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INSTITUTE OF SOCIAL ANTHROPOLOGY PUBLICATION NO. 6 



where we are living. Zeferino is not at the 

 election, but I encounter him as I step outside. 

 "Good evening, Sefior Foster. It's a lovely 

 night, isn't it? I'm going to stroll with you to 

 the school." "Thanks, Zeferino, but don't bo- 

 ther. It's just a short distance." But he walks 

 with me, just the same. As presidente munici- 

 pal, he has extended to us the "guarantees" of 

 liberty and safety, and he is going to make sure 

 that they are not violated. 



II. 



In every town in Mexico the visitor is inform- 

 ed that here the people are the most orderly 

 and law abiding in the world. And always, 

 there is another village, not far away, that is 

 peopled almost exclusively by thugs and assas- 

 sins. In Tzintzuntzan, the dangerous town is 

 tliought to be Coenembo, a rancho of the muni- 

 cipio, 10 km. east. One day we are asked to 

 attend a wedding breakfast in Tzintzuntzan, and 

 then to go to Coenembo, the home of the groom, 

 for the dinner and dance. "What, go to Coe- 

 nembo?" asks Carmen, in genuine alarm. 

 "Don't you know that's the worst place around 

 here? They hide behind stone walls as you 

 walk along, and 'ping,' nobody knows who does 

 it." The others join in with the same warning. 

 Pascual Corral had had to leave there many 

 years earlier, because of some difficulty, and 

 he had never been back, afraid to go. "His life 

 wouldn't be worth five centavos," opines Gui- 

 llermo. We decide to risk it anyway. One can 

 get almost all the way by car, except for a 

 couple of kilometers. I offer to carry the bridal 

 party with me to save their new clothing. The 

 bride is a pretty little girl of 18. She was born 

 in the United States, someone ventures. I ask 

 in what part. "Pues, quien sabe, Sefior. Who 

 knows, I was brought back here when I was 

 very young." We park the car, and a half hour's 

 walk brings us to Coenembo. The narrow, rock- 

 walled streets are really ideal for an ambus- 

 cade. We almost wonder if there is truth in the 

 stories we have heard. Presently the rest of 

 the party arrive, having come a shorter way 

 on horseback. Some are already drunk, from 

 tlie aguardiente and hot sun. But all are in good 

 spirits, and there is only one gun. And that 

 • — a guest from Quiroga carries it. And finally. 



wonder of wonders, here comes Pascual, with 

 his entire orchestra, invited to play for the 

 feast. We eat dry rice, "soup" of macaroni, 

 turkey mole, and beans. Then the second and 

 third tables follow. Aguardiente is served lib- 

 erally. Everybody is satisfied, jolly, a little 

 drunk, and very friendly. Finally, at sunset, 

 we leave to walk to the car. Not a single bala- 

 zo all day. And Pascual? We learn, next day, 

 that he played the entire night, returning to 

 Tzintzuntzan none the worse for the experience. 



III. 



Friday, the Octava of Corpus, has extra ex- 

 citement beyond the regularly scheduled activ- 

 ities. Gabriel and I descend from the ydca- 

 tas and pass the presidencia. A small knot of 

 people clusters on the porch. Zeferino calls to 

 me. "Sefior Foster, won't you please come and 

 take a picture of the dead man?" And there he 

 lies on the cold tiles of the floor, the face so 

 mashed and bloody that only with difficulty do 

 we make out that it is a boy of not more than 

 15 years of age. Two candles have been placed, 

 one at his head and the other at his feet, tilting 

 grotesquely toward the body. Men stand around, 

 not quite knowing whether they should take off 

 their hats in the presence of Death. "He was 

 struck by a car last night near El Tigre," ex- 

 plains Zeferino, "and brought here just a short 

 time ago. We want the photograph so he can 

 be identified." I take the picture as quickly as 

 possible, knowing that no identification could 

 ever be made from a photograph of the mangled 

 body of what had once been a boy. 



Fortunately, the identity is established in the 

 afternoon before the pauper's burial. An older 

 brother, perhaps 17, has heard in Morelia that 

 a corpse has been found. The night before, his 

 brother had left his widowed mother, determin- 

 ed to leave home, and the search was instigated. 

 Somewhat drunk, the boy approaches me. Is it 

 true that I have taken a picture of the corpse? 

 Can he have one? "Yes, of course, but they 

 must first be developed. Write your name in 

 this notebook and I'll send one to you." "I 

 can't write," he stutters. The name is written, 

 and that of the shop where he labors. Don Pan- 

 cho, the tax collector, sagely remarks that with- 

 out the street address the letter will never arrive. 



