Just over a year ago, my journey led me to Santa Clara for the very first time—a trip that left an indelible mark, a prelude to all that was yet to come. When word spread in Ocumicho that Santa Clara would host the event this year, my heart leapt with excitement. It wasn’t simply a visit; it was a summons to reconnect with deep roots, to rediscover the essence that binds our communities, and to feel the pulse of a past merging with the present.
Step by step
arrived in Santa Clara del Cobre at 4:30 in the morning. The night before had been a swirl of intense emotions, and a full day of restless anticipation had taken its toll—echoing the effort of a day when I had risen before dawn to set everything in order. In the quiet pre-dawn hours, the call of the Cupatitzio drifted into my ears—a chant that became my sole companion as I wavered between sleep and wakefulness. The unexpected chill struck hard, especially when I realized I had forgotten my heavy jacket at my grandmother’s. Yet, burdened with eight kilograms of camera equipment, my back found its own meager shield—a reminder with every step that my determination to continue was unwavering.
I joined a slow procession toward the Dawn Ceremony, feeling as if the path itself whispered secrets. The normally bustling streets lay empty and hushed, cloaked in the quiet of night. The sound of footsteps on gravel, the sparse glow of a few streetlights, and distant murmurs merged into an almost mystical ambiance. Every sound—the crunch beneath our feet, the occasional clink, a soft burst of laughter—seemed to suspend time, transporting us far beyond everyday clamor.
The Golden Anticipation
As the darkness yielded to a timid gold along the horizon, a collective pause swept over us. We turned eastward, hearts brimming with expectancy as if standing on the threshold of a miracle. Though I caught only fragments of whispered words, the first cry of Juchari Uinapikua shattered the silence, the second sliced through the chill, and the third ignited an undeniable thrill. That raw sound seemed to awaken dormant souls, stirring the very spirit of the place. Even as joyful melodies and vibrant chants began to swell, earnest shushes restored a sacred quiet, halting time in a moment of pure communion.
Soon, soft light bathed our faces, driving away the cold. Friends and familiar faces from Erongarícuaro, Uricho, Zacapu, Uruapan, and many other communities exchanged knowing smiles and brief, heartfelt embraces. After a cautious pause—waiting for permission to capture the moment—the band of participants burst into songs that beckoned us to dance. Traditions were passed along like torches as the day sprang to life.
Xakuarhu
In that moment, as we made our way back to Santa Clara—what I now fondly call Xakuarhu—each conversation and every encounter became a tribute to life itself. Neighbors stepped out to greet us with warm wishes, curious children peeked out from their doorways, and the sun, brilliant and unyielding, quickened the pace of our reunion.
Reaching the plaza of Xakuarhu was like entering a microcosm of our shared world—a stage where culture and tradition revealed themselves in every corner. Artisans from diverse communities had gathered, offering their crafts for barter or sale. The air mingled with the aromas of sizzling carnitas, freshly prepared atoles, warm bread, and traditional tortas de tostada—each scent a promise of comfort and flavor. Everywhere, vibrant hues of green, yellow, blue, and purple celebrated the pride and identity of those who call these lands home. At the heart of it all, the yácata, vigilantly guarded by cargueros, waited patiently for nightfall like a sentinel of ancient mysteries.
Before my eyes, the experiences of that day began to blur into something transcendent. The cold, the sleepless hours, the inner voice lamenting that “those shoes aren’t made for endless walking,” the hunger and thirst—all faded into the background. In their place emerged an extraordinary reality: the warmth of friends, acquaintances, and kindred spirits, each with their own story, their own struggle, and their own laughter. Every greeting hinted at a deep, possible connection, and my heart overflowed with gratitude and joy. I understood then why this reunion had grown to be so much more than a return to the past—it was a celebration of who we are today.
Mojtakuni ka Uanopikua
Every corner pulsed with exchanges—a vibrant festival of bartering, stories, and the shared aroma of home-cooked food. Anecdotes, dishes, and keepsakes flowed freely at every stall, each one a testament to a living culture in continuous dialogue with the present. The long, winding path became a bridge, uniting strangers and old friends alike, where the joy of meeting was as natural as the breath of life.
When the Uanopikua began, it felt as if the universe had dressed for a celebration. Hundreds gathered in the main streets, eager to witness the brilliant display of colors and traditions heralding each community’s arrival. It was a reunion of souls—a heartfelt welcome to those who had once hosted these gatherings. Even as the absence of some familiar faces was felt, the presence of so many others filled the air with a bittersweet nostalgia and a renewed hope.
For me, one of the most stirring moments was witnessing the active participation of the Indigenous Community of Paracho—a sight that awakened long-held dreams. I began to imagine a yácata rising in our own plaza, or perhaps within the old boarding school—a sanctuary where tradition might reconnect with the present. I allowed myself to dream of walking side by side with everyone to the “ánima sola” for the dawn ceremony, picturing the Uanopikua unfolding like a poem—from the deep resonance of a copper guitar to the imposing monument of the Purépecha mother, and back again, completing a circle that celebrated union and memory. That moment of dreaming felt as natural as breathing.
We are Tinder and Flint
The afternoon danced along with a playful urgency as the day filled with exchanges, laughter, and dances that echoed an inner fire. Music never ceased, and amid this joyful clamor, an almost tangible anticipation built for the moment the fire would finally be lit. Why this magnetic draw toward the unknown? Perhaps because within the flame lies the promise of rebirth—the power to overcome adversity—and a reminder that although we fear darkness, we are forever driven to light it up with our own flames.
And then, at last, the moment arrived. With a gentle roar that soon became a shared murmur, the fire was ignited. The lively, unbound flames passed from hand to hand as the rhythmic hammering on copper announced the ritual’s climax. In that sacred instant, a chorus of voices rose in a hymn that transcended words and time—“Kanekua sesisti minkuarhentani p’urhepecheni”—and every trace of fatigue, cold, thirst, and hunger melted away. What remained was the profound harmony of a gathering that had reached a long-awaited peace and solace.
Murmurs of a new host—Tinganio—drifted through the crowd like seeds of hope, promising fresh beginnings and new stories. It was then that I realized: burning does not mean being consumed by fire. To burn is to leave an indelible mark, to transform one’s surroundings, to consume the present and, in doing so, illuminate it with the intensity of our very being. It is to shine in every sense, knowing that even if the flame dies down, the spark to relight it endures.
Today, as I recount these experiences, I understand that Xakuarhu, the fire, and I remain part of a vast narrative of reunions, challenges, and renewed hopes. May the fire never be extinguished in our hearts—and if it ever dims, may we always hold within us the seed to relight it.
May the flame of life keep burning, reminding us that in every spark lies the strength of our roots and the promise of a tomorrow filled with new encounters and endless joy.
