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by Bob Haigis
Mexico became one of our favorite destinations for a few years. For
awhile we were going south of the border frequently. The country has such interesting
contrasts, that one can go there many times and never repeat the same experience. For
example, although most of the cities are pretty much laid out in the same format--public
and civic buildings facing onto a square or Zocalo which is reminiscent of Spain--each has
its own pleasures and secretes to reveal. We find the smaller towns the most interesting.
As in many countries, the cuisine
can vary from area to area, with local delicacies found only in their native locations.
One of our favorites is Oaxaca cheese, plentiful only in and near the State of Oaxaca in
the southwestern area of the country. This tidbit has a scrumptious taste, and is easy to
identify by its soft, stringy texture.
Another local taste pleasure we discovered on a trip to the
Yucatan Peninsula. Called Yucatan Chicken, it is a specialty of the Mayan civilization
that has occupied the area for centuries. When it is cooked in the traditional fashion, it
produces a meal hard to surpass. The chicken is wrapped in
Banana leaves, seasoned with
local spices, and then baked in a pit in the ground for several hours.
Served up with tortillas, refried beans along with cold beer
or wine, it is a meal not to be soon forgotten. Just south of Playa del Carmen, we had the
pleasure of enjoying our discovery in a small local restaurant constructed in the
traditional manner of timber with a Palm branch roof called
Palapa. Most of the native
tribe still uses this ancient method to construct their dwellings.
As much as the food can vary from place to place, the
landscape is just as diverse. For example, the Yucatan and most of the East Coast are
flat, hot and muggy, and covered by impenetrable jungle and swamps. In contrast, most the
central part of the country is heavily forested high mountains that in places slope right
down to the Pacific Ocean. Active volcanoes are found in several locations. One of my
favorite areas is the countryside around Copper Canyon.
Many times we had heard this natural wonder compared to
America’s Grand Canyon. Copper Canyon is touted to be bigger and deeper than ours, so
I had developed a curiosity to see this marvel of nature. We also had read several
accounts of a great way to see it-- the Copper Canyon Train.
Through one of those strange quirks in fate, I came into
possession of a single, free round trip ticket to Mexico for a week’s stay. Peg was
working at the time anyway, so off I went to satisfy my curiosity.
I researched the Canyon and the surrounding area, mostly using
travel guidebooks as references. I learned that Chihuahua was the nearest commercial
airport, which provided access to the town of Creel, which was described as the
"jumping off place for the Canyon." I could get the train from Chihuahua to
Creel or beyond (it runs between Chihuahua in North Central Mexico, and Los Mochis on the
Pacific coast.
The ride sounded like a trip into the past, especially when I heard of an
incident that had happened just prior to my arrival. I will narrate the tragedy later on.
Following the guidebooks, I flew from Mexico City to
Chihuahua, and in town attempted to get information on the train. No matter where I asked,
the answer was the same: NO TRAIN! I didn’t have a lot of time to waste being in the
country for only a week, so I took the second best mode of transportation to Creel that
was available; a local bus.
Creel is really a unique place of its self. It reminded me
much of our frontier western towns a century ago. Some of the streets are paved, but
clouds of dust along with an occasional tumbleweed blow along them, pushed by the wind
that never seemed to die. There are several trading posts in town selling local Indian
crafts.
This area is home to the famous Tarahumara Indians. The women
can be seen dressed in colorful homemade garb, selling merchandise along the main street,
and the men, just as colorfully attired, are spotted more often out in the countryside. I
also had the educational experience of visiting a family in a nearby
cave where they spend
the summers. In winter they move down into the canyon where it is warmer.
The main enterprises of the small village are logging and
tourism; both being seasonal. Winters can be brutal, even though it is south of Rio Grand.
The elevation (8,500 ft.) makes the area susceptible to severe weather at times, and deep
snow is not to be ruled out.
Luckily I got a room at a local hostel type hotel where there
were several guests, mostly foreign, that spoke English, as did the manager. In this cozy
environment, I learned that the train I wanted so much to take was very expensive
(especially in such an inexpensive country), undependable, often broke down, and on top of
it all didn’t really provide much of a view of the canyon at all. The way to see the
canyon, I was informed, was to take a local bus from Creel down to the town of Batopilas
at the bottom of the gorge; a full day’s trip. A conversation with the manager
revealed the tale of horror that I referred to above.
It seemed that, in harmony with the old western motif I
mentioned, the train was held up coming from Los Mochis. There were no really serious
problems until a tourist on the train, perhaps thinking the whole thing was a gag, started
to videotape the goings on. Unfortunately for him the holdup was authentic, and he was
promptly shot dead for his efforts. After hearing that tale and the other problems
encountered, I didn’t feel badly at all for not getting my ride on the much-touted
train.
This trip was made in late October, and when I arrived in
total darkness at 5:30 am to get the bus, it was covered with frost. Another surprise was
that the bus was a standard small school bus, attractively painted. I was to realize later
on just why they use such a vehicle for the trip.
It was several hours on paved roads to the dirt turnoff for
the canyon, and I recall thinking what a nice ride it was, but certainly nothing
spectacular. The real adventure began not long after we entered the dirt road. Turning
off, the driver announced that we had to go down into and out of two branches of the main
canyon before arriving at our destination. The ride was one never to be forgotten.
Not long after leaving the paved highway, the road became a
narrow one lane dirt track, that twisted, zigzagged and doubled back on its self all the
while frequently going up or down steep slopes. Most of the five-hour trip was in second
gear. Now I knew why we were on a school bus: nothing any larger could possibly stay on
the road.
At one place, we came to a complete stop when we met a pickup
truck coming towards us. The driver had to back up a hundred yards or so to let us get by.
At another place, several passengers had to disembark and pile rocks and dirt into a
washout that for sure would have tipped the bus over had we hit it. Of course, there were
no guardrails, and in many places it was a thousand feet or so to the bottom, and I
realized that if a vehicle ever went over the side, it could be weeks before anyone found
it, if found at all.
Aside from the excitement of the road, the view in places was
spectacular. Solid rockwalls erupted from the riverbed at the bottom of the canyon in
places, soaring a thousand feet or more. Several times we traveled through picturesque
valleys where there were usually small settlements on the banks of a
stream, undoubtedly occupied by the Tarahumara natives.
We finally got to the bottom of the canyon, and the difference
in climate was stark. Where the bus had been coated with frost when we left Creel, here
several thousand feet lower, it was hot and sticky. Bannana and citrus trees were in
evidence, and the streets of the little silver town seemed deserted.
If I thought Creel was passe', Batopilas, founded in 1708 was
exactly as described in one guidebook. It was like something from an 18th century time
warp! A general store in the center of the town still had the original shelving and cash
register. Being so isolated, there was no A.C. electricity. The whole settlement was on
D.C. supplied (sometimes) from a generator that ran only at night for a few hours.
The room I spent the night in had a cot, no screens on the
windows or doors, and a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The power
oscillated
from on to off several times before I got to bed, and it was one
accommodation I was happy
to leave the next morning.
We got the bus, again at 5:30, which was jam packed by the
time it arrived at my stop. I had to stand for nearly two hours as we wound our way back
up out of the canyon. It was an eerie feeling standing, packed in and hearing the bus
motor groaning as it crawled along. Darkness only made the ride more frightful as the bus
rocked back and forth on the corkscrew turns. As the rising sun slowly painted the walls
of the canyon pastel shades of red and orange, I realized what a beautiful place this was,
and how lucky I was to experience it. Both the bus and its driver were superb, and I let
the driver know it when we arrived back in Creel that evening.
I still don’t know
if Copper Canyon is bigger and deeper than our Grand Canyon, but
this I do know. There is NO experience in the Grand Canyon that
I’m aware of that can compare with the ride on a school bus from
19th century Creel to18th century Batopilas. But if there is,
maybe some day...
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