The 500-year-old ‘tilma’ imprinted with Mama Mary’s image. The recessed frame can be pulled in and covered at night. In November 1921, a bomb exploded inside the previous Basilica, but the image remained completely unharmed.
My revenge visit to Mexico last February revolved primarily around a COVID-postponed dive trip to Las Islas de Revillagigedo, a famous dive destination that promised (and delivered) the big stuff. We swam with manta rays with 20-foot wingspans, dolphins, and more sharks than people during any given dive. It was also terribly cold, but that adventure is for a different story. My dive buddy Christine and I got on a live-aboard dive boat for eight days, taking off from San Jose del Cabo (SJC) on the Baja Peninsula.
Since a flight to Mexico City from SJC would be short and relatively inexpensive, however, Christine and I decided to go for it. Modern media batters us with stereotypes of Mexico as a dusty place of narcos, tacos, and tequila. We discovered it to be so much more: historic, grand, beautiful.
It was also the home of La Guadalupana, a word referring to a female devotee of Our Lady of Guadalupe, but also a title for this most special incarnation of Mama Mary herself.
Why unique? Most evidently, La Guadalupana is an image of Mama Mary that truly lives in the hearts of the indigenous people of Mexico. She’s dark-skinned and dark-haired, which is why westernized, appropriated versions of the image, with blonde hair and blue eyes, are inaccurate. She spoke to Juan Diego, the Mexican Indian peasant she first appeared to on Dec. 9, 1531, in Nahuatl, Diego’s native tongue and the language of the Aztecs. It was on Tepeyac, a hill in Mexico, that she famously asked the petrified Diego, “¿No estoy yo aquí que soy tu madre?” (“Am I not here, I who am your mother?”)
The original chapel of Tepeyac, marking the site where Our Lady appeared to Juan Diego
She asked that a church be built on the site. As expected, the Archbishop of Mexico City, Juan de Zumárraga, was skeptical, but to his credit, he simply insisted that Diego bring back undeniable proof; he didn’t have the poor fellow beaten up or thrown into jail. La Guadalupana indulged the non-believers by asking Diego to gather roses in his tilma or cloak from a bush incredibly blooming in the Mexican desert, in winter no less, but she also instructed him not to reveal the bundle until he reached the Archbishop.
La Guadalupana indulged the non-believers by asking Diego to gather roses in his ‘tilma’ from a bush incredibly blooming in the Mexican desert, in winter no less
True enough, when Diego did, in front of the Archbishop, the roses glowed with light, and on the tilma was indelibly imprinted the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe. I think it’s a testament to Zumárraga’s kindness that a statue stands on the grounds of the Basilica, showing the man of God on his knees before Juan Diego. The main street of the Basilica, in fact, is named after the Archbishop.
Exquisite metalwork detailing on the Basilica doors
The tilma, a multi-purpose item used by Mexican peasants as a cloak, blanket, even a means to carry items, is a miracle in itself. Despite being printed on natural fiber that should have disintegrated within a few years, this tilma has survived some 500 years— not protected under glass for the first 100 or so years of its appearance. From the 1920s to the 1950s, photographers zooming in on Mary’s eyes found figures reflected in them. When ophthalmologist Dr. Jose Aste Tonsmann enlarged the eyes 2,500 times, he found the figures of Juan Diego, Zumárraga, and even a family of four!
A statue depicting Archbishop of Mexico Juan de Zumárraga kneeling as Juan Diego presents roses wrapped in his ‘tilma’
In 1936, Austrian-German biochemist Richard Kuhn, after analyzing the fabric, went on record declaring that the pigments used came from sources never before seen in the natural or man-made world. For Catholics, that simply means that this intriguing image was painted by a divine artist.
In 1936, Austrian-German biochemist Richard Kuhn declared that the pigments used in the ‘tilma’ came from sources never before seen in the natural or man-made world
All this was on my mind during our week-long stay. We first visited Frida Kahlo’s exquisite Blue House and the stunning Museo Nacional de Antropologia (where, frankly, after seeing the magnificence of the Aztecs, you realize how arrogant the idea of colonization is); clambered up pyramids in Teotihuacan; sampled some tequila shots; and stuffed our faces with tacos. (El Hequito, cited by Anthony Bourdain, serves arrachera tacos that were particularly tasty). Saving the best for last, I asked Christine, a non-Catholic, to join me for the day at the Basilica, and she wholeheartedly agreed.
Mexico City, for the record, also has insane daytime city traffic. After we spent an hour in an Uber to get back to our hotel from the Museo Nacional, we did our research and discovered that the Balderas station of the efficient, inexpensive Mexico City subway was a five-minute walk from the hotel. Twenty-five minutes later—an Uber would have taken an hour—we alighted from the same line at Deportivo 18 de Marzo station and walked some 10 minutes to a Basilica that was not too crowded on a weekday morning.
Christine managed to take my picture in tears, as I stood overwhelmed upon entering the site, what is considered the most visited shrine to the Virgin Mary in the world. It didn’t have the daunting grandeur of the Vatican, or even the expanse of Fatima. Still, there was an immediate sense of sincerity, peace, welcoming, and—dare I say it?—motherly love that made you sigh in gratitude.
The current shrine, designed in a modern style, is 42 m high, 100 m in diameter, and can fit some 10,000 people. Masses are celebrated every hour on the hour, only in Spanish. I say current, because Tepeyac, the original site of the apparition, is a 20-minute climb up some steep steps. It was said that San Juan Diego, who was canonized by then Pope St. John Paul II in 2002, would sleep in this tiny chapel to make sure the tilma was not stolen. The view of the entire area from the hill is breathtaking, with a magnificent statue of an angel keeping watch. Today’s Basilica was built in 1974.
A statue of St. John Paul II as seen from inside the Basilica
After I had collected myself, I finally laid eyes on her, on the tilma framed in gold and hovering above the altar. In an ingenious system, you can get closer even as she hovers about 10 feet above you, with two moving walkalators taking you past the icon behind the altar. It completely does away with crowding or people lingering too long: You want another look? You go back to the end of the line.
Also quite moving were the many people walking on their knees towards the altar. I saw a young father, carrying his baby, make it all the way to the altar before Mass. His jeans were torn and slightly bloody at the knees. There was an obviously sick, frail young woman, accompanied by an older one (her mother?) and a younger man, who took turns placing cushions on the ground as the woman shuffled forward, in tears.
The walk up to Tepeyac left us panting a bit, but it was all worth it. The tiny chapel is delicate and quiet, yet filled with an uplifting, holy energy. Here, you can kneel in reverent silence (no pews), and wrap your head around the idea that Mama Mary picked this spot to remind the Mexican Indians that they were certainly her children, too.
From Tepeyac Hill, a magnificent angel watches over the entire area of the Basilica.
The affection is lavishly reciprocated. Before the noontime Mass, delegations from different parts of Mexico, wearing the same color, were ushered into the Basilica. They carried banners, flowers, and their own beloved statues of La Guadalupana, singing hymns as they entered. Appropriately, the priest gave a sermon on how, indeed, rich, influential, powerful people may be the farthest away from the heart of God. After the Mass, Christine and I found ourselves lingering for a while, and she told me how she could feel the peace in the place.
We shopped for souvenirs from some “official” stores within the Basilica grounds. Lots of stores on side streets carried mementoes, but I had been warned that the quality was best at the site itself. I bought some family members beautiful fabric reproductions of the tilma. For myself, a small picture of Mama Mary with the gentle, downcast eyes was enough.
It was said that San Juan Diego, who was canonized by then Pope St. John Paul II in 2002, would sleep in this tiny chapel at Tepeyac to make sure the ‘tilma’ was not stolen
As a funny side story, we were advised to bring the items to a priest sitting outside the Basilica, to get any items blessed. I saw with concern what he was using to sprinkle holy water: It was as big as a mop. Naturally, Christine and I found ourselves drenched as Father Blessing sprayed the small crowd in front of his booth, to everyone’s laughter.
I prayed for many people in my life to Our Lady of Guadalupe, but especially for the husband of a friend who was fighting a grave illness which, last we heard, had spread to his brain. Also, a dear friend of mine living abroad, a family breadwinner, had already been jobless for eight months.
My breadwinner friend started her new job last May. As for the sick husband, upon my return from the trip, my friend joyfully told me that the brain lesions had disappeared so unexpectedly, even medical personnel were doing double takes and asking each other what happened.
I wasn’t surprised. I could only imagine La Guadalupana, quietly asking again, like one would humor a questioning child: “Am I not here, your mother?”
The author and travel buddy Christine Enrile Chua take a selfie inside the Basilica after the Mass.
