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There is, too, the boogie toad. When I was compiling this list from my workers, I asked if there was anything else that bit or stung. The dictation was fast and hot, so I missed a few (napules, chantillas, gusano de lumbre). But in the midst of them, there was the boogie.

This is the second in a series of dispatches from our correspondent in coastal Mexico. Read the previous article in the series, "Lust and bullets at Rumba Beach."

"What did you say?" I asked Raul. I couldn't ask him to spell it out, since he can't read or write. But the pronunciation was "boogie."

I've heard of the boogie-woogie. And the boogeyman. But biting, stinging boogie? What is it? I asked. "A toad," he said, "and it bites."

"Impossible," I said.

Yet the worst stinger of them all doesn't move about and doesn't fly. Called the carnisuela, it's a bitter, ugly, barren plant that grows here willy-nilly, overnight, anywhere. Its wood is sought for its strength, but it's almost impossible to get at, protected as it is by long, poisonous thorns and the army of nervous, fast-moving, fast-stinging, ever-angry ants that live in the hot dirt at its roots. I've brushed against a few of them, and if the stickers don't get you, the creepy-crawlers will.

The land, thus, is enemy. That must be what drives these people so mad so suddenly -- an attack of carnisuelas, scorpions, snakes, bees, hornets and beetles, the creeping and crawling tropical creatures that hide in the dirt or in the leaves or under the trash (or in your shoes) and, when you least expect it, stab you in the foot, drop down on your head or crawl up your sleeves or down your back or up your pants to drive piercing, poison-dripping mandibles into your tender skin, creating instant swelling, aching fever and despair.

That must be it: the special unkindness of this land, and its creatures, and the sun, a sun so furious that it blasts the very soil with rage, that it comes to be reflected off itself, able to drive a sane man crazed -- so crazy that he suddenly rises up in fury in the Cantina Pariaso, overturning the cheap, scratched metal tables, smashing his glass of mescal on the floor, grabbing his machete and slashing at everyone within reach.

And when, two or three days later -- if he survives -- you ask him, "¿Qué pasó?" (What happened?) he'll say, "Nada." (Nothing.)

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the virgin's harsh penalty for unholy hanky-panky

Our local holy virgin, the Virgin of Juquila, lives up in the Sierras. The story is that she arrived from Spain some 200 years ago in the form of a statue, about 2 feet tall.

She was installed in the chapel near the town of Juquila, and many years later, there was a fire. The entire building was destroyed, except for the Virgin. They moved her into the town, but when, after reconstruction of the chapel, she was taken back to her country home, she would have none of it: She disappeared and reappeared in the church in the town. After she did this three times, they figured that was where she wanted to be -- and, of course, deep magic powers were attributed to her.

The only thing that happened to her in all these adventures was that, after the fire, her skin turned dark -- what they call morena -- like that of most of the people who live here. She is no longer one of those pale güero virgins out of the Iberian culture but, like the more famous Virgin of Guadalupe, has become a dark beauty. Her skin is the color of the rich brown earth that surrounds Juquila.

People come from all over for una promesa. They promise to make a certain number of visits over the next few years. In return, they ask for a miracle: that a sickness be cured, that a broken limb be repaired, that a dying relative be brought to life again, that a child be made well. They also ask for prosperity -- a bounty of sheep or goats or maize.

The visitors come sometimes by car, truck or bus but, as often, on bicycle or on foot. Since Juquila is an isolated place in the mountains, it is no mean trick to get there from the Pacific coast or from central Mexico, no matter how you do it. Supplicants often crawl the last one and a quarter miles from the entry area to the actual statue, and since the path is one of stones, many arrive with bloody knees.

The chapel is almost always filled with penitents, and on weekends, 1,000 or so may arrive. Before, during and after the holy day of the Virgin, Dec. 8, there is a terrible crush. They say that people come from as far away as Veracruz on the east coast or Puebla, near Mexico City. It often takes them a week or more to arrive, and if they are on foot, more than a month.

There are stories of miracles that occur to those who have stuck to their promesa: Sicknesses have been cured, sudden wealth arises, babies have been brought back to life. There are also tales of those who have thought or spoken badly of the Virgin, or doubted her powers, and have been involved in choques -- wrecks -- either traveling to the holy site or after leaving it.

Even worse is what happens to those who violate the vow of chastity that one must make for the excursion. One lusty, overeager couple, it is said, stopped by the roadside to engage in some hanky-panky and, presto, were changed to stone. To this day, they are stuck there, it is said, somewhere off in the mountains, belly to belly.

Once you pay homage to the Virgin, you buy a picture of her from one of the little shops around the chapel. If you come by bike, this picture is mounted under the handlebars, surrounded by pine branches. If you come by bus or car, it will leave with a picture of her, with greenery, mounted atop the front bumper.

There are smaller keepsakes, too -- key rings, jewelry, decals. I myself have many images of her around the house, presents that my workers have brought back for me. My favorite is a small, somewhat fuzzy picture of the Virgin, depicted with the letters "STMA. VIRGEN DE JUQUILA" around the image. Her face is tiny and pale, and she is dressed in an elaborate gold, red and white robe, opening up in a high triangle. It came attached to a beer opener, which I have kept even though my beer-drinking days are long gone. I have hung it on a chain, along with the keys to my car and my Swiss army knife. Thus the good Virgin of Juquila goes everywhere with me, keeping me healthy, or at least keeping me from turning to stone.
salon.com | March 10, 2000

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