Kindness of Strangers

Saturday, December 20, 2008

Latin Americans love their religious pilgrimage sites, and while I’m not Catholic, I enjoy these shrines as much as the next person. I’ve been to some pretty important ones, including a famous one in Mexico where La Virgen de Guadalupe was said to have appeared. Pam claimed the motherload was just a few hours north of Mendoza in Vallecito, a sprawling shrine to the Difunta Correa. The legend goes that Deolinda Correa trailed her military husband through the desert during the civil wars of the 1800s. She eventually died of thirst, and her body was discovered by a band of men passing through the desert: her infant son was found alive, suckling at her breast. Vallecito is believed to be the site of her death, and the town has evolved into a place where people come to worship and seek hope from La Difunta, a term used to denote a saint-like figure. Argentines pray to La Difunta Correa for all manner of things, from new cars to completed construction projects to medical miracles, and if their prayers are answered they bring offerings and thanks to the shrine at Vallecitos. Even major soccer players have been known to ask for successful outcomes to games, leaving their jerseys behind. “It’s a freak show,” Pam promised.

Always up for a good freak show, we crowded into the car and made our way north, where emerald vineyards eventually gave way to dry, barren tracts of land. We followed signs to “D. Correa,” stopping to ask for directions a few times. Everyone knew where La Difunta was. Eventually, a series of dusty, open-air shops sprang out of the desert like an oasis, selling all manner of Difunta paraphernalia. There were candles and incense, stickers and statues, and the all-important red ribbons emblazoned with messages to La Difunta in sunny yellow script. People tie the red ribbons to their cars, and once you start observing, most cars in this area of the country bear a faded red strip flapping in the breeze. Truck drivers are especially devotees. One ribbon read, “Protect my Peugot.”

At first the site looked relatively modest, the ubiquitous shrine perched high on a dessicated hill, the mid-afternoon sun beating through the ocean sky. We passed through a gauntlet of battered license plates, some inscribed with hand-lettered messages of thanks. Stretching out on either side were the houses, miniature architectural models of the homes that had been successfully completed or procured thanks to La Difunta. Some were crude, a few floor tiles slapped together to make an A-line roof, whereas others were beautifully ornate and scarily accurate.

And the shrine just kept going as far as the eye could see.

There were towering walls of plaques, some chiseled in marble, thanking La Difunta for prayers answered. There were school photographs and holy communion invitations crammed into every available space imaginable. There were hundreds of empty water bottles contained in a barricade, something to quench the thirst that killed La Difunta Correa. The model houses tumbled town the hillside towards even more buildings. One contained only wedding dresses, some looking antique and faded. One building held only model trucks. Another sports trophies. One building was dedicated entirely to the good fortune of horse jockeys. One building contained “las cosas mas antiguas,” the oldest things. A 1950s luxury car had been donated. One wall was blanketed in sports jerseys. There were photographs of birthday parties, ponchos, guns, plastic trinkets, and stuffed animals (both the cute, cuddly kind and the taxidermied ones). It was a virtual antique store, packed to the gills with stuff.

I had never seen anything like it.

There were few people visiting the shrine midweek, but weekends can see hoards of visitors. Most people seemed to be curiosity-seekers like us, snapping photos left and right. A few people quietly made offerings. Three men with a large, white dog on a leash strolled by. “That’s the guy who uses his dog to kill wild boars,” Pam whispered. “I remember him from the photos I saw in one of the rooms.” We couldn’t believe she recalled this artifact out of everything we had seen that day, but then again photos of a wild boar kill are hard to forget. On our way out we bought a clutch of red ribbons. Maikael bought “Protege mi Nissan.” I bought “Protect my journey,” which could come in handy before I even have a chance to tie it to my car’s antennae.

As we returned to town, the streets of Mendoza were flooded, the acequias gushing brown water. Clumps of hail littered the roadside, as cars sputtered and stalled in the streets that had turned to rivers. Everyone wore a look of sheer confusion on their faces. We had narrowly missed what Pam said was the worst storm she had ever seen hit town. “The Difunta protected us!” we joked. Or had she?