Paracutín and the church that was

I finally managed to escape Guadalajara, and after some qual ity Mexican driving by Emery (as soon as the hat goes on he the speedo rises and he begins seeking every possible opportunity to overtake) we managed to make it to Morelia. After a pop-corn fuelled night at a local bar we set off for Paricutin, a nearby volcano which erupted in the 1950's, covering the nearby town with its lava. We were in the state of Michoacan, one of the poorer, hillier and indigenous states of Mexico. (This is a combination that one continually stumbles over in Latin America, the more hills, the more poverty and the more indigenous people you find) Some of the smaller towns we drove through reminded me of Indonesia, but perhaps that was just the shared habit of throwing rubbish everywhe re, so that it accumulates on the sides of the road, and thus is the main thing you see in Mexico. The Muestra un poca de cultura y no tire basura (Show a little culture and don't throw rubbish) signs have apparently little effect, other than as points which collect the litany of plastic wrappers, bottles and bags that the wind blows around.

As we pulled in to the nearby town we were suddenly besieged by the cavalry, ten or 15 cowboys on horses that looked like it had been a while since they had eaten a decent meal, trailed us in hot pursuit trying to convince us to abandon shank's pony and get on theirs. We politely decline their seemingly unending offers, and headed of through the pine forest, in the direction of the foot of the volcano.
All that remains of the town is the local church, half buried in cooled, hardened lava - which is actually made up of huge , grey, pock marked rocks. We managed to scramble up to the top of the church, via a high wire act, and as the volcano towered behind us in the background, a storm rolled in from the opposite direction, the darkening sky and accompanying thunder made it all seem very ominous. As a few Mexican families showed up, six pack in hand (I have rediscovered that there isn't many places a Mexican man is willing to go without beer - hence the failure of the Mexican space program I suppose) we headed back, and stopped at a small collection of lean-tos from which small local indigenous women were selling food and drinks - and beer as well, of course. In the five years since I was last in Mexico, like most of the rest of the world the country has witnessed a mobile phone explosion. (I remember once hitching a lift with a Telmex, the privatised telecommunications monopoly sold at a song to the worlds richest man Carlos Sim, technician who told me how in some places in Mexico people still had to wait five years to get a phone connected, so I suppose the market was ripe for the picking) After dutifully hand making our tortillas, then cooking them on charcoal fire in a half 40 gallon barrel, the fifty something indigenous woman dressed in appropriate local, colourful costume, answered a call on her mobile and proceeded to hold a conversation in her native language. I was immediately struck by the peculiarity of it all, here in the hills of Michoacan, 40 kilometres from the nearest town, indigenous people, still living a fairly traditional life, have adopted the latest technology, whilst still getting around on burros.
Who says indigenous languages are at risk of dying out....mobile phone to the rescue.
I bid a sad farewell to Indira and Emery and hitched a lift with Emery's sister on to Mexico city.