Let me go with the flow of the Río Papaloapan, starting in the upper reaches, within the bedrock portion of the stream. The mountains, in this case, are Mesozoic sandstones and limestones that are folded into enormous anticlines and synclines, and the mountain front is formed by the eastern limb of one of these large anticlines. The Río Papaloapan is probably an antecedent stream, which means that it was there before the deformation started, sometime in the Eocene, and kept pace with the rise of the mountains carving itself a very nice gorge before emptying into the coastal plain, where it continues to flow through the alluvial portion of the stream (but more about that later).
Valle Nacional is nestled at the confluence of several small tributaries with the trunk stream of the Río Papaloapan, and is “shielded” from view by that last anticline flank. Because of the many tributaries it has small swales all around it, which I imagine is where tobacco was grown in the years of slavery (1890-1910). I am not sure what I was expecting to see (perhaps a museum or a statue commemorating that dark episode in the history of Mexico), but whatever I was expecting was not there. The region and the town are green and full of flowers, the fields are probably 5 to 50 hectares in extension, and are for the most part planted with corn, pineapples, mangos, and other green things, but not tobacco. It is a happy region that obviously got over the black legacy of slavery long ago.
What is incomprehensible is that in this Eden there were diabolical men who captured, transported, and enslaved normal peasants throughout the country, only to drive them their deaths in a matter of months. The capture or leva took place by selling prisoners, by pressing free peasants, by tricking them with the offer of good wages, or by any other means soldiers and rangers of the Diaz system could device. The ladder went from Diaz to the state governors to the municipal prefectos or political leaders to the hacendados. The later would pay 50 pesos for man or woman, and 20 pesos per child, and that money would be kicked back through the ladder to the father-in-law of Diaz, who was the family treasurer (Diaz was a master at nepotism). This was bad enough, but the hacendados were of the opinion that it was easier to buy another head in six months’ time, than to feed and maintain healthy the original “worker”. So the people were treated worst than cattle, kept in closed barracks at night regardless of gender, underfed, and beaten regularly during 16-hour workdays. Families were not given the opportunity of living as a unit or planting a garden, so in this regard the Mexican slaves were in worst condition that the Afro-American slaves.
Walking along the levees of the Papaloapan I looked at the big river and wonder if the slaves were “broken” early in the game so they would not have the strength of fleeing to freedom by plunging into the river or floating holding on to a log. Some may have attempted it, but the narrow gorge of the river must had been a good spot for a guard of rurales to be stationed. And of course there were the hambrientos, “the hungry ones”, who were regularly fed the carcasses of the weak, the emaciated, and the dead.
Reflecting on this black episode of our history makes it finally clear to me why the Revolution of 1910 was an unavoidable act of justice against Diaz and his co-perpetrators. The spirit of the Revolution is perfectly captured by the motto of Emiliano Zapata: Tierra y Libertad. First, the revolutionaries were trying to undo the despoliation of the land from its ancestral owners, and second, they were seeking to put an end to the inhumane servitude suffered by the poor at the hands of their masters. I have gained new respect for the thinkers and the fighters that ended this perverse system.
Turning to happier subjects, I did mention I went for a long walk along the levee road, and was favorably impressed by the cleanliness of the path, the 5-gallon plastic bottles that have been painted green and serve as trash receptacles, the new project being built to add lights to the path, and the sign that reminded folks “Don’t forget your cell phone and your wallet … and don’t forget to take your trash home with you!” The river, as my students will know is common in the bedrock portion of the stream, was turbulent, had many rapids, and didn’t have many meanders. If only you were here, Dennis, we could have gone fly fishing 😊
Downstream from the gorge the stream entered the alluvial portion of its watershed, became wider and muddier, and started meandering across its alluvial plain. This is the area with many sugar cane plantations, which in the early summer are a beautiful emerald color. I decided to follow the river all the way to the coast, for about 80 km, and by the end, when I reached the mouth, the river had become extremely wide. Little towns were strewn all along the river, and the closer I got to the mouth the more unique they became. It is hard to describe it, but they seemed like old families that had been forgotten by time and had become more stoic, wrinkled, and leathery. Finally, very near the mouth I got to the town of Tlacotalpan, and was enchanted by its beauty and serenity. The river here is so wide that the other shore is very far indeed. The riverfront promenade is very well maintained and landscaped, and the two old churches around the plaza, although bleached by the sun and the sea breeze, maintained a certain aristocratic air. On the side of the smallest one there is a small garden and a statue of a very thin man: Agustín Lara, el Flaco de Oro, probably the most famous Mexican composer of romantic songs (although the Yucateco Armando Manzanero is also referred in the same terms). Agustín Lara was born in this town in 1897, and growing up I heard many of his songs from both my grandmother and my Mom. Veracruz, Solamente Una Vez, Maria Bonita, Farolito …
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