Upon entering Uruapan, a city of perhaps 300,000, about two hours from Morelia, my trip had taken on new dimensions. I started feeling as though I had crossed a threshold there was no need to cross. I passed through town, feeling no actual connection to anyone or anything and slight bursts of adrenaline: worried I would scratch or dent my rental car, worried I would turn the wrong way down a one way street. I wondered what had brought me to this spot. Why was I here? What was I doing?  I was in a cartel hotbed. 

Uruapan itself is rather plain: two story buildings connect wall to wall in blocks in which everything seems made of the same material. The towns is overcrowded. There is rebar everywhere, for tax purposes (the owner of a building under construction does not

pay property taxes). Uruapan is filled with plastic and dogs and not enough trees. My basic assumption is that over the last 50 years it has grown from a village into a city, with an International airport. This is because it is a magnet for villagers in the surrounding region.

It has always, again my assumption, been a hub of agriculture. It sits at 5,000 feet in a lush valley. As I closed in on the center of town and I crossed a short trestle bridge and a creek bed that runs through a neighborhood and is filled with trash and is devoid of running water at the present moment, the road doglegged and began to slowly rise, becoming one way, and the further I went the more everything felt crowded, narrow and it was as though I was in Chinatown of San Francisco, minus any high rise buildings or Chinese people.

It was 10 a.m. and I was smack dab in the middle of the warehouse section. Trucks were unloading. In and around cars men and boys passed to and fro, pushing dollies stacked with boxes that overflowed with onions, avocados, cilantro, cabbage, potatoes, carrots, zucchini,

peaches, papayas, and of course, peppers of all kinds.

Passing through Uruapan turned out easy. There is an enchanting two-square-mile park at the far end of the city and from there the road I wanted heads north. I was going to Angahuán, an indigenous town famous for the volcano, Paricutin, which sits opposite the town from the highway and erupted in 1954, filling the air with ash. The villagers sensed the danger and moved and within five months their previous homes were covered in lava, at some places forty feet deep. The church steeple and walls still exist and are a tourist attraction. My intent was to get out of my car in Angahuán and to walk towards the church and photograph it, for my blog. 

Angahuán

Cathedral covered in lava.

From a Pemex station I drove a dirt road leading into town. In a small hut, dilapidated and showing wear and labeled “tourist info” in a sloppy writing, four men played cards. I rolled slowly past and about twenty yards further noticed a man running in my rearview mirror. I stopped. He was one of the town welcomers. He said I needed a guide if I wanted to see the cathedral or hike the volcano and that I would not be able to drive past the town limits. He recommended I hire a horse as well. Eventually I was able to communicate that I only wanted to drive through town and that I had toured the cathedral and volcano by horse in the past. 

Angahuán street. 

Angahuán is run down. Its horses are scrawny. Its buildings and roads are dilapidated. Women wear bright dresses and drape large multi colored striped woolen scarves over one shoulder. Some carry children on their backs. At one point, two dogs leapt in front of my car, playfully, and I imagined one was teaching the other how to have fun jumping in front of moving vehicles. People stared at me as I drove slowly down one lane roads which are framed by one-story wood timber buildings. It looks as if tourism has collapsed and that this last year in particular has been tough. Like the protagonist of The Red Badge of Courage, I came to my destination, experienced it, and turned around.  

Charapan cathedral.

Now let me tell you why smartphones provide an illusion of control and freedom. My original plan was to take the two lane road from Angahuán to Los Reyes, then to climb into higher mountains and Mazamitla, and from Mazamitla I would coast down to lake Chapala and home. I had been to Morelia and, for two nights, Pátzcuaro. Now it was time to take a leisurely drive through a foreign land. Like a true American genius I scuttled my original plan in order to follow my I phone’s instructions. My phone had me turn right on to a road about ten miles west of Angahuán and head due north towards Zamora and the toll road that runs between Guadalajara and Mexico City. Years ago I had driven the Los Reyes road and while there are not very many people or towns, it is paved, maintained, and there is not much elevation gain or loss. It passes through farmland and small pueblos. 

The road north was the exact opposite in every possible way. In parts it was dirt and at other places covered by potholes large enough to sink the Titanic. The elevation fluctuated, as I passed over not two but three volcanoes, all of which was a bit like crossing the Sierra Nevada Mountains on Highway 108, which crosses Sonora Pass: crossing it three times back and forth. 

Cocuchos

Unlike the Sierra Nevada range of Northern California, here, the villages I passed were magical, filled with women going about in traditional dress, wood houses, and ancient churches. Charapan shows up on the map, but smaller villages like Charapaco and Cocucho do not. The latter is known for its pottery. These are P'urhepecha peoples, famous for their presence, and fishing technique, in and around Patzcuaro, where Día de los Muertos is celebrated for two weeks each November.  

Cocuchos

Up and down the mountains, I refused to use the air conditioner for fear the engine was overheating. I coasted down volcanoes with wind blowing in my hair, and then I crawled back up leaning forward and holding my breath. I passed large ancient lava flows and trash heaps. Finally, I saw a great golden plain beneath me and the outskirts of Zamora, and knew I was homeward bound.