And gold, and copper, and bronze. But silver is what made the town. In fact, there are parts of the La Valenciana mine still being worked even today. It’s a ten minute cab ride to the part of the mine open for tours, so off we went.

The tour takes you 60 meters down into the mine, which is why Dorothy let me go alone. There is no way she could have made it back up. I could, however, have used her much better Spanish, as the guide, an ex-miner, spoke zero English. Still, I managed to understand enough, and even asked a few questions. And got answers I understood. Or at least I think I did.

Visually, the mine doesn’t offer much up. What’s most notable is the various tiny crawl spaces that the miners were expected to work inside. I’m sure there’s no such thing as Fun Mining, but still.

But the true star of Valenciana is outside the mine: the San Cayetano church. This is such a great story. The church was completed in 1788, and was funded by the owner of the Valenciana mine, Antonio de Ordóñez y Alcocer. The mine was actually abandoned in 1559, just a year after opening, as the owners at the time believed it had been played out.

Ordóñez reopened the mine in 1760 and promptly, 80 meters down, hit the largest silver vein in all of Mexico. You’ll be surprised to learn that this made him fabulously wealthy, and prompted King Carlos III to honor him as nobility. Because what’s more noble than being rich? Henceforth, Ordóñez was known as the Count of La Valenciana and Viscount of the Mine. Sadly, Duke of Slavery was already taken.

Yep, while some of the miners were paid, many were enslaved indigenous and African peoples. Remember I said this was a great story? Well, the payoff is that Ordóñez built the church, he said, for the miners. So the enslaved miners could pray (whatever did they need to pray for?) to the Christian god to whom they had been forcibly converted. Noblesse fucking oblige.

But I can’t discuss San Cayetano without first issuing an apology to Oaxaca’s Templo de Santo Domingo de Guzmán. I was foolish enough to refer to the Guzmán as “the Liberace of churches.” San Cayetano has exposed the stupidity of that designation, and I sincerely apologize to both churches for my youthful misapprehension. San Cayetano, you are the true champion.

San Cayetano may be the finest example of the Spanish Churrigueresque style of architecture, sometimes known as Ultra Baroque. Because, Baroque… sometimes it just doesn’t say what you want it to say, you know? It’s probably the gaudiest example, as its three massive altarpieces are completely covered in gold leaf. No, completely covered.

Here’s a walkthrough…

And here’s some eye searing detail. First up, the interior view. I love how it centers the primary altar under a beautiful dome (which is one component of the excellent use of light), while completely hiding the two side altars, whose placement represents the cross. The reveal of the side altars once you’re up on the main altar is perfection.

Next up, the Big Kahuna, the main altar:

And the two side altars:

And let’s not ignore the exterior, which, despite the notable absence of gold leaf, is plenty Ultra Baroque, thank you very much.

It is, sadly, the typical story with Colonial works. We’ve been marinating in the Spanish conquest of Mexico, but we’re not going to find anything different in Africa or India, or wherever. The beauty often comes with an ugly backstory.

On my first visit to India I was in Kolkata for work, but I’d arranged a weekend there for sightseeing. I had a driver, because that is 100% the safest way to traverse India. It’s the only place I’ve ever been where the traffic actually frightened me.

I had a list of places I wanted to visit on Saturday, but my driver took me to his hot spots on Sunday. One of them was a beautiful Raj-era English church. Which baffled me. Did he take me because he thought I’d be comforted by some classic Western architecture? *wrong* Did he genuinely find it beautiful and worth sharing? And if so, how was it possible for him to enjoy it as an artifact bereft of its context?

Because I couldn’t. I was profoundly uncomfortable, on top of just not being very interested in classic English church design. I didn’t quiz my driver on his motives (because I’m not actually a dick), but I stayed for the minimum amount of time necessary to show respect and then moved on.

I feel like our travels are destined to constantly bump into the ravages of Colonialism. But what’s the alternative? If we only traveled to parts of the world that didn’t rub our noses in Colonialism, we’d be back in the US already. Not that there’s any residue of Colonialism to worry about there. As our ill-fated attempt to visit all the Missions in California proved.

I mean, Europe? They’ve just been colonizing and recolonizing one another in a great circle jerk of fuck-you for millennia. You can still see Roman baths in England, although it’s kind of tough to feel any sympathy for the British. Over anything.

So we’re just going to have to rub some dirt in it and walk it off. As much revulsion as the remains of Colonialism genuinely inspire, that truth is as much a part of the history of the places we’ve visited, and will visit, as anything else. It needs to be understood and confronted, not ignored because it’s unpleasant.

I was expecting to learn things on this adventure. I didn’t expect to be as angry as I often seem to be. Although I suppose that’s the natural consequence of looking at anything closely. I guess I was expecting this to be all sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows, and didn’t account for how much seamy underbelly we’d be forced to embrace.

And I’ll leave you with that heartwarming visual as a parting gift.