I was in Mexico’s Copper Canyon leading a group of “Chavochi” adventure travelers. “Chavochi” is basically the Tarahumara word for Gringo, non-indigenous, devil people. Various things happened while we were down there in Batopilas Canyon and the town of Batopilas, which may or may not be related. I think they are.
After a hard day of van and bike travel, we finally made it to the town of Batopilas, at the bottom of Batopilas Canyon. After checking into our hotel, we walked down the street to the only bar in town, the Zaguan, ready to relax. We dragged some extra chairs over to an outside table under a big Mango tree and sat down. A hundred feet off to one side, the Batopilas River rushed downstream. We were surrounded on the other three sides by the old colonial town and its requisite rural-Mexico-town sounds. The courtyard we sat in was surrounded by a solid fence that semi-separated us from the town’s confusion. A pudgy, young barmaid approached to take our order and began the process by informing us that the Corona beer truck was late. That meant the selections and quantities were more limited than usual. She said it like it was common, so I was only partially irritated and not that surprised. I thought the beer choices in that part of Mexico were often somewhat limited anyway, so it was “no le hace” as far as I was concerned. However, I wanted to be as much help as possible with the “problema.” So, I ordered a Modelo, figuring they would likely have a stockpile of that. The other group members followed suit. She waited for all six of us to order before informing us that they were out of Modelo, though they had enough Tecate on hand. Okay, I thought, what the hell? So, I ordered a round for the table.
There was a brief lull in the table talk as everyone pondered the ordering process. While the clients’ voices were silent, their eyes weren’t; they wandered everywhere. As with the waitress taking our order, there was much to absorb. Eventually, someone did talk, which led to a verbal eruption around the table. There were a lot of questions. First off, there was a lot of intrigue about the road we’d driven into the canyon on. The blind curves, 100” drop-offs, dirt, rocks, and width (or lack thereof) had made an impression. Hugo, a doctor from Bolivia, had noted the small graveyard stuck back in the brush on the side of the canyon below the town of Quirare and was curious about it. He was starting to explain when a middle-aged waiter brought the beers. I couldn’t help but wonder where the pudgy woman had gone, but I took a swig of my Tecate and launched into the cemetery story. At that point, my mind and thoughts had moved beyond the brand of beer.
The late afternoon light began casting longer and longer shadows onto and around the old buildings. A scuffle of some sort erupted just outside the old wooden fence toward the plaza, but quickly stopped, seemingly when a car or truck horn started blaring somewhere off in the distance. But then, loud and invisible footsteps ran past, just on the other side of it, as someone went somewhere in a big hurry. None of the noise made any of the bar workers look up from their work. For them, it was just another day that was turning into night.
While two Mestizos ran the bar and hotel, there were plenty of indigenous Tarahumaras in town. And that ancient culture was particularly fresh on my mind since I’d recently read an ethnography about them. So, my mind drifted between group logistics and Tarahumaran beliefs in invisible birds that do all sorts of nasty things. And suddenly, I realized everyone at the table was looking at me, waiting for my response.
It was like a bad dream. I didn’t even know what the question was. And I didn’t want to respond incorrectly since I wanted to be a part of the ongoing conversation and appear engaged. So, I did what always seems to work in moments like that and started talking about the weather. It worked. Seamlessly, everyone began talking about the crisp, dry air, cloudless days, and the pleasant evening sub-tropical temps. Here we were, sitting outside in January, in the early evening, without even a jacket. Life was good.
We sipped on our beers, talked about the big scar on the police chief’s face, and speculated about what it would be like to live in a town like the one we were in.
Eventually, we got up from our table and walked to the Puente Colgante (swinging bridge) Restaurant for supper. When the owner/chef/waiter came over to take our order, he immediately let us know there was no beer because the beer truck hadn’t arrived yet. That was old news to us. So, we ordered bottled water “con gas” and soft drinks and then sat back and began talking about various area bridges, including the one right outside the front door.
During the first few minutes of waiting for our meal, various patrons came and went. Then, just as our food arrived, a large contingent of what appeared to be locals burst through the front door and immediately addressed us. I was a bit shocked at first. The group was with the local volunteer ambulance service, and the word was that we had a physician in our group. We all looked at Hugo and agreed. Then, a tall man with a big mustache launched into a description of the situation. He explained that the Corona beer truck had run off the road and rolled hundreds of feet down the hillside a few miles out of town, up toward La Bufa. The driver had survived and been carried up to the road. But he needed to go to the nearest hospital, some 6 hours away in San Juanito. They asked if the doctor would go with them to help with the care. There was no hesitation. Hugo, who conveniently spoke Spanish, got up from his chair and followed the three men out the door. After he left, I realized there was no real plan about how this would all work out, what the next step was, or even how long he might be gone. We had three days on the itinerary scheduled for riding, hiking, and exploring the area before we had to return to the El Paso airport. Hopefully, I thought, there would be plenty of time to let things unfold and get the doctor back before we had to leave Batopilas.
For that immediate night, the rest of us ate our supper and talked more about the canyons before retreating to our rooms at the Hotel Real de Minas. Our plan for the following day included a bike ride to the Lost Cathedral at Satevo and more beers at the Zaguan (assuming they had any). After that, the schedule was a bit “loose.” I was hopeful that Hugo would be back at least by the day before we needed to leave, and I visualized all of us (including Hugo) sitting around the table under the Mango tree at the Zaguan once again, drinking the beer of our choice on our last night in town. It would all work out, one way or the other, I surmised. Never mind that one of our friends/clients had gotten in an ambulance and disappeared deep into Mexico.
There was a surprise (to us) lunar eclipse early that first evening, as fate would have it. It didn’t affect us directly, since we were inside the restaurant most of the time it was happening. However, the light of the almost full moon eventually returned, allowing us to walk back to our hotel without walking into closed doors or stepping into potholes.
The next three days went as planned. We spent our nights at the Real de Minas, rode mountain bikes out to the village of Cerro Colorado, visited the Lost Cathedral in Satevo, explored the ruins of the Hacienda San Miguel, and played basketball in the plaza. All went according to schedule, and it got even better when Hugo showed up again in the early evening before departure day. So, the whole situation had worked out almost entirely. Hugo was back on time, although there was no beer, so we didn’t get to sit under the Mango tree and drink one.
The morning of our fourth day in Batopilas arrived as predicted, and it became time for us to leave and head back to Creel. The drive was about 80 miles, the first 40 on somewhat sketchy dirt up to the top of the canyon. I was wondering if there would be anything to see regarding the beer truck situation. I’d driven the road several times previously and thought of several spots where a vehicle could easily fall off and roll down the hill. And some strange little curious part of me was simply that—strangely curious about what happened.
We loaded the van and were driving out of town by mid-morning. Batopilas has a single, long main street that runs parallel to the river. Ultimately, the road crosses a bridge as it leaves town and begins climbing more steeply along the southern slopes of the Batopilas canyon.
Old pick-up trucks and a few walkers passed us, apparently headed either to or from town. The further we went, the less activity there seemed to be. Finally, a few miles out of town, we passed a Tarahumara family walking in the same direction as us. I wondered where they were going since we were headed toward what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. The nearest town or settlement ahead of us was La Bufa, almost 20 miles away.
A Bob Marley tune provided an almost perfect tempo for our slow but persistent pace, constant turning, and braking as we kept slowly driving with the windows up and the A/C on to avoid the dust and heat. Other than the music and vehicle sounds, things were mostly silent. Everyone looked out, preoccupied with the intricacies of the canyon, and undoubtedly, thoughts about what it would be like to fall off the road just like the beer truck had.
The absence of talk continued as we kept moving along, which seemed to accentuate the creaking of the ’96 Ford as it negotiated potholes, rocks, and clumps of cactus. Everyone in the van eventually drifted into a silent world of near-sleep. But just as that was happening, we rounded a corner at the bottom of a side arroyo and saw three Tarahumara men sitting under a Huisache tree in the middle of a pile of beer bottles. Everyone was startled, wide awake, and immediately began trying to absorb what we were seeing. And then, a single man appeared from a gully on our left, seemingly oblivious to the van. I could see in his eyes that he was not quite right. Our senses quickly became overloaded, and events began happening fast, even as our driving pace slowed further. The silence was broken by what sounded like singing outside. Within moments, a cacophony of talk erupted inside the van as everyone began verbally unleashing their thoughts. It was almost as if the cork was pulled from our collective voice boxes.
Right then, two men came walking toward us, each with a beer bottle in hand and distant looks on their faces. We turned slightly to the right as the road cut deeper into the hillside, and then a single older man, sitting on a boulder, came into view. His hair was gray and flowing, but kept under control by a green headband. He looked serious but pleasant and seemed disconnected from the others.
It took me a moment, but then I realized where we were and blurted out, “The beer truck.”
There was an instantaneous commotion in the van as everyone looked everywhere for wreckage or any sign of carnage. But there was no dented or torn-up truck anywhere that we could see. There was no blood, apparent brush damage, and not even any skid marks or ruts to indicate what happened.
The talking inside the van grew louder and more disjointed, with the words “look” and “there” predominating.
Until then, we hadn’t thought much about the realities of life in that part of the world. But here it was, right in our midst. Families headed to some town to buy a bag of dried beans or some other food staple. A man just sitting back, observing a spectacle, and putting his own spin on it. An anonymous someone singing at the top of their lungs, even though they probably shouldn’t have been. The Batopilas River, falling toward the Pacific, providing a lifeblood to an entire culture. Villagers, taking advantage of an unexpected opportunity that miraculously appeared. Ultimately, I realized we were on forty miles of a living dirt road, snaking its way into, up, down, and through ridges and canyons, taking civilization with it. And all the while, we were focused on seeing a wrecked truck.
We passed the beer truck site and eventually reached our 20-mph cruising speed. Finally, we came to La Bufa, crossed a rickety old bridge, climbed out of the canyon at Quirare, and pulled into Creel late that afternoon.
I ultimately learned that the beer truck rolled several hundred feet down from the road to the bottom of Batopilas Canyon while making its regular delivery at the Zaguan. According to Hugo, the driver survived, although I would guess he’s no longer driving a Corona truck. The beer survived, but probably not how the beer execs envisioned. I know for a fact that there was a lunar eclipse on our fateful first night, and the electricity went out that same night in Batopilas. I chuckle to myself as I speculate about a Tarahumara legend likely born with the events of that day and night. It’s the one that tells of the time when the moon went dark and free beer appeared everywhere on the ground in Batopilas Canyon. I wonder how the people in our group remember the events. I guess I’ll never know for sure. But as for me, the experience convinced me that there is often more to a situation than meets the eye.
That’s a good one.
one of my favorite stories ever