There is some linguistic evidence and Old Spanish chronicles to support the proposition that the small island, Mexcaltitán, in Pacific coastal marshes in the State of Nayarit is the original Aztlan.

It is written that the Aztecs migrated from Aztlan, "The Place Of Whiteness," or "Land of White Herons." Starting in the 11th Century, for over a two hundred year period, they migrated south looking for a new home. It had been foretold that they should settle when they eyed an eagle devouring a snake, perched atop a cactus in the middle of a lake. This Promised Land, Tenochtitlan, is today Mexico City. And the eagle devouring a snake, perched atop a cactus is the Mexican National Emblem.

I had been to Mexico City. Now I determined to seek out the fabled Aztlan.

There is some linguistic evidence and Old Spanish chronicles to support the proposition that the small island, Mexcaltitán, in Pacific coastal marshes in the State of Nayarit is the original Aztlan.

The island, which you can see from above in a postcard, is remarkably reminiscent of the Tenochtitlan that Cortez viewed from the mountains in the Valley of Mexico in 1519. It is claimed that Mexico derives its name from Mexcaltitán.

To reach Mexcaltitán, I proceeded from Mazatlan, the tourist sanctuary, which is home to beaches, beer and hard bodies baked in 90 degree heat and is caressed by warm ocean waves, flavored with full-strength margaritas.

I had traveled swiftly from the U.S. border to Mazatlan on a fine, four-lane highway. But south of Mazatlan two lanes prevail and potholes add to the rumble and excitement. Off the main highway, potholes occupy more space than the road. I wove my way to Mexcaltitán in spite of unmarked roads and a missed turn. The Grand Marquis shook and rattled across the causeway that took me to the bank opposite the island town.

On the causeway, two separate herds of cattle greeted me with indifference. I waited for a bull to drop his road apples. An up-close view makes you want to force cattle to wear diapers. I nudged my way through.

From the causeway, I overlooked the marshes populated with thousands of floating white flowers. They looked like daisies, the white petals ready to be plucked "she loves me, she loves me not." This could be Aztlan I thought, "the place of whiteness" named for either the floating white flowers or the abundance of white herons, "garza" in Spanish.

The causeway ended abruptly. I rolled through a couple more potholes and parked. A young boy, about 13 completely dressed in dirty clothes hustled towards me. He and his father would take me across to Mexcaltitán in an old rowboat with an outboard motor. I asked the price, the father shrugged, "No importa, pague lo que quiera." (It's not important; pay what you wish.) He hoped that I would be more generous than a price he might quote. "How will I get back?" I asked, wanting to be certain of a round trip. "We'll wait," the father promised.

I could imagine that Aztecs crossed these waters and I was on my way to Aztlan. I find joy and pleasure in re-tracing footsteps of history, or in this case, a possible legend.

As we approached the island, my pilot cut the outboard motor and used a long pole. The brown water barely rippled as we glided steadily across the lagoon. Unlike oars, the pole never splashed or churned the water. We docked next to two women, with large smiles and bright teeth, washing clothes in the chocolate brown water. "So this is the laundry," I thought. But the clothes, hung on a wire fence, were "whiter than white." How they cleaned their garments in soiled water remains a mystery. Puzzled, I asked directions to the museum.

The museum was located on the town square, the center of the island. It was only a short walk. I passed a small grocery store that displayed wilted lettuce, bananas that had turned black, and oranges so dehydrated that they were starting to look like large raisins. On the sidewalk, I stepped around fish drying in the sun. The street was dirt, 2 to 4 feet below the sidewalk. The street was also a canal, depending on the season. A canal-street ringed the island, and branches fanned off. Mexico City was also once an island, and canals, its streets.

There was no ancient temple, or pyramid in Mexcaltitán, just a plaza, a church undergoing repairs, small stores without names (since everyone knew their business), and children who were curious about the stranger who came to see the carved stone exhibited in the museum.

I took Polaroid pictures of the children and passed them out as gifts. Astonished, enraptured children ran to bring their friends to see this miracle.

The sign on the museum said "Abierto" but the door was locked. One boy volunteered to get the "El Llavero," the man with the key, and rushed off.

The museum was formerly the town's mausoleum. It seemed right that this building, which previously contained bodies of the people, should now house the body of their history.

I wanted to see the stone. I had read of this archaeological treasure. It was displayed here in this small museum that focused its attention on the migration epic. Room by room I followed the dates and drawings of the migration, which was presented as fact on Masonite backed wall charts. "But what are the sources?" I pondered. I looked into the glass-topped cabinets at pottery and tools, baskets and conical shaped fish traps. Finally, what I came to see, rested on a pedestal, a carved stone, a block, maybe a foot square with a well-defined white heron capturing a snake.

This stone of Mexcaltitán echoes Aztec history. Like the island, it links this isolated place to the Aztec empire.

The stone was here, but it was a replica. The orignal is now in nayarit. It rested on its pedestal, alone without documentation. I thought of the obelisk in 2001 Space Odyssey. Where did it come from, who excavated it, when was it found? The lone employee had no answer and the museum offered no book or pamphlet to resolve my curiosity.

I over stayed my time in Mexcaltitán. I left knowing that I would be driving in darkness, something to avoid in Mexico.

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 . 

This story is from my Forty Days in Mexico.
The previous story in the series is Culiacán.
The next story in the series is Huichol Indian Cultural Center Santiago Ixcuintla.