Yu'la'ya'

scorched earth

Passengers from a nomadic land

The myth of the sacrifice of Cocijo

They say that Pitao, called “the incorporeal one”, of whom the breath of his powerful breath had

the entire universe arose, brought together all the lower divinities and gave them the dominion of

the things of the earth, the wind, the rain, the crops, everything, but he did not give them the fire, so women and men began to suffer a lot.

Pitao, seeing this, made a large bonfire and told the lower gods to pass through the fire. No one had the courage to do it, only Cocijo, the smallest. Upon entering the fire, Cocijo was transformed into a large black cloud from which a sparkling lightning emerged that shook the earth. Because of his courage, Pitao named him “lord of all the gods” or “lord of lightning.”

Under the light of the moon, the gourds and the hunters whistle when the wind blows and the air plays among the branches. They are watched by coyotes, snakes, bats and other inhabitants whose eyes are confused with the mountains that tear the mantle of night. The inhabitants of the past, the ancient people, said that in the bowels of the hills, Lightning lived. With his hands, during the dark hours, he kneaded the clouds and baked them, there, in the caves. At dawn, they believed, the stove exhaled and the night's work manifested itself like the smoke that floods the Central Valleys of Oaxaca. Even today, every morning, we see the breath of the Lightning bonfire: we call it fog, mist.

Lightning is the purest manifestation of the sacred fire that descends from heaven. He is a flame that cuts the clouds and impacts the earth; He is a fire that destroys, a flash that destroys, thunder that announces the storm, he that fertilizes with the rains. In time immemorial, faced with the fear of the other gods, Cocijo threw himself into the sacred pyre; The fire did not destroy it, but transformed it. He emerged into the sky transformed into a thick black cloud and like flashing thunder. Cocijo, “fire from heaven”, heat of sacrifice, gift to humanity. Since then, every lightning strike that hits the earth is the release of that primordial fire.

The ancestors kneaded the earth with water and molded the human face of Pitao Cocijo, Bniity Gusia, The Owner of Lightning. They looked at the jaguar, an image of the earth's force and the echoes of thunder; They looked at the serpent that waves like lightning in the sky and like filaments of water; Finally they looked at the bat that lives in the caves where the clouds are baked. The old grandparents burned the earth in ovens and from the flames they saw the face of the beneficent god being born, the same one who had given them fire, the one who announces with roars the arrival of the rain, the same one who guards the underground region where the dead live. Cocijo, god born from the primordial bonfire. Burnt earth: mask born from a furnace, a sign that gives an image to the forces of life.

The new people, the young people, say that a “güero” arrived from outside. They don't know where he is from, that he has walked through lands here and there; They even say that he left his house to go to the gabacho. Who has been living for a month in the town of the copal fields, that resinous, fragrant tree, whose wood has been dyed with colors to embody the tonas that from birth accompany the living until death. But this man arrived attracted not by the call of the sacred copal, but by the fires of Mogote.

What what is that? Yes, Mogote is the name of several mountains in Oaxaca, which are respected by their communities as sacred places. In my town there is also a hill called that, Mogote. My grandparents said that “Tabayuco”, “the bad thing”, “Tachiná” well... that he appeared in a cave on the hill. I don't believe it was the Devil who lived there, I imagine that Savi was worshiped there: but my town is very far from the copal fields. I better continue telling you about the “güero”.

In San Martín Tilcajete an oven was born that was named Mogote. It is a recent kiln that spread concern and love for pottery in the Ocotlán-Zimatlán Valley. Lightning in the ovens of their caves heats the waters and once cooked, like new bread, they rise to the heavens. In Mogote, they burn earth and it is reborn converted into plates that look like comales, trays that remind me of gourds, or little glasses that make me think of the reeds where mezcal is drunk. Many other beautiful things come from there, with materials that were not used before. Many of these processes have been brought from places beyond the sea, but they also take great care to honor the Zapotec tradition. Imagine that the holy leaves that we use in the broth and the moles were made immortal, in ceramics, in that technique as old as all of civilization itself. And they made them shine: they bathed them in waters mixed with colored earth that when burned turned into glass. Enamels they say... and enamels came from far, far away. The books say that other people.

Elsewhere in the world, they were invented seven thousand years ago, but here they weren’t in use; they arrived through travel—first in the jugs and other vessels brought by the Spaniards 500 years ago, and later, people arrived in large cities like Mexico City or Puebla who knew how to make them and taught others the craft. In Oaxaca, Santa María Atzompa became famous for its glazes—especially deep, intense greens, reminiscent of glass bottles. In El Mogote, they also embellish their ceramics with slips, decorating them with naturally colored clays; they paint on geometric patterns—like those found at Mitla—or adorn the pieces with imaginative, original figures born from their own minds. How these works resonate with those from San Marcos Tlapazola…

Ah, yes—*el güero*! Why bring all this up? Well, because that is precisely what el güero came here to do. He left home, headed up to the States, eventually returned, and arrived in El Mogote to fire ceramics—honoring an ancient tradition of Oaxacan potters while also lending a hand to sustain the newer pottery tradition of the tileños. But he created something entirely new…

Above all, he paid homage to fire. He transformed earth into fire, petrifying the dance of the flames; through burnishing, he captured the flickering glint of sparks—the kind that leap from a piece of ocote (pine kindling) when lighting a hearth. The flames took the form of masks representing a new, “modern” breed of people—those who dress “fashionably,” sporting thick, dark-rimmed glasses. I know this because the youngsters who are “on the other side” send their photos that way—via their little phones—since nobody writes letters anymore. Sometimes they manage to visit—those who have managed to secure legal status, at least; as for the others, well, that’s just not possible… I have a cousin who, for years, never once stepped out of the apartment where she was hiding in New York. There she was, looking after her own child and her husband’s little ones. It was a lovely wedding—held back in the village—with plenty of chilenas danced and so many turkeys slaughtered for the mole that there was more than enough to go around. I haven’t heard from my cousin in years; sometimes news reaches me through my aunts, but since one of them doesn’t care for her, she only ever has spiteful things to say. Things had been looking up for her—her little boy had started school—but now I wonder: how are they doing? Things have turned ugly; there’s so much hatred. People are being hounded, hunted down like animals—they aren’t wanted. I remember one of her brothers—this was years ago—who decided to head back home, even though things weren’t all that bad at the time. He just couldn’t take it, so he returned to the village, got married, and had children of his own. Some say he failed to achieve the “American Dream,” while others say he made the right choice, returning to the countryside—to his own land, to the tomato fields. I suppose almost every family has stories like these: of those who leave, those who return, those who stay behind, and those who wander the world. And it’s true—as God is my witness—that the world is round; if only one had the strength and the means to travel it, to walk its paths. I was taught to put down roots, but it surely takes great strength to become a true citizen of the world. Like my cousin, my grandfather also left to earn money, working in the orange groves during the Second World War. But he truly wanted to return, and he did. And although he always loved his village, he chose to live in Mexico—in the big city—for he, too, was a citizen of the world. Because such journeys change a person. And the flames of the “*güero*” cannot help but make us think of our own people, wherever they may be… or even those who are no longer with us. The “güero” did something curious: he turned comales (griddles) into masks. In doing so, Cocijo reappeared—with his forked tongues, like a serpent’s, and his reptilian eyes, like an iguana’s. These comales remind me that the Lord of Lightning had four assistants: the wind, the rain, the hail, and the clouds. They would shatter the stones inside caves, allowing the thunder to announce from the four corners of the world that the rain was on its way. It is said that at Monte Albán, long before the Mixtecs arrived, priests would retrieve ancient vessels bearing the image of Cocijo from burial sites; by doing so, they could briefly harness the god’s powers to ensure the rain would not fail to fall. The “güero” incorporated tigres—specifically the tecuanes—into his work, giving them eyes and maws like those of Cocijo. These tigres tecuanes appear in various villages; according to local custom, they dance to summon the rain, ensuring successful planting, an abundance of corn, and a good harvest. The tradition of the tecuanes is still found in some Mixtec communities across Oaxaca and Guerrero.

The Zapotecs and the Mixtecs are sister peoples—the “People of the Clouds,” the “People of the Rain,” Ben’Zaa and Ñuu Savi. Both cultures use petates (woven reed mats), but in the Mixteca Baja region, the craft of weaving palm fibers remains especially vibrant—producing hats, baskets, tompiates (storage baskets), and petates alike. Furthermore, the Mixteca region is home to many coralillos (coral snakes). When my grandmother was a young girl, running about the ranchería, she very nearly stepped on one. Had she stepped on it, I wouldn’t be here today to tell these stories. She married at seventeen and eventually passed away in Mexico City, though she always longed to return to her village one day. These coral snakes—which can kill with a single bite—were, in ancient times, considered sacred. Straw mats, tecuanes, and coral snakes… I hadn’t imagined that, too, would be cornered sharing so much of the community through the ceramics of “el Güero.”

Since this entire story originated with a migrant artist who arrived in Zapotec territory—visiting and working in Tilcajete—we wanted to share stories and myths from the Central Valleys. I also wanted to recount this narrative in a way that honors the storytelling style of the elders in my family. It is remarkable—I hadn’t anticipated that these works would evoke myths of the past and present, while also sowing new myths for the future. The migrant stories shared here are real; they belong to my family. I speak with an urban cadence, and I regret that the musicality of my uncles’ speech—and the faint scent of smoke that clung to their words—cannot be captured in this text. Yet, from my own contemporary perspective, I can say that the works of “el Güero”—Salvador Jiménez-Flores—invite us to recognize that we are all inhabitants of this world. Borders may be political, but human lives, memories, and stories transcend such barriers. Just as the burning of copal once served as an offering to Cocijo—with the smoke rising toward the heavens, much like the clouds he was said to shape within his mountain caves—so too does this collection of works, created by Salvador in Mogote, stand as a tribute to those who migrate in search of a better life. It denounces the inhumane abuses they endure, while embracing—with profound affection—the landscapes, skies, art, and customs of Oaxaca.

In Tlacolula, it is still said that when lightning strikes the mountains, it is Cocijo returning home. And just as clay is transformed by the kiln, a lightning strike leaves the earth scorched.

Dizhsa (Zapotec of the Valleys) / English

Gusia da’ ya’ dany / Lightning dwells on the hill

Gusia naca bniity xte niza lo dani. / Lightning is the master of the rain on the hill.

Liiba rbeu’ tabie’ tap la’ty, / He guards the four directions,

rca’ niza lo gyielaa, / brings water to the cornfield,

rnia’ de guedxlyu de gap bniiny xba. / and speaks to the earth so that the seed may sprout.

Chi rca’ guuzh, rruu gui’ lo gya’aa. / When thunder roars, fire bursts forth in the sky.

Bniity Gusia, laa’ rdxu’g ladi ladx. / The Lord of the Lightning—he heals the hearts of the people.