was somewhat depressed over my recent divorce and by the fact that I could no longer see my 2 children on a daily-basis, invited me to tag-along with him, mentioned how attractive the women in that particular portion of Mexico were, and since I was unemployed at the time and would not mind the company of a good-looking woman or two, I immediately said Yes.
The village of Tepoztlan was about 60 miles south of Mexico City, among the mountains of Morelos. Behind them other mountains rose, big and broad-shouldered, with darkened silhouettes of still more beyond. Each day, as Johnny and I walked to town, they became as familiar as the road itself. I quickly learned that this was where the legend of Zapata lived. To the village residents, Emiliano Zapata wasn't simply a character in a movie, a figure in a mural, or a name in the history of the 1910-1920 Mexican Revolution. He had lived, he'd fought, he'd died here. I would soon learn that in that fine, tragic 1952 version of the great revolutionary leader that Marlon Brando played in Viva Zapata, the movies got it right. Viva Zapata might be of limited use as literal history, but was absolutely true as legend.
The town of Tepoztlan has existed since about the time of Jesus, and was dominated by the Aztecs for a century before the arrival of Cortez. Today it is laid out in the same basic design as it once was. The great mounds of chilies, corn, beans, tomatoes, and chocolate; the ceramics and masks: Were all sold in virtually the same way in Aztec times, under the same colorful arrangements of tents and poles. After lunch on our second day in Tepoztlan, we walked under the hot, scoured Mexican sky to the center of town to meet with a woman by the name of Valentia Perez in a small cafe called El Cirelo, where we ordered coffee. Valentia had been in the town of Chimaneca on the 10th day of April in the year of 1919, which was the day that Zapata had been assassinated at the age of 39. She was a a 10 year-0ld girl back then and was now a woman 66 years-of-age, with a finely-chiseled face and dark-brown eyes and cascades of curled salt-and-peppered hair.
Valentia began telling us the entire story of that day by saying that in March of 1919, a colonel in the government army named Jesus M. Guajardo agreed to join forces with Zapata, defecting with guns, ammunition, and more than 100 men. Zapata was suspicious but intrigued. He decided to meet with Guajardo, made arrangement for delivery of arms and men, and told Guajardo that he would soon be a general in the Zapata army. Guarjardo then invited Zapata to a fiesta in Chinameca, where the could celebrate the new alliance. Ignoring the rumors of a trap, Zapata came to town on April 10th.
Leaving most of his troops standing guard down the road, Zapata entered the hacienda with 10 of his officers. Guajardo's men were standing guard on the patio, their weapons in the present-arms position. A bugle sounded 3 times as Zapata passed through the gate, and on the 3rd note, Guajaro's men raised their rifles and fired at Zapata and his men. Zapata turned his horse, his pearl-handled pistol still in his holster, stood in the stirrups with his arms out thrust and then crashed to the ground. His companions fell with him. His bullet-riddled body was then draped over a horse and then taken to Chaulta, where it was unceremoniously dumped on the floor of the Municipal Palace for all to see. Valentia ended the story with tears in her eyes. She then paused and gave a small smile. "That is where the legend began," she said. "Many said he was still alive. He was said to have gone to Nicaragua or Arabia to fight for freedom there. Others said that he was close to home and could be seen back in the hills dressed in white peasant clothes and riding - not the sorrel on which he had been killed- but a fine, white horse of happier days...All of Morelos followed him. Right to the end. He was the revolutionary master of these mountains..."
We then walked with her and soon discovered that the name of Tepoztlan doesn't explain the beauty of the place, or its moods, or its ghosts. Valentia said that sometimes they all appear after the sun has vanished, and you can walk at night with no sense of menace that stains the night in almost all the cities of el Norte. On the dirt roads of the lower town, we saw strangers pass in the dark and murmur hello. Somewhere, but never seen, dogs were barking, and the odor of jasmine thickened the air. We walked along a small rutted road, gazing up at the black silhouette of the mountains, the wind shifted subtly and a cloud acquired the gleaming texture of mother-of-pearl: still, beautiful, perfect. A lone dog howled. And I swear that up on the ridge, high above this dark valley in Morelos, I saw a fine white horse...
...And when I asked Johnny if he had seen it too, he said Yes and Valentia smiled and wispered Viva Zapata...
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