I made headquarters in the resort village of Cocoyoc, southeast of Cuernavaca, located only a few miles from Zapata's grave. I stayed in a stunningly beautiful hotel built around the remains of an 18th century sugar hacienda. At Zapata's birthplace, a mosaic mural mixes myth and history. Zapata is symbolized, born from the mouth of a serpent, then appears in full splendor erupting with the force of a volcano and breaking the chains of bondage. I stood there wondering if those chains were truly broken

Detail from "El Caudillo del Sur" Roberto Rodríguez Navarro. Mural, La Casa de Zapata Museum, Anenecuilco.

In Chinameca, south of Mexico City, in the State of Morelos, stands a once beautiful hacienda abandoned to the ghosts of Mexican history. Here, at the entrance in 1919, an Honor Guard lifted rifles to form the traditional canopy of respect for Emiliano Zapata, insurgent General of the Mexican Revolution who led his forces under the banner Tierra y Libertad, (Land and Liberty.)

Zapata entered the archway on horseback. Quickly the rifles pointed their fire at Zapata. "Fuego!" commanded a voice. Zapata fell from his horse. The man who proclaimed, "It is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees," died, assassinated by that Honor Guard of Treachery.

Zapata argued for the rights granted to his people, for justice, for Constitutional rule. He struck me as a man of integrity and I wanted to visit the land where he lived, fought, and died.

Zapata, at age thirty, had been elected by his people to represent the villagers' claims against the hacenderos, the large landholders. He had been entrusted with the most precious document of the village, the Spanish Land Grant. He argued for the rights granted to his people, for justice, for Constitutional rule. He struck me as a man of integrity and I wanted to visit the land where he lived, fought, and died.

Cocoyoc Village, Morelos. The word Coyote comes from "Cocoyoc".

I made headquarters in the resort village of Cocoyoc, southeast of Cuernavaca, located only a few miles from Zapata's grave. I stayed in a stunningly beautiful hotel built around the remains of an 18th century sugar hacienda. Cocoyoc is the Indian term, which gives us our word "coyote." This lovely, restful retreat fills with wealthy Mexicans from Mexico City on the weekends. It lies near the hot springs and former imperial gardens of the Aztecs. Montezuma spent winters in this valley, just over the mountains south of Mexico City. Today government employees vacation here.

The land that nurtured Zapata is blessed by climate, and cursed by the cancer of greed. Its favored location, high altitude, south of the Tropic of Cancer is protected from Pacific storms by coastal mountains. This is in the state of Morelos, the center of sugar cane, a labor-intensive crop requiring extensive plantations.

The ruins of fabulous haciendas dot today's landscape. Hacenderos ruled as might minor kings, and took, as by divine right, the land. The result bred riches for the hacenderos, poverty for the campesino, and Emiliano Zapata for justice.

During the Revolution of 1910-1921, campesinos burned the haciendas and the hacenderos torched the villages. Pancho Villa led the Army of the North, Zapata, the Army of the South. When their armies marched into Mexico City, it was Zapata who refused to sit in the President's chair and like the Roman Cincinatus, returned home.

To trace Zapata I hired a guide. I was visiting the Cuernavaca museum, originally the Palace of Cortez, a half hours' drive from Cocoyoc, when a man approached. He introduced himself, "José Luis, at your service."

I sunned myself at Cocoyoc and wondered if Zapata had attacked and burned this once great hacienda. Five swimming pools built among the old ruins took advantage of the walls, arches and the original aqueduct. Ruins created waterfalls, and one pool splashed from a higher level to fill the lower. Gardens, acres of trimmed lawn, over a hundred chaise lounges, a 9-hole golf course ringed by a pony trail for children, offered beauty, warmth, comfort, relaxation and excellent dining to us the fortunate. Where sugar cane once was pressed, a discotec now blares on the weekends when the 300 rooms are mostly full. Did the Army of the South ever camp here?

Cocoyoc Village, Morelos is a former monastery converted to a resort hotel.

To trace Zapata I hired a guide. I was visiting the Cuernavaca museum, originally the Palace of Cortez, a half hours' drive from Cocoyoc, when a man approached. He introduced himself, "José Luis, at your service."

Dressed in a dark gray sports coat and wearing a tie, he had the manners and grace of an earlier time. "I am a tourist guide," he said, and reached for his wallet and brought out his official license. He charged $5.00 an hour. We toured the museum. But it was the room devoted to the Revolution 1910-1921 that I came to see. I mentioned my interest in Zapata.

José Luis enthusiastically declared, "I can take you to all the places: where he was born, buried, where he had his Army Headquarters." The next morning, José Luis took the bus, from Cuernavaca and arrived at Cocoyoc at 10 a.m. It was about a 30-mile ride.

Early in the day, our first stop had been the city of Cuautla, where a monument guards Zapata's grave, and José Luis informed me that 2 of Zapata's children live here. This was an un-thought of revelation.

We got into my car, a dark blue Grand Marquis. I drove and José Luis, without a map, directed me to Zapata's birthplace, an adobe ruin now sheltered near a modest museum in Anenecuilco, Indian for "The place where the water swirls." Outside the adobe, a mosaic mural mixes myth and history. Zapata is symbolized, born from the mouth of a serpent, then appears in full splendor erupting with the force of a volcano and breaking the chains of bondage. In this village, the town that first elected Zapata, I stood there wondering if those chains were truly broken.

We traveled to Chinameca where the archway with bullet nicks stands and a bronze Zapata mounted on his horse, raising his arm in a noble expression of victory, or perhaps defiance, marks the place of his death.

We sought out his Revolutionary Headquarters in the town of Tlaltizapan. Here in this isolated Mexican town, with donkeys pulling their heaped carts stands a mausoleum dedicated to Zapata's revolutionaries. Generals were buried here. Some niches stood empty. José Luis said, "They will be filled, the last are the toughest." I wondered who they might be.

Tlaltizapan Mausoleum, dedicated to the revolutionary heroes.

Early in the day, our first stop had been the city of Cuautla, where a monument guards Zapata's grave, and José Luis informed me that 2 of Zapata's children live here. This was an un-thought of revelation. I'm dealing with history, I had not considered living children in 1998. Anita Maria Zapata owns a restaurant, El Amanacer, (The Dawning or the Awakening) and Mateo, her brother, counsels the organization for the "Veterans of the Revolution." (There are 23 veterans and 87 widows from the Revolution alive in the State of Morelos.) Both are in their 80s. But it was Sunday, Anita was out of town and Mateo's office was closed.

I had missed an opportunity, and now on the return from Tlaltizapan, heading for the Hacienda San Pedro Apalaco where Zapata first worked and gained fame as a charro, José Luis and I got lost. Lost, dusk coming, this dirt, and rutted road, lined with crops, led to a low area where a puddle completely blocked the way. My first Yankee impulse, to splash my way through at 30 miles an hour, was tempered by prudence at the thought of the consequences of a Grand Marquis mired in this remote land. I got out of my car, walked to the edge of the puddle, which looked like the Red Sea with no Moses present. I sank up to the tops of my tennis shoes, I walked with the fear of leaving a shoe behind and heard the "Great Sucking Sound" that Ross Perot warned us about. The very softness and slickness made me apprehensive. The Yankee in me got out his white handkerchief. But I thought I'd make one last test before retreat. A large boulder, about the size of a soccer ball, at the side of the road presented itself. I thought the stone might give me an indication of the depth of the puddle. I heaved the rock as far as I could, it landed like a cannon ball in the ocean, insulted me with a back splash of brown muck which textured both my shirt and jeans, and disappeared. We turned back. Not only was there a barrier of water, and slick, soft mud that my Grand Marquis would have to power through, but now in addition, it would have to avoid the hidden danger some jerk had flung into the path.

Without a guide on Monday I headed once again for Cuautla. At the Institute for Veterans of the Revolution, I presented myself and asked for an interview with Mateo Zapata. He was gone, the secretary sympathized, he had been in earlier, but had left for the day. I was encouraged to return Tuesday at an earlier hour, but I explained I had already delayed my departure just for this opportunity.

I asked, using my departed friend Don Beaver's favorite opening, "Es posible...that someone might recommend the books which Sr. Zapata believes are the most authentic and factual concerning his father and the Revolution?" I showed real interest. The secretary asked me to wait. She said, "Perhaps, a son of one of revolutionary generals, is in the back office, and maybe he can assist you. "I'll see." The lady left her desk and I looked over the office and the pictures of Zapata hanging on the walls.

She returned shortly and announced, "Ha regresado." Mateo Zapata had returned and would see me.

Mateo Zapata and Dick Davis in Cuautla.

Mateo Zapata was seated behind an oak desk as I entered. He is a stout man, about 5'6" tall; his hair is still black, but the gray is visible. He wore a white dress shirt with two pockets, the type one sees frequently in the Caribbean. He does not look like the young Zapata mounted on his horse or wearing the Mexican sash with carbine belts crisscrossed as in well known photographs. But strangely, because of his weight, the roundness of his features, he looks like his father's death photo. Perhaps, in youth, slimmer, he looked like the famous charro his father was before he joined the Revolution.

He stood; we shook hands. "Buenas tardes," he spoke. He waited for me to speak. "Taciturn," I thought, the hallmark of his father. His office contained a filing cabinet and a refrigerator. A large Mexican gourd on top of the refrigerator served as a hat rack for Mateo's white felt cowboy hat. Curtains were pulled aside to allow the maximum light to enter. I noticed that in none of the rooms had electric lights been turned on. I suspect Mateo was snoozing when I arrived and the secretary willingly and politely attempted to turn me away. Fortunately, my sincere interest and "sparking personality" carried the day.

I fumbled the initial conversation, and then got on track. I asked, "How old were you when you father was assassinated?"

"Just, a year and a half, I remember him only from his deeds." he answered.

"Could you tell me which books I should read for the most accurate account?"

He suggested Raíz y Razón de Zapata; (Root and Reason of Zapata) but he could not recall the author. "It was written by a Professor..." he tried to remember. Awakening him from his nap probably left his memory drowsy. "And there is another, Zapata" by John Woman." Later, I found Raíz y Razón in the Bancroft Library, but there is no English translation. The second book turned out to have been written by John Womack, but I had mistakenly heard "Woman."

"And what do you believe was your father's greatest accomplishment?" I continued.

Now Mateo seemed alert, ready for a speech. "The Plan de Ayala, it freed the Indian from land bondage." He outlined this historic document.

"And his greatest failure?" I took a chance that this question might appear impolite.

"The Plan de Ayala," he repeated, "because it was never fully implemented."

I left just as the rain turned from a light mist to a sprinkle. I thanked Mateo Zapata for his time and his secretary for her thoughtfulness. We exchanged a farewell "adiós." And I thought "adiós," it's a beautiful word, literally "with God."

Raindrops pelted the Grand Marquis on the return to Cocoyoc.

 Dick Davis travels frequently. He has taught in both Mexico and Spain and is happy to share his experiences. A resolute companion in his Mexican travels is his Grand Marquis. He can be contacted at:  This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .