DIA CIEN UNO:
Sabado, 28 May 2005 - San German
Creel, Chihuahua - sometime Saturday.
REMEMBER: So what we do last night but nothing? Well, we cruised the main for pan dulces and came back with some big fine cheap ollas. And then all the cats ran for cover, and the ferocious thunder and hailstorm commenced, and the power flickered, and all was well. Nothing much.
You may wonder why I've previously mentioned the CHECK ENGINE light. It first went on last October, as I drove back to the central Sierras from southern Oregon. Expensive servicing revealed and replaced a bad O2 sensor. The light went out, then came back on, but by then we were in Bisbee, far from the service provider. Subsequent research revealed that the engine has six such O2 sensors and they're all prone to failure, requiring expensive replacement, with no guarantee that they won't go bad again. Info from the sensors feeds into the onboard computer that regulates fuel flow. So having the CHECK ENGINE light on means that fuel consumption is not optimal and that we're probably polluting, but otherwise the engine isn't much affected. So screw it. That light is just another form of entertainment, less bothersome than bird droppings or big squashed bugs on the windshield, or having the 4WD-LOW lights flashing off and on like spastic fireflies.
Anyway, we've been discussing selling both the little RV and the SUV and getting a smaller camper-van, more suitable for all sorts of long trips in North and Central America. Let someone else replace the damn O2 sensors. We'll worry about that after we get back from Peru-Ecuador-Bolivia next year.
SONGS:
Beyond This Horizon
The Gringa Queen
MORNING: Breakfasting on our now-usual mocha and pan dulces, cooking up a pot of rice-eggs-vegs for a takeaway lunch, we hopped in El Coche and set off under dark cloudy skies for Divisadero, the Chepe (Chihuahua-Pacific RR) stop where the pavement ends. Here in the upper reaches of Copper Canyon (Barrancas del Cobre) the rolling alpine terrain is distinctly reminiscent of some High Sierra Nevada drives, the mountainsides littered with cedar, pine, juniper and others. One guidebook says the Sierra Tarahumara boasts the world's greatest variety of pines and oaks. It's in print so it must be true.
Hairy horses and cattles stand in the road. Nothing reptilian about them -- all the reptiles are on vacation down in hot Hermasillo. Men work in a rough-cleared field, plowing with a horse and wooden plow, sewing grain by hand. :Log cabins with tin roofs amidst the conifers, occasional sharp rocks, occasional glimpses of valleys below. And the CHECK ENGINE light is back on.
We reach Divisadero Barrancas, where the rocky terrain suddenly drops away down to tropical valleys cutting into alpine ridges. Here and a little ways beyond, at Posada Barrancas, are large resorts whose scope and vistas (and prices) compete with the North Rim lodge at Grand Canyon, Arizona. Sharply dissected canyon walls fall steeply away from finely dressed miradors; viewers stand gaping at the sublime admixture of earth, air, forest, water. It helps that storms are sweeping in, mists rising in the cuts and draws.
The lodges are decorated with native pots, baskets, carvings, fiddles. At their entrances are numerous Raramuri vendors willing to sell you the same. One guidebook says, "The Tarahumari Indians call themselves the Raramuri. We should call them this too." Raramuri women in traditional garb are easily seen, with their long primary-color dresses and bright patterned rebozos (shawls), sometimes with a child wrapped and carried in the latter.
We drove past the end of the line, checking out possible cabaña rentals. At one give-up point a man and his son prevailed upon us to buy some nice Copper Canyon rocks. A jar of opals was offered. We know nothing of opal. Hey Logan, do your jewelery makers need any?
NOONISH: We parked at a dramatic overlook and munched our lunch as the full fury of the icy storm beat down on us. Well, it WOULD have been a dramatic overlook, but for the driving rain. Canyon? What canyon?
Maureen says the best thing about Taxco was watching the town and the sweeping storms from our terrace. What's best here is the fresh clear cool air, and what we can see of the canyons; the storms just drop in for a heavy visit from above, then leave in their own time.
Across from the Divisadero train station is a line of sheltered stalls, a Raramuri Mall. The storm blasted us as we ran under the overhangs. The stalls are filled with the usual textile-ceramic-carving-copper doodads. At the top of the line, a woman was cooking food on a blazing oil-can stove. We each feasted on a tortilla-wrapped chile relleno, the best we'd ever tasted.
Eating a relleno beside us is middle-aged Rafael, a local man who normally escorts tours in the canyon, but now was not a good time for that. Rafael is a singer-songwriter; the state sponsored a contest for the best song about Chihuahua, and Rafael was one of 21 finalists. But the storm is too loud for Rafael to sing us his song.
We're told the landscape is immensely spectacular beyond Divisadero, with some of the most rugged terrain in North America. 50,000 to 100,000 Raramuri live in this fastness, in villages or cabins or caves or just nomadically. They used to inhabit most of Chihuahua but were pushed back by the Spanish and Mexicans. Sound familiar? We read that they are now mostly happy and mostly successful in maintaining traditional ways. It's in print, so...
Today is not the day for a scenic train ride. The full-bore ride is 1st-class with an overnight stay at either end. Such would cost a few hundred dollars. Not this trip.
RETURN: We cruised homeward in the diminishing storm, looking for more cabaña possiblities, but nothing beats our current quarters, And so back into Creel. Creel is a lumber and tourist town set in a shallow rocky valley of carved tufa hoodoos and eroded boulder stacks at the edge of treed ridges. The town is bigger than it first appears but not by much. It stretches along the Chihuahua highway a little ways, out the rail line a much shorter distance, and down the heart of the valley. Any road may become a streambed or puddle or some other adventure.
At the edge of town down the valley, a pack of dogs is worrying a horse who lashes out and runs to rejoin his band. Bicyclists of all ages churn through the gravel and mud. Would-be tourist developments rise and fall. Tourism must be a good business, though, judging by the number of newish pickups and sturdy houses.
We walk down the main drag again, revisit the handcraft shops, buy the last goodies that we'll want here. Enough already. Any further shopping will be only for food. It's especially hard to pass by the hand-carved fiddles. Some Raramuri fiddle-makers are world-famous in Chihuahua for their white-wood instruments in various shapes. But I'm no fiddler and never will be one; any fiddle we got would be decorative only, and I just can't leave an instrument alone. Play it or leave it be, that's me.
A baptismal party leaves the church, clothes informal to shiny. Raramuri kids run up to us with doodads we don't want to buy, then run off. A few cowpokes walk by, a few rapper teens, a few Raramuri and Ladino families, a few tourists.
And then to our room, and a hearty soup, and into the arms of night. Who knows what tomorrow may bring?
Maureen on Mexico and Alaska, etc.
Why does Creel at 7700 feet elevation in the Sierra Tarahumara of Chihuahua Mexico remind me of the Alaska at sea level or thereabouts where I lived during 1966 - 1969?
Well first, let's narrow down the vast territory of Alaska that I knew then. My home ground was the the couple of hundred miles around Anchorage and out into the Kenai penninsula. That area is sometimes called the 'banana belt' because of its moderate temperatures when compared to more northerly and/or interior Alaska. Weather in the 'banana belt' is moderated by the Pacific ocean current from Japan which flows northerly then hooks westerly along the land and circulates on down the coast to California. Along its way this warmer water meets the cold water of ice melt and a phenonoma occurs which naturalists call an 'upwelling'. That means the warm water rides up and over the cold water, and warms the adjacent land. The 'banana belt' of Alaska still gets ice and snow during the winter, but it is much more temperate than the great plains of Canada and the United States.
Two afternoons ago when we rolled into Creel, Mexico, the blue sky was filled with enormous cumulo-nimbus clouds and a rare quality of light that comes from cool moisture in the air and the abundance of conifer covered hillsides. The air smelled fresh and clean. Great long draughts to the bottoms of my lungs tasted delicious.
The road into Creel and those through the business district are paved, but the side streets
are dirt with rain puddles that seem large enough to swallow small children. Many of the residences are log cabins with metal roofs. The stores are a mix of log structures and stucco over cement. Most have metal roofs, some unpainted, some red. Some stores and restaurants have Tarahumara versions of totem poles holding up the roofs. The store signs are all unique in design and colors. The stores contain the necessities for a small town population and a variety of handcrafts for the tourists. Off the main paved streets the houses are oriented every which way. No two are alike in structure and color. Some are arranged in family compounds. There are suspended walkways over the water courses so folks don't need to walk the long way around to the market. It looks like everyone does 'his own thing' and gets along just fine thank you very much.
There are dogs running full out in the highway for the pure joy of movement or the hope of catching the dog ahead. The vehicles are mostly well used trucks. There are some modern additions here of SUVs and the rare front wheel drive passenger car.
The locals who are not dressed in the brilliantly colored clothes of the Tarahumara are in jeans, sweatshirts and baseball hats for their every day activities. A very few are in cowboy hats and boots. Only the tourists dress fancy in their goretex jackets, and silver jewelery.
But this is Mexico. Most business people speak Spanish and English, with no Alaskisms like 'chichako' and Alcan highway.. The CD store blasts popular Mexican music from large speakers on the sidewalk, instead of country/western inside the store. The restaurants sell mostly Mexican food,instead of moose and deer and salmon. Gasoline is the same price as everywhere else in Mexico, instead of all the market will bear. The grizzly bears are all gone, not waiting for you in some remote woods.
This is NOT Alaska, but Creel has all the essence of an Alaskan town circa the 1960s. Impromptu survival in a rugged wilderness. Fresh air and make-do people. Nothing fancy, but everything is tough and glorious and matter-of-fact.
DIA CIEN DOS:
Sabado, 28 May 2005 - Cuerpo y Sangre de Cristo
Creel, Chihuahua - Sunday Will Never Be The Same
Late Saturday night we discussed my unmentionable symptom and decided that it warrants a return stateside for medical attention. No super-rush but no dawdling either. So this journey is about over; we should be back in Bisbee late Monday or Tuesday; this journal and newsletter will end there. I'll let y'all know where to follow our further adventures, and where to see the pictures from this one when I post them.
MORNING: The sweet breakfast, the cooking-up of the takeaway lunch, the late start, the short excursion through the Arareko area, the local equivalent of Monument Valley in the Navaho Nation. The monuments here aren't as grand, but the ejida (collective) does the best they can with what they have.
We followed directions past the graveyard, whistling as we went. We paid our toll and drove a very rough road to a cave mouth, then to Valle de los Hongos (Mushrooms) and Valle de las Ranas (Frogs), then to the Valle de las Monjas (Monks), etc. Somehow we missed the Valle de las Chichis (Breasts). All these are rock formations, hoodoos and spires and eroded shapes in volcanic tuff. I'm reminded of various nature tours (above and below ground) where viewers were exhorted, "Use your imagination! See there, there's an eagle! And there's Mickey Mouse! And there's two alligators humping!"
Tour vans and family groups in SUVs followed this same route. The so-called Mushroom Rocks stop presented a fine sales opportunity for Raramuri folks with handcraft items. Alas, we'd already topped-off with goodies, so no sale.
WHAT ROAD? We tried to follow the ambiguous map to Lake Arareko. So did a young French couple on a motorbike, who turned out to be our upstairs neighbors. After some flailing about in fields, they disappeared cross-country while we cheated, returned to the highway, approached the lake from the easy side.
We stopped at a small ancient mission that never rated a full-time priest.. We lunched on rocks above Lake Arareko, in a rocky basin surrounded by piney forests, and fended off the usual small vendors. We perused the roadside artesan shops. We saved our money and energy.
Do not think that we were disappointed on our excursion. The terrain is splendid, farms and ranches scattered among the wilderness and spectacles — another similarity to Monument Valley, especially the Mystery Valley portion. (For a description, click here.) Blue skies with scattered cumulus clouds, a tasty mild breeze, hairy cattles and horses, jumping goats with their guardians (canine and/or human), picturesque frontier dwellings, all combined for a good experience.
AFTERNOON: We drove to Cusarare village, hoping to see its mission. What we saw was the entire populace sitting around taking Sunday afternoon off, but not quite as we expected. The town was totally sexually segregated. All the women in bright garb sat and stood around the mission. All the men in dark garb sat and stood around buildings across from the mission. There was no intermingling; and we outsiders were the center of attention. One exception to the isolation: a kilometer from town, a young couple sat beside the road, backs to a cattle fence. But each leaned against separate fence posts, about eight feet apart.
We looped back through Creel and out the other side, down the Chihuahua highway a few miles, in more beautiful bumpy country so reminiscent of the Rockies or Cascades. A circus was set up in an adjoining town, but all the animals looked familiar, like local farm critters. A turquoise scarecrow guarded an empty field. Chupracabras scurried through the underbrush. Vampire bats descended on herds of hapless cattle. Just the usual, eh?
The rest of the day's details are tedious. Resupplying, resting, packing all but the direst necessities against tomorrow's early departure. Meeting the friendly Mexican neighbors, unavoidable after their kids wander into the room. Waiting for the water pump to switch back on. Wondering whether to build a fire, and with what. Listening to the lonesome train whistle. Move along, folks, there's nothing to see here.
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