About 41kms outside of San Cristobal de Las Casas, in the mountainous Mayan highlands of Chiapas, Mexico, is a tiny artisan village called Amatenango Del Valle, that is renowned for it’s pottery, shamanistic totems and aprons.
It is on my way to this village, at an unlikely truck-stop that juts out into the azure like a set of bull horns, where I meet Esperanza Perez Gomez: whizz on the Singer sewing machine, haberdashery queen and mistress of all things made from clay.
Her eyes light up when our van pulls in.
Esperanza sits on a concrete floor surrounded by a sea of her handmade animal sculptures and pots. You will find her here during sunlight hours as she waits patiently for a passer-by or tourist bus to pull off from the busy highway to pee and hopefully, make a purchase.
In Spanish, Esperanza’s name means ‘hope’ and ‘expectation’. Virtues, I learn, are essential to survival in this line of business. An artisan way of life is not an easy one. On a good day, Esperanza will sell a few handmade doves or jaguars to strangers as they make their way to the bathroom. On a slow day, she will leave with what she arrived with.
Today though, is going to be a good day.
I come with others, dizzy with visions of textiles and Mayan pottery. We are keen for Esperanza to take us to her headquarters: a home, a workshop and a tienda, and a ten-minute drive down the Pan American highway. And Esperanza is more than keen to lead the way. She hops into our minivan, forgoing the seatbelt (locals here like to live on the edge) and waves goodbye to her sister-in-law and pottery partner in crime.
Up close, Esperanza is cuter than a cake decoration and just as sweet.
Today she wears a marzipan white and aqua frilly huilpil (pronounced weepil) heavily embroidered with a blue and fuchsia floral design, and an army green pleated apron, dotted with hundreds of teeny, tiny lime green spots. Her pleated skirt is the colour of cabernet and hangs a calf grazing length. I count the number of razor sharp knife-pleats sewn into her pinafore and skirt, before losing track at eighty.
Esperanza is an excellent seamstress. Not only does she sew and embroider the clothing she wears, she is also responsible for dressing many young ladies in the village. They seek her out for her expertly made aprons and huilpils.
It’s not long before we arrive in Amatenango de Valle – a village that reminds me of movie set from a Clint Eastwood film.
It’s eerily quiet.
A paper bag scuttles down an empty street and heat wobbles rise from the bitumen. Any moment I am convinced a gaucho will spring from behind a building and a midday showdown will begin.
Where are all the people?
I soon discover that there is life behind the empty windows, as curious villagers gather. Gossip spreads like wildfire - strangers are in town. Suddenly I feel like the hunted, not the textile hunter.
As our van pulls up outside Esperanza’s grey concrete casa, a small group of older women swathed in traditional checkered head-scarfs, some with husbands in tow, others babes in arms, appear suddenly out of the Mexican blue. They want ringside access to the ‘out-of-towners’, and perhaps an opportunity to push some pottery or a handmade blouse our way.
Esperanza leaves this crowd milling on the street, and ushers us hurriedly inside her home, one that she shares with her husband and mother-in-law.
Colour colour everywhere,
Ceilings,
Floors,
And even chairs.
I have stepped into a Mexican jewellery box.
Esperanza’s abode is an ode to chroma, a celebration of hue in every corner. Floors are painted bright azure, a colour revered by the Mayans, while ceilings are sky-like, some emblazoned with red stars. Underfoot, Esperanza’s hand-made clay sculptures jostle for elbow room amongst wide brimmed dishes, and man-sized jaguars. I almost trip over a jaguar, as I head to a lemon washed wall that displays Esperanza’s aprons and huilpils, resplendent in eye-popping hues of hot pink, violet, electric blue, and acid green. I want to buy them all.
But albeit, I am a kid in a candy store, limited by suitcase capacity and pesos.
~
It’s time for a sculpting demonstration.
She beckons us, calling out in softly spoken Spanish.
What would you like me to make?
Jaguar?
Chicken?
Dove?
For the Mayan, these particular animals and birds are sacred. They appear in dreams and are popular spirit animals.
I prefer eating my chickens and I consider doves to be gloried peace pigeons.
Jaguar it is.
Esperanza dips her smooth and nimble hands into a plastic bucket, wets the silky beige clay that she digs from roadsides and begins her magic show.
Her hands belong to an alchemist.
Gently kneading.
Massaging.
Transforming.
I am transfixed.
Watching Esperanza at work is more soothing than a listening to a meditation app and way more satisfying.
Five minutes later, a cute jaguar appears. He will make his way eventually to Esperanza’s outdoor pottery oven, which is not exactly an oven, more like a backyard bonfire. Firing in this village is done the ancient way, a technique introduced by the pre-Hispanics. Clay creations are placed on a makeshift pyre made of bricks and sticks, before being set alight.
I secretly pray Esperanza does not wear one of her artful aprons (they are made from polyester afterall) or the village issue open-toe huaraches, when she goes about this dangerous business.
I scan her fingers and toes. Smooth as the satin ribbon trims which edge her huilpil and blemish free. They must really be magic.
It’s time to hit the road again.
Before I leave, I engage in some slow, retail therapy. Slow, as Esperanza’s creations (with the exception of the jaguar) take time to make, sometimes hours, sometimes days and often weeks.
An apron on the wall speaks to me. It is a vivid blue and white spotted affair trimmed in magenta pink and gold. Unlike Esperanza, I won’t be taking my chances wearing mine over an open flame.
Nope.
I have decided to pair Esperanza’s apron with my vintage 501s and take this look to the streets of Sydney. I like my clothing to spark conversations. That way, I figure, I can share the story of Esperanza and her magic hands, when anybody asks me what I am wearing.*
To Get to Amatenango Del Valle.
Follow the Pan American Highway out of town for a 45 minutes or so from San Cristobal de Las Casas, surrendering yourself to a driver (a taxi or collectivo) who may leave you white knuckled as you drive on the wrong side of the road for most of the trip. It’s a thing in
Mexico. Embrace it.
If you are feeling extra brave, you can choose to go sans-seatbelt, like Esperanza.
Pro-tip: Take plenty of pesos and a few foldaway bags so you can stock up on artisan made aprons, a huilpil or two, and even a jaguar. And keep your eyes peeled for Esperanza at her famous truck-stop.
Please send me an idea of how I can contact Esperanza Perez Gomez to organize a visit for a group of American tourists who would love to visit her in early February, 2024. They buy a lot so the visit will be good for her. mi whatsapp +52-55-5404-7446. Karen Alvarez (or my email karen.alvarez@dmsmexico.com ). Thanx