As we turned off the highway down into the fishing village of Mismaloya on the south shore of Lake Chapala, my heart skipped with joy in anticipation of greeting and embracing my friend, Maria Cardenas.
While basking in the grandeur of the sunrise across Lake Chapala early one morning, my reverie was broken when a woman and a young girl appeared on the tranquil scene. They began vigorously sweeping a cement platform located a few rods from the lake. I was standing on the spacious veranda of Hacienda Ana Capri, a five-acre Shangri-la on the south shore owned by Ego Pedersen who once operated a dairy there.
My curiosity was aroused by the appearance of the sweepers. I hastily scrambled down the rugged incline to the lake to investigate. A small rowboat rollicked in the gentle, crystal waves. Reaching the cement platform that had once served as the floor of a pigpen, I found Maria Cardenas and her daughter shoveling little silver fish into sacks to be transported to restaurants for crispy charales snacks. True to Mexican hospitality, I was invited to their fishing village of Mismaloya, about 3 kilometers down the lake.
Maria, a busy fisherman's wife, operated the only store and small café in the village. She was also an expert needlewoman and offered to teach me cross-stitch embroidery. To allow her time out of her busy schedule, I helped bag charales. It was fun and the beginning of a life-long friendship. The village women sat on their doorsteps, happily chatting with friends while busily embroidering. Their work was so exquisite I asked to purchase one. I was informed that they did not belong to them. Boutique merchants across the lake brought the cut-out garments for them to embroider and assemble. For hours and hours of painstaking work, they were paid less than ten pesos per garment.
Mismaloya was a happy village and we soon became an integral part of it. Ron gave free English classes; we entered into their social life, and encouraged their interest in a small library and museum. That was 23 years ago.
I did not see my friend Maria again until Ron and I did a survey of the fishing industry of Mismaloya three years ago. Maria greeted me with open arms as if it had been yesterday we bagged charales together. We found the fishing industry seriously crippled by the receding lake. However, the people maintained a cheerful, hopeful outlook. Maria still served breakfast to the fishermen and tended her little store. Life went courageously on and new ingenious means were devised in order to ply their hereditary way of life.
Alas! No happy children greeted us this month as we drove to the barren plaza where only two elderly men sat morosely on the steps of the once-busy museum and social center. We hastened to the main street towards Maria's store. Not a door stood ajar on the deserted street.
Of the many ghost towns I have visited in the Yukon, none saddened me like the ghost of Mismaloya. We spoke to one lonely passerby who informed us that since the lake had shrunk far beyond their capabilities to fish, the die-hard fishermen had been forced to follow the lake westward. Even the graceful pelicans flew aimlessly overhead, as if they too were aware of their possible extinction.
Deeply concerned over the fate of my friend Maria, we ambled on to the little house where I learned to cross-stitch. In answer to our rattle of the gate, a lovely young woman appeared, and in typical Mexican fashion, invited us into her home. She was Maria's granddaughter-in-law. We learned that Maria still lived in her little home, but now there was no need for a café or store. Now widowed, she too had to seek other means of livelihood. The women of the village still carried on their embroidery work for the same merchants who paid the exact same rate of pay as they did 23 years ago. Our charming young hostess proudly announced that she was expecting her first child. She showed us the beautiful baby bedspread great-grandma Maria had lovingly cross-stitched for her expected great-grandchild.
Life goes on in the ill-fated pueblo and only time will tell how long they will be able to maintain a skeleton of their former way of life. While praying for the survival of precious Lake Chapala, remember to say one for the survival of the fisher folk.
