Mexico Travel Articles

Veracruz

I tapped the brake pedal and instantly felt the Grand Marquis drop out of cruise control as it neared the modern port city of Veracruz, which historically is the third Veracruz. The first Veracruz, an official, legal city created by Hernan Cortes was a camp. Here, Bernal Diaz wrote, Cortes ordered a fort built. But the site was poorly chosen, sandy, windy and lacked sufficient fresh water. The second Veracruz, later called La Antigua (The Older), was founded on the Huitzilapan (Hummingbird) River, but this site was ultimately considered a poor strategic choice. Finally, a permanent Veracruz was built and fortified.

I wanted to see all three. But I would see them in reverse order, the modern port, the river town La Antigua, and lastly I would search for La Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz where Cortes and the Spanish army first camped, showed off their horses to the natives and stunned them with cannon fire. Veracruz

I entered Veracruz by crossing a bridge that gave a brief view of the city below and islands in the bay. I passed a Holiday Inn, which was once San Francisco Convent, parked, and with guidebook in hand, I headed for the Colonial Hotel. According to my guidebook, it offered a good room and an excellent location. The location was perfect, but the room was dingy and the air conditioning sounded like my mother's electric mixer beating against a glass bowl.

I popped in and out of a number of hotels and became discouraged. Then I took a look at the finest hotel in Veracruz, the Diligencia. It owned the best location, across from the plaza and catty-corner from the cathedral. The lobby sparkled with polished marble. A floral spray at the entrance greeted guests, and the paintings on the walls looked like museum pieces. I inquired about a room. A single started at $120 a night, but the hotel was completely booked, and this was a Tuesday. 'p. I felt I was going to have bad luck in Veracruz and, like Cortez, be forced to move. But it was my good fortune that the success had come at the expense of its next-door rival, Hotel Calinda. iligencia's

I walked into the Calinda and before I spoke, the receptionist smiled and greeted me. I asked for a room. She said, "We can offer you a special rate." I replied, "Do you have parking and quiet air-conditioning?" The bright receptionist said, "yes," and I asked to see a room. She called a bellboy. He took me to the 3rd floor, where I checked the air-conditioning for a quiet, cool operation. It was new, silent and could make a polar bear happy. The room overlooked the plaza, and the hotel also had a pool on the second floor.

I returned to the receptionist and told her that the room was very attractive. I asked, "Do you have a weekly rate?" She said, "For a week we can offer you the room for $68 a night." I had a bargain, secure parking, one of the best locations in Veracruz and an absolutely quiet room until the cathedral bells rang at 6 a.m.

I was in the very heart of Veracruz, one of the liveliest cities in Mexico. I could walk to the beach or lounge in the plaza and listen to the marimbas, the mariachis, and the conjuntos that came to entertain the diners under the portales. And I could watch the nightly entertainment on the summer stage set-up. There were folkloric dances, traditional jarochos, with ladies in white lace skirts, which spread like huge fans. Clowns preformed for children, but the audience was mostly adults.

At night the plaza became a dance floor. The band played danzon. Elderly couples danced. The steps seemed easy. Couples held each other romantically; men led, women followed, in the tradition of my youth. I snapped photos, but only a video could capture the vibrant energy of Veracruz. A photo freezes vitality and is mute to the music of the marimba.

There were 5 days of leisure before Victor, a writer and historian who wanted to see the "real Mexico," would fly in from San Diego. I walked and toured the city looking for historical sites and visiting museums. I was surprised to learn that the oldest church in Veracruz, the Church of Christ of the Good Trip, was originally a chapel built in 1609. I had expected to see something that had survived from the period of the Conquest. But this was built 80 years later. It was mission styled, two stories tall, without a tower and pure white. It overflowed for Sunday Mass.

There was only a remnant of the old walled city, a bastion called the Fortress of Santiago, with a drawbridge and old cannons. It is now a museum, with fine pre-Columbian gold included in the displays. Here was a taste of history. The finely wrought pre-Hispanic gold objects on display were the loot of a Conquistador who had lost his treasure in a shipwreck. The golden booty was undisturbed for over 4 centuries until snagged by a fisherman in 1976.

I walked along the Malecon, the beachfront promenade that extends for miles. Families picnicked on the beach, and children played in the surf and built sand castles. In their summer pleasure, they seemed oblivious to the offshore Isla de Sacrificios and the island of San Juan de Ulua, where historic first landings took place. Oversized red and yellow beach umbrellas marked the shoreline as if these were the new flags of conquest.

I joined a group of tourists and took a tour of the port in a boat happily named Pirata (Pirate). Pirata gave us an up-close view of Isla de Sacrificios, but it is protected and is off limits to tourists. We swooped around the port carefully as huge cargo ships were tugged into loading docks, and I snapped pictures of the San Juan de Ulua Fortress and listened to our guide.

In 1518 Spaniards landed on the island of San Juan de Ulua and made contact with Native Americans. It is now a fortified island, connected to the mainland by a causeway. It was the last Spanish stronghold in Mexico and was never captured. For centuries it protected the port. It was a garrison for soldiers and a notorious prison. Today it is empty, under repair, a tourist attraction and a museum. I had expected an ancient Veracruz, but the city was more like a 1940s film from the Golden Age of Mexican cinema.

Victor arrived. He was prancing with enthusiasm when I picked him up at the airport. For the next four days I acted as tour guide, revisited the sights and made a side trip to Tlacotalpan, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Then we drove to La Antigua, the second Veracruz. La Antigua

La Antigua is 14 miles north of Veracruz. The turn-off was not well marked; I had to stop and ask directions at a Pemex gas station. That was a good sign. Few tourists come here.

From the highway we drove a mile and a half west. The road was more rural than highway. Just as we entered the town, the vegetation grew thick. We were in shadows, and it was cool. I slowed the Grand Marquis to a near stop and rolled over a speed bump. Here, stationed, leaning against a concrete pillar, was a young boy who insisted, "I am your guide. I am the best guide. I can show you everything."

Young boys often act as guides. They are a delight. They are interested in earning some spending change, and they know the local history. Some will recite poetry reminding one of Homer and the Iliad. I asked our guide his name. "Antonio," he said.

There was an aroma of history in La Antigua that was absent in Veracruz. Perhaps it was the old trees, the damp roots and the stone walls imprisoned by ancient roots.

Antonio took us to Del Rosario, a small chapel built in 1523, considered the oldest church in The Americas. It was gleaming white, built symmetrically, with a tier of 3 bells over the entrance. I stepped into the church. It was plain and simple. This was my first contact with Cortes.

The church was embraced by a sculpted white stonewall with red merlons. I went outside the wall to get a picture. Antonio admired my black Oklahoma cowboy hat, which was banded with American Indian beads. "Would you like to wear it?" I asked. Antonio plopped the hat on his head, and it dropped level to his eyebrows. I let him wear it and took a picture of him as he leaned against the white stonewall. Cortes may have dismounted here.

We walked a short distance to the center. The town is a small beautiful, tranquil place, with a white bandstand in the plaza and a mocha-brown church with support columns highlighted in bright blue. From here we walked to "La Casa de Cortes."

Antonio said, "This is Cortes' house." He showed us the kitchen and claimed that a root-covered room was "Cortes' bedroom." It was a large hacienda-type structure. Cortes certainly must have stayed here. The sign outside repeated "Casa Cortes," but the guidebook said it was a general building, probably a customs house. The tree roots ensnared the ancient walls and looked like draperies.

We took pictures and then walked towards the river. A massive tree, La Ceiba, stood in the center of the street; vendors set up shop under its shade. Spaniards, it was claimed, anchored their ships to the roots of La Ceiba. I heard a sharp whap! A lady with a machete, trimming coconuts, made the sound. She had a small stand with a pile of coconuts in their greenish-tan husks. Whap! She squared off the bottom, then the top, then cut deep enough into the coconut to punch a hole in the brown hard center. She placed a straw in the coconut and offered it for sale.

I had to try coconut milk. I took a sip and offered it to Victor. "I'm spoiled by soft drinks," I said.

Across from La Ceiba was Hotel La Malinche. La Malinche, also known by her Christian name Marina, was Cortes' ever-faithful translator and consort. Along the wall of the hotel was a large mural depicting the Ruta de Cortes, (The Route of Cortes). City- by-city the mural paints the route, from the Island of Ulua to the Aztec island capital of Tenochtitlan, which is today Mexico City.

The Chronology of Cortes was also painted on the wall. It stated that on August 16, 1519, Hernan Cortes, 400 Spaniards, 15 horses and 13,000 Totonaco Indians, enemies of the Aztecs, advanced towards Tenochtitlan. It was not horses or guns or the belief that Cortes was a returning deity that was the key to the Conquest. It was Indian allies, the Totonacos being the first, which supported Cortes and the Spanish in defeating the militaristic Aztecs.

I paid Antonio and thanked him. Antonio returned my cowboy hat. Victor bought a blue cap with a red brim emblazoned "Visite La Antigua Veracruz" (Visit The Old Veracruz). Villa Rica de La Vera Cruz (Rich Town of the True Cross):

Fifteen miles north of La Antigua, we had to look closely for the Villa Rica turn off. There was no specific marker for this historic place. A dirt road took us from the highway and jogged toward the beach. Coconut palms offered shade. Vacation homes clustered near where Cortes had camped. Three multicolored beach umbrellas staked a claim on the nearly pristine beach, which then curved north. Sand dunes formed a neck that connected to a cactus-bramble-bush-covered peninsula jutting into the Atlantic. The peninsula created a graceful arm of the bay.

I parked the Grand Marquis in front a small, family-owned, open-air restaurant. We headed across the sand. Victor wanted to climb the peninsula's hill, where we would have the best view. We passed a family of picnickers. This was a quiet beach, maybe a well-kept secret. Young boys practiced soccer. We became tired trudging across the sand and walked to the shoreline, where it was smooth, moist and firm.

When we reached the neck of the peninsula, the sand dunes made the climb difficult. I was winded. Victor moved up the incline as if motorized. I was glad to get beyond the sand and reach the hill covered with vegetation. But I soon found out the truth to "Out of the fire, into the furnace." The hill was cactus-bramble-bush heaven. Victor was wearing jeans, but I had on khaki slacks. There was a slight trail, but it was not well worn. I had to be careful with every step. Still, a cluster of needles pierced my pants and lodged in my thigh. I tried to hike, thinking that I had only brushed against a thorn. But the pain forced me to stop. I looked but couldn't find a sticker in the pants. I could, however, feel the pain. I had no choice; I dropped my pants and stood among the brambles and was surprised to find 7 of the thinnest, sharpest needles stuck in my thigh. I pulled them straight out with the tweezers from my Swiss Army knife. They left a bruise 2 inches in diameter.

I headed back; Victor continued to the crest, where he took photos. The sand dune neck of the peninsula created a beautiful, rippled divide, separating two coves. The view was right out of Laurence of Arabia. The wind and sand were a cause for Cortes to move from this original Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz. Below, I could see the wide beach, at least a mile long, and recalled that it was here that Spaniards showed off their horses to the Indians.

It seemed strange that the "first city," named and notarized is now a lonely vacation beach. Vacationers, fishermen, picnickers with kids, umbrellas and blankets now enjoy the surf and sand where Spaniards impressed the natives with horse races and blunderbuss fire.

We photographed this lovely place then returned to the Grand Marquis and cluster of vacation homes. We pulled up plastic chairs at an open-air restaurant, a family affair, with the restaurant being their front patio. It had a canvas tarp for shade, advertising Superior Beer. I asked for boneless grilled fish and salad without lettuce. An avocado, cucumber, and tomato salad came with rice and white filet fish.

We asked questions about the site. Yes, we were assured this is where Cortes landed and "The foundation of his fort is just up the way," said our waitress-cook. I asked for directions. She said, "It is quite overgrown, but my son, he can take you." So we had another guide.

Her son, Armando, was eager to show us the way. He hopped on his bike, and that made Victor and I get a move on. Our guide peddled along a sandy path, and soon a gated community of vacation homes surprised us. Each home had a unique design and was well landscaped. We passed a gardener and then he passed us as he moved from home to home, adjusting sprinkler systems.

At the least attractive spot, unkempt, overgrown, fenced off with sagging barbed wire, the boy stopped and said, "Here is the foundation of the old fort." I couldn't see it. Everything was overgrown. We climbed over the fence and searched. Only portions of an old foundation, not more than two feet high were visible. We could see a general rectangle outline but not a solid, continuous foundation.

"Well, it looks old, but it seems more like a rumor than a fact," I said. But the boy assured me, "This was Cortes' fort." I got my camera and tried to get a picture with some detail. I asked Armando to stand on the best-exposed portion of the ancient wall. Armando stood straight and still like a marker. He was wearing a dark blue t-shirt with a mountain outline, starbursts and a yellow "Rockford College Summit" written on the front. He stood tall in green flip-flops and cut-off jeans on the remains of the fort's foundation. "Summit" seemed appropriate.

I felt closer to Cortes and The Conquest standing on the beach than I did here with the remnants of the old fort. Somehow my imagination was opened up while looking across the beach and at the open ocean. Cortes arrived with 11 ships, 600 men and 16 horses. Yes, he could have spread out on the beach and exercised his horses. On the beach, I could imagine a camp and envision emissaries from Montezuma. But here at the fort, hidden by brush, overgrown with trees and vines, it did seem ghostly, but dead without the spirit of Cortes.

Dick Davis travels frequently. He has taught in both Mexico and Spain and is happy to share his experiences. A resolute companion in his Mexican travels is his Grand Marquis. He can be contacted at: dickdavis40athotmail.com. (change the at to @ first!)