Here in Batopilas I’m in a dark room with no lights and no shower, but I couldn’t be happier. Only about 70 miles from Creel, but it seems to be a world away. I’m running out of cash. Every Tarahumara native I see, I feel compelled to buy something from them.

Tarahumaran girls selling crafts in creel.

Tarahumara women wear colorful dresses, and are often seen walking with their children in a multi-colored sling. Tarahumara men wear colorful shirts and loin cloths.

On the road to Batopilas, I spoke briefly with a Mexican landowner who needed a ride. I said yes, and all of a sudden a large group of eight people appeared and filled the bed of my pickup.

Before I knew it, my truck was full of locals. This is halfway down the Barranca Del Cobre canyon, near La Bufa – half of them had already hopped off.

The further I go into canyon country, the more friendly the people become. I haven’t seen a tourist for two days, and as the Mangoes hit the tin roof of my bedroom, I can’t help but love this place that simple fact of simplicity.

I spoke with mom today using a calling card in Creel before leaving for Batopilas. She seems to be in a completely different place than I have been for the past four days (I don’t even feel like myself). When I arrived in Batopilas, I was even further from civilization. There is only one phone in town apparently, many of the 1000 people who live here spend their Saturdays and Sundays getting “baracho” (drunk).

The Road to Satevo

Arturo, the kindhearted, barrel-chested guide of mine with golden caps on his teeth, tells me that the road to Satevo is dangerous. Many people have died because of drunk driving. As he carreened down the dusty road to Satevo, he told me bits and pieces about the history of the town. Mining companies sell the mountains like commodities; they drill prospect holes, denude the hills and sell it to the next mining company. I asked if the locals go mining in the river for gold and silver. He said no. Nobody here knows how to mine, “Viven in el pasado.” They live in the past.

In Satevo, there is a lost mission “El Ignacio Perdido.” It’s lost, because among all of the missions of the Jesuits, it is the only one that the Catholic Church has no record of. It’s as if this mission never existed, even though it’s a grand, beautiful mission sitting on the side of the crystal clear waters of the Batopilas River.

El Ignacio Perdido at Satevo (accent on the “o”). It is one of the most beautiful places at sunset that I have seen for a very long time.

As I arrived, the sun was setting, and locals walked up, asking me to buy a blanket. It was about the size of a table mat, but I bought it for the fortune of 50 pesos. To the people here, this is enough to live on for a very long time. She was ecstatic and left smiling.

Another local walked up and talked with me briefly until Arturo returned. He led me to the back of the church where they kept the keys to the door. I was given the keys and opened the large portico to reveal a magnificent interior. Even though this mission was lost, Arturo tells me it’s the second largest mission in the Sierra Madre. This is quite a feat, considering the stark surroundings and difficult trek.

An altar room inside the Satevó mission

Señora Monse

Señora Monse runs the boarding room here. I felt as if I was a part ofthe home – part of their family as we all sat around the table eatingfrijoles, arroz, y pollo. We were drinking real Tarahurmaran cafe -Monse calls it “cafe cafe,” and says the indigenous ones, theTarahumara take the beans, roast them with mesquite wood and grind them. It was good coffee. It was as if this place where the mountains meet the heavens (1 1/2 times deeper than the Grand Canyon) is a place where Manna falls from heaven in the form of coffee beans.

Tomorrow, beginning at 6 a.m. I will see some of this land with a Tarahumaran guide who looks like Mel Gibson (just a bit more tanned).It should be a memorable trip; I can’t expect any less of this place.

As I pulled out of the Holiday Inn express of Chihuahua, Mexico (yes, I actually stayed at an evil American conglomerate – and, I might add, overpriced at 900 pesos). The extra cost did, however, pay off in that the managers were the only people I met in Mexico who spoke fluent English – this proved invaluable in finding the Plaza Central de Chihuahua.

Plaza Central de Chihuahua

What I’ve seen today rivals what I saw in San Francisco, the first time I had seen a city. The U.S. calls itself a melting pot, but they can’t lay claim to what Mexico can be proud of. In the space of one block, I saw middle-class Mexican mestizos, upper-class criollos (pure-bred Spanish), Tarahumara (Chihuahua’s native indeginous people who wear colorful dresses and still live in caves – the men wear loin cloths, believe it or not). I saw Mennonites (they’re not only in Pennsylvania, apparently)

These colorful boots in Chihuahua are a reflection of Mexican culture as a whole. America doesn’t even compare to the melting pot of Mexico.

And the cattleman – they put American cattlemen to shame. They actually use their horses for utilitarian reasons around here. I was just driving down the road about an hour ago and I saw a kid who didn’t look older than nine who was riding as if he was on Seabiscuit, jumping fences and canyons, putting my truck to shame.

Everything in Mexico has to dazzle the eyes – even this dust devil the size of a tornado.

Talking Over Tecate in Creel

I rolled into Creel about 5 p.m. to encounter Americans. This made me sad. I thought it would become my special Mexican town that nobody else knew about. Creel is a tiny little pueblo. There are a few banks and restaurants. I think it boasts a population of about 6,000. As I changed my money in a casa de cambio, I crossed the street and found a little restaurant/bar.

A unique view of mountain biking in Creel, Mexico

Nobody was in there, but I asked for Tecate, and it was readily produced. The woman who I met was very talkative and easygoing. She had a small daughter with her who was nine years of age. I told her where I was from. Funny, every Mexican I’ve talked to so far always talk about the bridge. Even in the small pueblo of Creel, 300 miles south of the border, this woman knew about the Golden Gate Bridge.

We exchanged the normal conversation starters – thank god I can understand and somewhat respond to most of them. Her daughter was a bit shy at first, but she opened up to me and brought out her textbook from school. She wanted me to show her on the map where San Francisco was. She told me she spoke English and sang to me “Frere Jacques” in English. I helped teach her the word for “honga” in English (hongas are mushrooms and the woman said that there were many in the surrouding hills). I’m now sitting at the top of the Sierra Madres.

The Espactaculo in Creel

The people here are friendly, and I’ve never felt safer anywhere. It’s odd. Even though they are poor, they never ask for anything directly – they are always open to chatting. At my camping spot, I heard music playing from a tent down the block. The circus, or “espactaculo” was in town. There are only two actors in the troupe. It’s not a freak show. The best way to describe it is to say it’s a lot like the talent shows we had as kids in Elementary School. There is a magic show, lip syncing of popular songs, and the ever-so-popular ass jiggling (I’m not joking). There were to main actors and one assistant. the two actors played all of the parts. The kids in the audience loved the show, and there was the occassional young couple, old couple, random cowboy with wranglers and cowboy hat in the tent.

What struck me were the overtly sexual jokes when the majority of the audience were children.The kids seemed to laugh the most at them, too. For twenty pesos, it was a steal. I watched the people watching the circus, more than I watched the circus itself.

There are ravenous dogs around my campground. I had to barricade myself in the back of the pickup truck. Otherwise, I still feel safe, and the crescent moon is low in the horizon, a chilly breeze with a tinge of pine scent carried from the mountains sweeps by, and the sound of Ranchera music in the background. There was no feeling lonely in the company of stars at 6,000 feet in the Sierra Madre.

Bearings readers are in for a special treat. The following is the first day in five. When I was 23 and about to quit my first job after college, I decided to leave it all behind – if just for a few weeks. The ultimate destination was Batopilas, Mexico, a small village that sits deep in Mexico’s famed Barranca del Cobre. The possibility for adventure was irresistible, and long before I had asked my busy friends if they wanted to come along, I had really hoped to make this trip alone.

It wasn’t my first solo road trip, but it was my first foray into a strange and uncharted territory, where the locals still lived in caves and old, collapsing mining tunnels still hold the three-hundred-year-old secrets of millions of ounces of undiscovered gold. This place was literally still living in the era of Spaniards, and I was about to leave my comfort pillow to encounter a whole different culture. In a way, it was the inspiration for Bearings… so enjoy!

 

Day 1: Casa Grande, AZ to Chihuahua, Mexico

I’ve seen some beautiful country. After a long and fruitless search for a campground among saguaro cacti, I pulled off a dirt road and drove 1/4 mile from the Highway. I woke up in the morning to pressed coffee; folded up my sleeping bag riddled with stink beetles; and started on my journey towards the border. On the way were the bucolic mining boomtowns of Bisbee and Tombstone.

A long-forgotten building in Bisbee, Arizona, where one of the world’s deepest open pit mines resides.

Finally! I was in Mexico! Alone. Free. I drove across the Northern Deserts encountering one checkpoint after another – some military, some police. The first one I reached was for frutas; I pulled over and asked the inspector if I needed a “tarjeta de viaje” or “permisa de vehiculo.” He glanced towards me and nonchalantly said, “no, no, pase.” What I do remember of this man were his striking blue eyes. He was obviously mestizo, and he probably picked that up from his distant conquistador ancestors.

The same thing happened down the road, with another military checkpoint. I spoke in Spanish to the young soldiers, who quizzically looked at me. Their superior soon came out of the roadside shack in full fatigues, commanding a limited knowledge of English so I ambled along in Spanish. Again, I asked if I needed a permit to travel, or papers for my car. Not surprisingly, he said no.

Driving East along the border, I encountered the occasional immigrant making the long and arduous journey across the border and into the Arizona desert. I can’t see how they can do it in that heat – one was carrying nothing more than a one-gallon jug of water in his hand. His eyes searched passing cars to make sure they weren’t authorities. Upon confirmation that he was safe to continue his walk, he trudged forward, off into the horizon, and into America.

Searching for Relief

As the road twisted and winded its way through desert peaks I couldn’t help but notice the beauty of it all (the trucks in front of me were creeping up at a measly three miles per hour; there was also road work – which, I might add, was much needed). And I couldn’t help but notice that Mexico, despite being a few dozen miles from American soil, somehow seemed different. Maybe it was my mind’s eye playing tricks on me, but the expansive vistas, the mesquite and whitewashed cliffs — all of it seemed to resonate with all of the stereotypes and caricatures I had seen up to that moment.

There came a time when I had to “ir al bano.” Pressed coffee had worked its magic. Let me tell you this: it’s impossible to find a bathroom in Mexico. I assume most truckers just pull over to the side of the road, but stories of friends who have been thrown in jail for public urination have convinced me for a more civilized manner of relieving oneself. I pulled off to a roadside restaurant that looked as if it catered to weary truck drivers. The facilities cost a few pesos, and I also ordered my first out-of-my-country meal. Corn tortillas stuffed with carnitas – all of it unlike anything I had ever tried before.

Turned Back to Juarez

That day, 200 miles south of the border, I finally encountered my third and final checkpoint.

“Tienes permiso?” The woman asked, as she suspiciously leered into the cab.

“No. No tengo,” I said sheepishly.

I was told that I could go no further. The sun was setting. And I had to drive back North to get my papers, to the border, and Ciudad Juarez – Mexico’s notorious record-setting town.

A map of the drug cartels in Mexico. Ciudad Juarez is ground zero for the country’s largest and most violent cartels.

Record for what, you may query? Homicides. Some 400 women have been victims of femicide in the past few years and the murders have spread to nearby Chihuahua. It seemed so unlike the places I had recently seen. The Mexico I had seen seemed a peaceful place, full of smiling people despite the dry desert and the bleak surroundings.

Ciudad Juarez – a notorious Mexican border town is notorious for all the wrong reasons

My truck rolled into a Motel in Chihuahua around 9 p.m. on my first day in Mexico. I fell asleep within minutes.