Heading toward Xalapa, I realize that the earth is alive. The landscape of central Mexico is shaped by the complex interaction between the North American plate and fragments of oceanic plates: thousands of volcanoes have formed here, about forty of them still active. The scenery is a succession of small volcanoes interspersed with fields, cacti, and volcanic lagoons.
This is where the Aztecs settled, and when the encyclopedic Alexander von Humboldt climbed Nevado de Toluca in 1803, he was probably not the first, given the number of ceremonial and precious objects found in the crater lakes.
In the Palace of Fine Arts in Mexico City there is a beautiful glass curtain depicting the two volcanoes Popocatépetl and Iztaccíhuatl, perhaps the most beloved landscape among Mexicans. The first translates as “the smoking mountain” because it has been active since time immemorial, while the second means “the white lady”: they are the heroes of a tragic Aztec love story, turned into stone by the gods.
The curtain, from the early twentieth century, is inspired by the drawings of Gerardo Murillo, better known as Dr. Atl (“water” in Nahuatl), who during his lifetime made more than ten thousand sketches of volcanoes. It was Dr. Atl who came up with the idea that, to bring art to the masses, it should be displayed on buildings. After the Mexican Revolution, he became Minister of Culture and mentor to the three great muralists: Diego Rivera, José Clemente Orozco, and David Alfaro Siqueiros.
Dissatisfied with the leftward turn of his protégés, he became a fervent supporter of Nazism and Fascism, before fortunately abandoning politics and returning to his true passion: the study of volcanoes. Dr. Atl lived for two years on the slopes (and even inside the crater) of Popocatépetl, and when a small volcano formed in a farmer’s field—the Paricutín—he moved nearby to write How a Volcano is Born and Grows, a pleasant illustrated diary of its first decade of life.
For days I am taken care of by Frida’s family, and although I could dwell on my exciting culinary discoveries, I will focus only on the first two that stayed in my heart: mamey, a fruit shaped like an avocado but with bright red, intensely sweet flesh, and the simple quesadilla, born from the meeting of a corn tortilla and melted cheese.
To escape overeating, we decide to reach the volcano overlooking Xalapa: Cofre de Perote (4,282 m). Once you manage to escape the city traffic, you realize that Mexico’s population density is three times lower than ours, and completely alone we walk all morning through magnificent forests, gasping for air due to the altitude.
How can such a beautiful place be dangerous? The greatest risk is eating a sandwich while absorbing an immeasurable dose of electromagnetic waves. The summit is covered in antennas and transmitters. I photograph it, staying true to the theory that when something is excessively ugly, it becomes beautiful.
To lose all the acclimatization we had painfully gained, we travel through the states of Chiapas and Oaxaca, where I am introduced to the culture of mezcal, a kind of whiskey made from agave, before returning to the high plateau, where the desire to climb volcanoes resurfaces.
Only a few days remain now, and the good-weather days are becoming increasingly rare. We devise a perfect acclimatization plan and find ourselves at the foot of La Malinche, named after the controversial interpreter and lover of Hernán Cortés. While we discuss her role in the conquest of Mexico, accompanied by friendly dogs, we reach the summit at 4,420 m.
I wonder whether the effort of bringing us up there was compensated by the calories of the little food we shared with them. Probably not.
