Otro lado del lago (the other side of the lake, and coin)

Yesterday mi amigo Randall, whom Jen and I met at Quinta Don Jose in Tlaquepaque two years ago, a boon bud and North Carolina greasy longhaired hippie who cared to stay in touch with us these intervening two years and nurtured our return, toured part of the south side of Lake Chapala, far from the madding crowd of gringos who crowd these northern shores. I rented a car and we boogied down, through a string of pueblos on the northwest shore, including Jocotopec, at the northwest corner of the lake, and down through a region of raspberry and blackberry fields, through some verdant landscapes with great views of the lake.

Randall plows into a bowl of hearty beef birria.

We stopped for lunch, in a very light drizzle, in San Luis Soyatlan, in a nondescript roadside restaurant. We sat at a table under a temporary roof, away from the rain, and ordered the special of the day, a birria or stew of res, beef, not chivo, or goat, which is often the case.

The dish was delicious and, in that weather, warming and comforting, containing beef, onions, tomatoes, jalapenos, and savory broth. The cocinera (cook) brought us new layers of tortillas every 5 minutes, and another worker squeezed a whole pitcher (half gallon) of fresh orange juice, seeds floating on the top, for our drink.

As we were munching away and grunting with satisfaction, another of the kitchen workers cuffed her kid, a boy of about four, and called him "cabron" (little bastard), to which I responded, to Randall, aka Rolando (he who rolls and keeps rolling along), "Who your daddy? Who your daddy?"

For about $10, we were stuffed and happy. Damn good midday meal, plus some local color.

We proceeded east on the south shore and in half an hour or so hit the metropolis of Zipotlan el Alto (the very high village of Zipotlan, which in the original Indian language means something like obscure town where boredom is the chief domestic product). We surveyed the church, a melange of architectural styles (Greek, Roman, Doric, Gothic) but couldn't get inside. We sashayed through the local market and resisted the lures of the flesh (veggies, fruits, pastries, and a beggar boy of about 10 who put out his grubby hand but couldn't think, when we asked, of anything he was selling or producing). We admired the 12 yr old Catholic schoolgirls getting out of class (about 1:30 or 2:00 pm) and chattering as they worked their way home. ("Tell your mama and your papa ... I'm a schoolboy too!")

One view of the ruins of the hacienda of St. Francisco. Someone,
I believe, is squatting in the portion at right, as it's all
brightened up with new paint.

The piece de resistance was our finding, after several bouts of directions from the locals, --  of the ruins of the Hacienda de San Francisco, which was started in 1546. Today there remained perhaps half a dozen large buildings, in various states of disrepair, and a few vaqueros training a horse in a corral.

We took some picturesque pix, including horses and cowboys, building walls, and infusions of morning glories (growing everywhere) -- and them vamoosed. These pix will be added presently (as I now lack a cable for transferring them to my netbook).

Suffice to say that Randall and I had a great time in the light mist. Surveyed a lot of breathtaking lakeshore. And came back to what we're pleased to call civilization a little lighter and airier for for efforts.