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Day 7 by Jean Akens
with photos from Carmen Hill, Charlie Freeman, Ellie Lincoln and Bob Stuckey
Everyone got up early, had breakfast, and again dispersed to wander through town, watching trains, taking photographs and shopping. Re-grouped by 9:00 a.m., the Tribe headed for the town of Batopilas, deep in a remote canyon in the heart of Tarahumaraland.
Up! Down! Up! Down!, my notes remind, to which Frenchie adds: "Down! Down! Down!" And that best describes the road to Batopilas. You climb up one mountain, then drop into a rock-walled canyon to cross a river, over and over again, until you come to believe that there is not one bit of level ground in the entire country! Paved for the first twenty or so miles south of Creel, the remainder of the road to Batopilas is dirt, first wide and well-maintained, then narrow and rough where it plunges into the canyon of the Rio de Batopilas.
 Hard to see but there are Cliff Dwellings near the center of this picture. |
The scenery changed continuously, as the road wound its up/down way through the rugged landscape. We went from forest to desert and back again, all day long, past Tarahumara farms and cliff houses, (homes similar to prehistoric Indian cliff dwellings of the American Southwest - but still in use!) The foot trails of the Tarahumara, well-renowned for their ability to cross great distances on foot, slice across every level of mountain and canyon. The amount of trails is staggering. The Tarahumara are the second largest Indian tribe in North America, and they have been in these canyons for nearly five hundred years, since retreating from the advancing Spanish in the 1500s.
 A Tarahumara Indian plowing his field. |
In one forested high-mountain area we passed an older, very traditionally-dressed Tarahumara man, who was standing beside the road. The man had a look of antiquity, his eyes held a wisdom beyond our contemporary understanding. It was a chilling look, one that those of us who saw him will never forget. No man of the "cities," as some of the Tarahumara in Creel appear to be, he was the real thing, and the encounter much too brief (NOTE: Taking pictures of the Tarahumara without their permission - which is seldom granted - is an offense in their eyes. And always, if permission is granted, give the subject some pesos for the privilege.)
The rim of Rio de
Batopilas canyon was reached in mid-afternoon, and we had our first view of the
switchbacks that drop down, down, about 6,000 feet to the bottom. As we began our descent,
it became impossible to count the number of times the narrow road switched back and forth
(there are supposed to be over 200 curves and 20 or so major switchbacks). The entire
route was in such spectacular country that you soon become too absorbed in the scenery to
count, anyway. The narrow road also required attention, because of the abrupt drop-offs on
the cliff side and possible (though thankfully infrequent) oncoming traffic.
The temperature had warmed up by the time the river was bridged, and most everyone was ready for a cooling swim. Access to the river was convenient, and swimming where the water tumbled over boulders and small falls into a wide pool was a pleasant diversion after the concentration required for the long, careful descent into the canyon. A dead burro decaying by the side of the road, with its accompanying aroma, added nothing to the otherwise perfect atmosphere, however. (NOTE: Burros and other livestock often share the narrow roads with vehicular traffic and are sometimes slow to move out of the way.)
The narrow, winding road continued to follow the Rio Batopilas for another hour or so, giving glimpses of one spur of the original Spanish El Camino Red on the opposite side of the canyon, criss-crossed by numerous Tarahumara trails. The desert landscape flourished with blossoming agave, organ pipe, yucca, cacti, and all manner of flowering shrubs and trees. The occasional orchards of Mexican and Tarahumara farms also added color.
Batopilas was reached about 6:00 p.m. Founded in 1632, with a rich mining history, the town supports a population of mixed ancestry: Mexican, European and Tarahumaran. The cobblestone streets are very narrow and the structures that line them speak of antiquity.
"Somewhere in Mexico I realized the beauty and magnificence
of the people and country we were visiting" Brad Morrison
Set between the river and the steeply rising canyon walls, Batopilas did not have a road built to it until the 1970s. Electricity arrived in 1988. It's considered a "rough" town, in part because it's still an active mining community, but also due to its designation as the "marijuana-growing capital of Mexico." (No evidence of this activity was spotted by our group, however).
Although several of us desired to camp, a drive along the newly-built road toward the village and mission of Satevo (Brad, Frenchie and I doing the scouting) proved there was no access to the river where it was possible to bring the trailers. Neither did we wish to camp near someone's home, someone who might possibly get nervous if Gringos were too close to their marijuana fields. (Traveling the rough road we did learn where the cobble stones for the streets came from, however).
Returning to Batopilas, we did our best to foster good relations with the native population by pulling a pick-up out of the mud near the river, where the road climbs steeply to the main part of town. This appeared to be the local "hang-out" where men congregate to watch people get stuck. A half-dozen spectators jumped in the back of the pick-up to provide more traction (sometimes this works), but when that didn't help, Brad and Frenchie offered assistance, using the "sign language" every four-wheeler hates the most - dangling a tow strap in front of the struggling vehicle.
The rest of the group were already settled in the Hotel Mary. We come-latelys, plus Ann, were fortunate to get the last available room - which happened to be the only one with a private bath and bedspreads! At $6.00 per person a night, it was a bargain.
The hotel was very old and none too clean (except the sheets, thank goodness), the toilet seat was cracked nearly in two (Ann finished it off the next morning!), and the shower water was pumped straight from the river and therefore of one temperature and gritty with sand. But the room was large, furnished with two double beds and a table, and we were most grateful for the accommodations.
A"thrown-together, make-do" dinner was prepared and eaten in the room shared by four of us, but we were having such a fun time it tasted like it came from the kitchen of a world-class gourmet restaurant. The other Fukarwes seemed to gravitate to our room after their dinner in the hotel's small kitchen, perhaps because we were such a lively bunch, and we began to wonder how many guests we could seat on the beds!
"Somewhere in Mexico I developed an intimate relationship
with some already close and terrific friends, and caught the LETS
EXPLORE MEXICO disease." Carmen Hill
Batopilas has somewhat of a "wild-west" reputation, and we were warned not to walk the streets after dark. For the safety of their lodgers, all entrances to the hotel are locked at sundown and not re-opened until dawn, and all room doors and windows face the inner courtyard, so we were virtual prisoners, anyway. Welcome to the real Mexican outback, folks!
SOMEWHERE IN MEXICO
Fourteen Daily Episodes
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| Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 5 | Day
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Day 8 | Day 9 | Day
10 | Day 11 | Day 12 | Day 13 | Day 14
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