How the Posada Came to Be
Part 1, Meeting Mario and the Familia Heras
Less than 24 hours before my five-room Inn, the Posada de las Ollas opened to a full house on August 8, 1991, the plumber sat cross-legged in the middle of the courtyard patio holding a jury rig of bathroom pipes in each hand. Cocking his head first left, then right, he tried to figure out how he was going to connect them so water would flow into each of the two back-to-back bathrooms. Finally, he dropped the pipes onto the concrete, laughed and shook his head in bafflement.
I watched this scene from the safety of the dining room. I, too, laughed. On inauguration day the Posada de las Ollas would likely open with only the bathroom inside the big house available for the eight guests, my friend and myself. What to do?
My buddy and I hopped into my Isuzu Trooper and drove to Nuevo Casas Grandes where I bought four bottles of white wine and some colorful bows. When the guests arrived the next day, each couple found a bottle of Mexican dry white in their room, adorned with ribbon and bearing this note:
"Unfortunately, due to circumstances beyond our control, the bathrooms have not been completed. We will all have to share the one in the Big House. Sorry for any inconvenience."
It was my way of solving another example of MWA--"Mexico Wins Again."
None of this and the adventures that followed might have happened if it hadn't been for Mario Heras.
In June 1990, I was photographing my first elementary school graduation at the plaza of the Primária. (This is one of the big annual social events in Mata). Several students asked if I would take photos of them with their padrinos and I gladly complied. Everyone so serious--the girls in their shimmering gowns created especially for the occasion, the boys uncomfortable in buttoned-to-the-neck white shirts and newly-pressed black Wranglers, the padrino and madrina each stiff to attention beside their godson or goddaughter. A tall handsome lad was one of many who asked for a photo. He clearly appeared to be too old for elementary school, but graduating he was.
Later, after returning my camera and notebook to my lodgings next to the Bañuelos family, I hiked into town to go to the dance. I was on the river street, less than a block past the railroad tracks when I heard a whisper from the front porch of a house shrouded in darkness.
"Look, it's the Gringo!"
Then a command from another voice: "Gringo, ven aqui! Gringo, come here!" There was no ignoring this insistence and I meekly turned and opened the gate into a small garden where an extended family was waiting: mother, father, children, various aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces . . . and Mario.
The bearer of the command was a large woman with an illuminating smile that omitted two front teeth. Clearly, she was Mario's mother. "Have you eaten?" she asked. When I said I hadn't, I was unceremoniously ushered by an octopus of arms into the kitchen and seated at the kitchen table in a large but humble home. Lalo and Rosa Heras introduced themselves as Mario's parents and Rosa began rustling up some beans, rice and tortillas. An aunt stood behind me with a towel to wave away the bothersome flies. I was reminded of the pictures of East Indian servants with the huge bamboo fans, providing "air conditioning" for the sahib. Soon, I had a plateful of food and a kitchen crammed with happy Mexicans watching the Gringo eat.
Not a lot was spoken, but after I had eaten my fill, I was invited to join the family at Lalo's grandmother's home for menudo at a special celebratory breakfast in the morning. Then, we would go to the "hot springs" for a día del campo.
The next day, the family and I rode in my Trooper following an old pickup to the grandmother's house on the edge of Por Venir where I actually ate some menudo. Afterwards, Lalo and I retreated to the quiet and shade of a walnut tree away from the family to savor a cold beer. From the other side of the house we could hear children's shrieks as a water fight developed in the hot morning sun. Mario joined us for a few minutes, holding a soda bottle casually at his side. Suddenly, he flipped his wrist and drenched his father with the water-filled bottle.
"Let's get him," I muttered to Lalo. The kid took off and we were after him. Mario careened around the side of the house and Lalo and I were just meters behind him. The boy sprinted towards the safety of his mother across the yard and then cut to his left. Lalo pursued, while I intended to race past Rosa and cut Mario off. Bad move on my part.
A mom will always defend her son, that's what mom's do. As I neared Rosa, she reached behind her, hauled a bucket of water into view and discharged its load in my direction. I was soaked from head to toe. And, thus began my love affair with La Família Heras. They eventually became a small part of my thesis--a control group who were not potters, the better to illustrate the cleavage between the halves and have-nots.
Lalo, I discovered, was a tradesman although he had never been a foreman. I saw in him a simple honesty. When I began to consider building the Posada, I asked Nicolás Quezada about him. "Lalo is a very honest man," was my friend's summation. When I finally asked Lalo if he could build a hotel for me, he gave it some thought and told me he could.
Eventually, this would all come about. Lalo's material wealth has increased tenfold and his status in the village likewise. He has received many other contracts and served as Secretary of the Primária. All because of Mario asking me to take his picture.
Coming soon. "How the Posada Came To Be: Part 11"
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Michael Williams, 2006. All Rights Reserved. Last
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