February 16, 2015

Neither Jay nor I expected to enjoy Mazatlan as much as we have. In fact, originally, Jay wanted to by-pass Mazatlan altogether and go directly to Puerto Vallarta. But, I had been here as a child and wanted to revisit the city my mom and dad once took me to when I was ten.

We still don’t love the sprawling metropolis – as we aren’t big city lovers – however, the town has made it incredibly easy to get around on the bus system which conveniently takes us into old town – the part we do love.

Not only does Centro Historico have great restaurants and art galleries, but it is home to the Teatro Angela Peralda. Originally opened in 1874, the theater went through a number of permutations and several owners and was most recently reopened in 1992 and declared a Heritage of the Nation. Today it hosts a number of artistic events, one of which we saw; the opera singer Maria Katzarava with Director Enrique Patron De Rueda and the Orquesta Sinfonica Sinaloa De Las Artes. Ms. Katzarava’s performance was nothing less than spectacular and the orchestra, under the leadership of the director, was spot-on. The theater, itself, is a beautiful piece of art, designed in “Romantic 19th Century” with its interior “horseshoe-shaped Italian style”. (Honestly not sure what that means, but was part of the description on the website.) Buying our tickets late, we were relegated to the third balcony, but it seems that there isn’t a bad seat in the house.

Several days later we were about to leave Mazatlan. But the preparations for the Carnaval created an excitement in the area that caused us to stop and say, “We’re here. When will be here again? This is the second largest Carnaval in the world (next to Rio). Why leave now?”

So we decided to stay.

Not comfortable with large masses of people, we chose to book a seat at a hotel overlooking the malecon where the parade was to pass. For 470 pesos each we had front row seats (okay, second row) one level above the street. Included in that 470 pesos was all you could eat and drink for four hours. The best part – nobody in our hotel got stupidly drunk or obnoxious. In fact, the Carnaval brought out all generations of Mexican families. And hundreds of tourists. They estimated there were at least 200,000 people who descended on the malecon for Carnaval. In the parade, itself, there had to be at least, 50,000 people. All those people and yet no chaos. It was definitely the grandest, largest party I have ever been to and it was really great fun.

(See photos in gallery.)

February 6, 2015

We walked down the narrow lane toward the sea. It was late afternoon and the sun was setting, filling our eyes with a glare, causing us to squint. The road was quiet. Few cars passed this way. On the south side were buildings at street level, but on the north side was a stone wall about twenty feet high. On top was a walkway that lay in front of the individual homes on the hill. The houses were a mix of brightly painted colors and shabby brown and gray. We were in Viejo Mazatlan, or Old Town, as we gringos like to call it.

Viejo Mazatlan is like entering a world reminiscent of days past. An era where a variety of artists came together to create a community alive; their art inspiring ideas and their ideas igniting philosophical and political discussions. With its international influx of creatives, we could feel this kind of artistic energy swirling through the town.

Jay and I climbed up the stairs leading to the walkway in front of the homes. We were on an Art Walk, held every first Friday during high season, and looking for the home of Susan Carnes, one of the artists. Almost to the end of the sidewalk, we were wondering if we were lost when we saw a handful of balloons tied to a post and some people milling about, entering and exiting a door.

Inside, Ms. Carnes’ paintings not only decorated the walls, but the house itself was a piece of art. Hers is one of the few in this neo-classical neighborhood that has been restored, keeping its old world charm. High ceilings with heavy, carved wood furniture, laced with bright colors adorned the rooms. A steady flow of visitors moved through the house, sipping wine and commenting on the beauty surrounding them.

We moved on to yet another refinished home. This one had a pool in the center of the house and like most Mexican homes, had an indoor/outdoor garden; trees and plants growing up and through open roofs.

I fell in love with a piece of art here. An elephant on canvas. He was made with newspaper print and filled only the bottom right quarter of the frame. The rest of the canvas was left blank, but for the bottom eighth. The elephant walked on a bed of other old newspaper clippings and magazine photos.

We explored several more art galleries before finding a place for supper.

Dinner was at The Water’s Edge. Having had such a wonderful experience there before, we decided to return. We sat in the indoor/outdoor garden. The far wall was brick but had been covered with stucco. Yet there were openings in the stucco, allowing for glimpses of brick to show through. Protruding from the top of the wall was an iron rod railing. Vibrant flowers cascaded over the edge, adding color. Opposite, on the other wall were four arched doorways, all covered with wood and iron rod, but for one that led into the main dining room and out to the street.

We enjoyed a meal of curried shrimp while being serenaded by a duo (one Mexican pianist and one Canadian trumpet) with tunes like My Funny Valentine. Not exactly Mexican music, but fantastic service and delicious food in a lovely atmosphere.

All in all, a great evening.

January 26, 2015

DAY SIX

As if we hadn’t gone down far enough into the rabbit hole, we now were on another dirt road going over hills and around bends another eight kilometers until we reached the tiny village (population 100) where The Lost Cathedral stands.

It was actually quite pretty as we continued along the river. We passed more Tarahumara Indian homes scattered throughout the hills and once in awhile, we would see a Tarahumara family walking. We finally saw a man dressed in the traditional dress of loincloth.

We saw one family working on a hill and as we passed by, thought to stop. Ed climbed the hill and gave the man a bag of food. (Each couple had purchased a bag of basic food supplies prepared by our hotel before leaving Creel. Jay and I had given ours to the one and only Tarahumara family we saw in Batopilas earlier in the day.) The man seemed uncertain as his wife and child looked on, but then took the food. With that, he went back to work and Ed climbed down and back into our car. It was a simple gesture that was meaningful to all.

Amongst this old world village of Tarahumara Indians, cows and horses, were satellite dishes and cars. A mix of old and new that didn’t quite connect.

We pulled over to allow two vehicles to pass. Hanging on were young men armed with shotguns and drinking beer. One “soldier” drained his beer and tossed it into the canyon while laughing and hollering as the trucks sped by. If their constant presence is meant to intimidate, it does.

“Cesar,” I ask. “These small towns, all the way down here, how do they make their money? How do they earn a living?”

Cesar sighs. “Marijuana. I cannot lie. I am a Christian.” But what he omits to say (and I hear later) is there are poppies being grown in this area too. Suddenly I understand the necessity for the heavy gun power. And I read in a Newsweek article that drug lords are coercing the Tarahumara to be their mules and run their drugs across the border. It is all starting to make sense. I think this might be the reason we see so few Indians and more militia.

Two worlds colliding; one clearly destroying (albeit slowly) the other.

The cathedral, itself, was built by the Jesuits in the 1600s but never completed. What must have once been a majestic presence was now a strange sight here in the middle of nowhere.

Cesar went to the back of the church to a small home where a little girl of a about ten years came out with a key. She opened the door to the cathedral and opened her hand for a donation. We walked through and entered yet another scene where two worlds collide. The building holds the history and ghosts of an unfinished promise; an incomplete floor, an unpainted wall. But there on the mantle were plastic flowers, a creche, and leftover decorations from the Christmas season just past. So, despite the fact that it was rundown and incomplete, it looked as if there still is a vital community present.

Back outside we saw another lone Tarahumara family walking. Mary presented them with the last of our food packages and they shyly accepted and continued on.

With not much else to see in this small village, we headed back to the hotel for an afternoon siesta.

NOTE: It is important to understand the story I tell about the Copper Canyon and the Tarahumara Indians is from our experience alone; either what we witnessed or what were told by various guides and people in the area.

January 25, 2015

DAY FIVE

When the six of us made plans to travel through Copper Canyon, there was one thing we all agreed we wanted to do – head down into the bottom of the canyon. We had heard it was not to be missed. Particularly Batopilas, an old silver mining town, a place that would take us back in time. Sitting alongside a river, we had read that it was a lush, sub-tropical area, where we would see Tarahumara Indians in their natural habitat, and people commuting in and out of town on horseback.

We were also warned that it was a minimum four-hour drive down a winding road, part of which, was dirt, and all of it, precarious, at best.

Well, at least that part was true.

Our guide, Cesar, picked us up at our hotel in Creel around 0830. Cesar Gonzalez Quintero is a short man with a muscular build, dark hair and eyes, and a handsome face. His jeans and shirt are tight-fitting and he always wears a cowboy hat. The day we met him, it was black. Today it is white. Cesar is a born-again Christian and a reformed alcoholic and on the front seat, next to him, sits his ever-present Bible.

We met Cesar a few days ago at the Hotel Mansion Tarahumara where he offered us a ride to Creel. The fee was up to us, he said, as he had dropped some people off at the Mansion and was going back to Creel anyway.

We had been waiting for the train (it passes through once a day), but this sounded like a good deal so we took him up on it. Besides, Maria (aka Linda Hunt) recommended him as an excellent tour guide and we were looking for someone to take us down to Batopilas. By the end of our scenic drive to Creel, it was decided Cesar was our man.

Creel is approximately 8000 feet above sea level and Batopilas is 1500. The drive down the mountain is 140 kilometers but would take us four to five hours because of the winding road.

We learned our first stop was at to be at Cesar’s mother-in-law’s house (where his wife was recovering from an appendectomy) to pick up his lunch. We told him that when we had ordered our sandwiches, we had bought one for him, but he politely declined.

“Don’t worry.” He said. “It’s on the way.”

Next stop was to put 1000 pesos worth of fuel in the tank, and then I had to stop the truck to get some photos of the cemetery on our way out of town. The cemeteries in Mexico are revered and are decorated with flowers, photos, crosses and other adornments.

Finally, we were on our way.

Cesar speaks English rather well (and Mary speaks fluent Spanish) so we were able to learn some of the history of Creel and the Tarahumara Indians as we began our descent.

Creel is a town of a little over 5000 and was once called “Sequarchee,” place of the tadpoles. In the early 1900s, it was renamed after the governor at the time, Enrique Creel, after a very powerful man in the business world. Cesar was born and raised in this town and his mother owns two hotels. One is in Creel and the other is in Batopilas.

As we continue along our drive, he shows us the Apache Pine. With its long needles, it is used for weaving. There are Weeping Pine trees and the Madrona tree that has a red bark. Later he will point out a Kapoc tree with white flowers that look like cotton balls. Still later, he will show us how the Indians use the pine trees to store their hay as hay needs air to stay fresh. We ask him about the Tarahumara Indians and he begins to paint a picture that sheds some light on this reclusive tribe.

The Tarahumara Indians are Catholic, yet some of their beliefs and rituals sound more tribal than Catholic. He tells us they believe they have many souls, not just one. When a person is ill, their souls are unbalanced. The Shaman must either smoke or drink a potion of crushed peyote and water to cleanse and heal the souls.

When one of the Indians dies they wrap their body in a blanket and leave their favorite food for them overnight. When it is gone in the morning (they think the spirit has eaten it – but we’re guessing it was probably an animal), then they tell the soul to go away. They bury their dead simply and quickly and they want nothing to do with them after that. They will play drums to keep the spirit away.

They marry and have children at a very young age – as early as fourteen years old. The elders arrange their marriages and yes, inbreeding can be a problem. The marriage ceremony is very simple. It is usually a small gathering and the governor of the tribe presides, telling them they must follow the law. The church is not necessarily involved. If divorced, the women cannot remarry.

And, of course, they are some of the world’s fastest runners. Running is a way of life. For both men and women. Long distance running is their forte and they can run for days on end. They can even out run a deer. They make a concoction called corn beer and this is considered to contribute to their endurance as it is high in carbohydrates and low in alcoholic content. They run barefoot or wearing hand-made sandals.

For sport, they compete in races and they play a running game where they kick a wooden ball no bigger than a baseball, wearing a white and red ceremonial dress. They play one on one and they move this ball, either with their feet or a stick, through the canyon, miles at a time. When it gets dark, there is one runner who carries a light beside them.

Cesar stops the car and lets us out to walk.

“I will pick you up down there.” He points to a curve down the way.

With no other traffic on the road it was a nice walk in crisp, cool, air. We had a chance to observe our future path that would lead us down switchbacks and around rock slides with boulders so large, it was quite terrifying. I couldn’t help but wonder when the next slide might arrive.

When riding in the car again, Cesar pointed at the goats, high up on the mountain. “One wrong move of their foot and a rock can come tumbling down. They can be very dangerous to cars.” He said, as I looked out the window to my right and noticed how we were driving along on the edge, with only a mere foot of sand and pebbles between us and the cliff that dropped hundreds of feet down. My heart skipped a beat.

This went on for hours until finally, we came to the end of the paved road and proceeded onto the dirt road. The terrain was changing and now Cesar pointed out the Cardon and Organ Pipe cactus, as well as the Octopus Agave that crawled out from the rocks with its many arms. We passed large bulldozers that were working to finish the road as we headed toward a bridge. Here we got out too, and walked across the bridge with Cesar following us in the truck.

Once down the mountain, the road led us to Hotel Hacienda del Rio Batopilas (or The Antique House by the River) where Cesar pulled over.

“This is where we will stay.” He said as he began pulling plastic bags from the back of his truck. “I’ll be right back.”

One of the caretakers came out to lend us a hand as we unloaded our gear. Cesar came back and we followed him up to our rooms on the second floor overlooking the river. There are no other guests that we can see. It seems we have the entire hotel to ourselves.

Cesar confesses that this hacienda is owned by his mother. She bought the Antique House by the River several years past. At that time, it was a run-down building that had once housed some of the wealthier silver miners in the prime of this town. Cesar’s mother obviously has an eye for style for her remodel turned this building into a cultural landmark. Authentic in its architectural history and beautiful to the eye.

It is built into a hill that stands across the river. Using indigenous stone, a wall protects the ground from crumbling down onto the road. Bougainvillea cascades from the hill, draping the stone wall with its fuchsia facade. The Hacienda is two stories high. Stone and tile and wood are what is used to create this masterpiece. Inside, the rooms continue with the theme of stone floors and wood-beam ceilings, along with brightly colored tile that decorates the bathrooms. Each room has its own style and color. The furniture is large, and made-up of heavy wood that is intricately carved. Despite the grandeur of the heavy furniture, the rooms are sparse; two beds beside a bedside table and an armoire. Nothing else.

We settle in and take a nap before venturing into town.

“Oh, oh, oh… I need a bathroom!” This is me not twenty minutes after we have walked into town. The only problem is, we can’t find a bathroom. Nothing is open. The hotels looked locked down and besides a few tiendas…well, there is nothing. I walk into one of the tiendas with a desperate look on my face. The nice lady points me into her home where I am welcome to use her bathroom.

Whew.

We continue walking toward the plaza.

“Oh, oh, oh…. I need to find a bathroom!” I say. Jay responds in dismay. “Didn’t you just use the bathroom, Terri?”

“Yes, but my stomach…oh, oh, oh!”

No restaurants are open, either. We see one sign that says, “Bar.” We head there. Surely they will have a bathroom. They don’t.

Well, they do. Only it doesn’t work, is more like an outhouse and the door barely closes. Desperate, I decide this will do. We finish our one beer and leave this very funky “bar.”

It is 4:45 pm. We have walked from our hotel – one half mile on a dirt road, over a bridge and another half mile on paved road into town. Cesar is to meet us here at 5:30 pm to take us to the one restaurant that will be serving us dinner. That is forty-five minutes away and my stomach is crying out to be released. There is no way I can walk back to the hotel in time to…well, you know.

Meanwhile, we have walked down through town. We see no Tarahumara Indians. The aroma of marijuana seeps through the air. Men with automatic weapons ride in the back of trucks. A Mercedes pulls up to the curb and a nine year-old jumps out of the driver’s seat. A man washes his car. He is bending over and sticking out of the hip of his jeans is a pistol. We are the only gringos in town. We all agree, something is not right.

My stomach growls again.

We sit in the main plaza to wait for Cesar. I am not sure that my body will wait, but what are the options? We sit on a bench under a tree where the bees are hovering. Next to us on another bench, are old men. I think they might be discussing the politics of Batopilas. At least, that is what I imagine. In front of me are three small children, playing tag and laughing.

Slowly, the sounds of the bees buzzing and the children’s laughter and the men’s conversation, as well as my friends’ talking, starts to become muted. If this were a sound mix, their voices would fall deep into the background and a loud drone would take the foreground. My eyes lose focus and before I can stop it, my stomach wretches up what I wouldn’t let loose by going to the bathroom.

Ugh!

Here I am, in the middle of town, throwing up. Jay holds my hair while I shake and release and cry. I am at once embarrassed and relieved and horrified.

“Where is Cesar?” I want to know.

He arrives about ten minutes later and then proceeds to talk it up with the locals.

“Really?” Oh, please, Jay, get Cesar. Tell him I need to go back to the hotel.”

Jay rallies Cesar and escorts me back to the hotel. Thankfully.

The next day brings enough relief that I can join the group on our trip to The Lost Cathedral.

Tarahumara Indian Children at the Indian Reservation

January 24, 2015

Day Four

I hate to say it, but I wasn’t impressed with Creel. Situated in the state of Chihuahua, amongst the Sierra Madre Occidental, the town just didn’t have the charm of some of the other Mexican towns we have visited. Despite the fact it was named a “Pueblos Magicos.” Pueblos Magicos was initiated by Mexico’s Secretary of Tourism. This title is meant to promote places by offering a “magical experience – by reason of their natural beauty, cultural riches, or historical relevance.” (Wikipedia) But what it looked like to us, is the government putting a lot of money into a town to live up to it’s new label. Presumably to bring in tourists and generate an emerging economy for the local people.

Not that that is a bad thing. It’s a good thing. It is just, meanwhile, what we found were run-down buildings on dilapidated streets with lots of wild, starving and crippled dogs and Tarahumara mothers sending their children out to beg from tourists. The children were shivering in the cold with runny noses and dirty clothes. I know there is much poverty here, but using your children to beg? If they wanted pity, it exacted the opposite reaction and the only thing they got from us was not money, but a cup of hot chocolate to warm their insides. We also supported them by buying some of their exquisite hand-woven baskets.

On the other hand, I left my wallet, with many pesos, at a store in Creel. When it was discovered, the two ladies who were working there, ran out of their store, leaving it empty, and each went in a different direction, looking for me to return my wallet. I was so grateful, I hugged the woman and said “Gracious, mucho gracious.” So it would be unfair to say our experience in Creel was all negative. It just wasn’t as nice as other places.

The good news is the surrounding area of Creel is beautiful and home to many of the 65,000 Tarahumara Indians that live in these mountains. Our guide called the area in which they live, the “reservation.” I have heard it described as the San Ignacio Ejido or community-owned land. It is my understanding that the Mexican government has given the Tarahumara Indians this property. We visited this reservation on day four of our trip to Copper Canyon.

The Tarahumara or, the Raramura, as their native language describes them, are known for their ability to run. They have been known to run for hundreds of miles, days on end, barefoot, or in their native sandals. They are nomadic, traveling up the canyon when it is hot below and down the canyon, in the colder months. Some still live in caves alongside the mountains, but many now live in small homes made of wood or stone. The Tarahumara are private people who prefer to live in solitude. Their homes are built far apart.

Our first stop was to show us how they live, their homes and one of the caves. This cave was not a dwelling, but a place where the Indian women sold their artwork; handwoven baskets, masks, or wooden spoons. They sewed potholders and aprons too. They also sold their shawls, a big hit with the women tourists. We walked around and took some photos before moving on to the next stop, The Valley of the Mushrooms.

The Valley of the Mushrooms is simply a place where the rocks look like mushrooms. Here, again, there were a few Tarahumara selling their goods.

As we continued on, driving through the reservation, we saw homes scattered along the hills, cows walking in the road and a few Tarahumara Indians. Mostly there were women, but a few men. The men’s traditional clothing is a loincloth, but many have adapted Western ways – especially during the colder months – and wear jeans and collared shirts.

Our next stop was the San Ignacio Mission, built in the 1700s by the Jesuits. Here they have Sunday services. After the service, the women sit in a room together with the Governor of the tribe who listens to their current needs, offering help where he can.

Not far from the mission is one of the schools. The few schools they have are boarding schools. The children are sent for the week or, more likely, for the entire school year. I am told that the parents send them to school more for the fact that they are going to be fed then for their education. I find it hard to imagine sending my child off for a year, but I realize primary needs rule over the emotional desires of a mother, or rather are the primary desires of the mother, to have their children survive.

As we leave this area, we travel to another beautiful park area called Arareko Lake. Our driver makes a turn and starts down a dirt road and after crossing a few creeks comes to a stop. This is where a young boy of fifteen jumps on the bumper of our truck and rides the rest of the way with us. At first, it is startling. But then we realize, our guide and this boy know each other.

We parked and began our walk to the Cusarare Falls. This boy followed us. He directed our path. He lent us a hand when we walked around rocks or over fallen limbs. It took us a few minutes to figure out, but he was our self-appointed local guide, His name was Alejandro and this was his job. He hops a ride in with the guides and then walks along to help, hoping to earn a tip. And then he rides back to the entrance, once again on the bumper, to await the next tourist group.

He was sweet and helpful and we were glad to support his job.

Along the way, there were more Tarahumara women with their baskets, etc. for sale. We were told that they travel here every day from the reservation. This is how they earn a living. We supported them too by buying some of their art.

The walk, itself, was a nice hike through the woods, alongside a creek until we reached the waterfalls. Though it was heading into the dry season, the falls were still flowing and it was good to get out of the car and stretch our legs.

Five hours later, we headed back to Creel for dinner and a good night’s sleep as the next day we had planned a two day trip down to Batopilas. A town that lies at the bottom of the canyon. We were looking for the origins of the region but what we found was a new uncomfortable truth.

(More photos in gallery)

January 22, 2105

DAY TWO (Continued)

There are some things that aren’t easily put into words and the Copper Canyon is one of them. Here are the facts. The Copper Canyon is four times the size of our Grand Canyon. The train ride across the canyon covers over 400 miles; from Los Mochis to Chihuahua in the Mexican state of Chihuahua. There are 37 bridges and 87 tunnels. For years, the canyon was mined for silver, not for copper. It is named The Copper Canyon because of the color of its rocks. Especially vivid when the sun shines on them. The railway is an amazing feat displaying an incredible view. In my opinion, it should be added to the list as one of the “Wonders of the World.”

The train stations, however, leave a lot to be desired.

The El Fuerte train station was a run-down, empty building with banos. We had read that the station would open one half hour before the train arrived and we could buy tickets then. But it was obvious, no one was going to show up.

“I knew we should have bought tickets beforehand.” I said, starting to pace again. (But to order them online cost $35 American dollars per person more and that seemed like a waste of money.)

“Relax Terri.” Jay said. “You’re being a ‘twitchy American.’ ‘It will probably be fine.'” (These are two borrowed sayings that we just love.) “I’m sure we can buy tickets on the train.”

And he was right, of course. I was being a ‘twitchy American’ and it was fine and we were able to buy tickets on the train – cash only, though.

I love trains! Everything about trains. They are so comfortable. You can see everything and don’t have the stress of driving. And the best part – besides the train whistle and the sound of the engine and the rickety movement over the tracks – you can get up and move around.

There are many adjectives I could use to describe the view. But instead, I will provide some photos and let your imagination do the rest. One thing I will say, is that, looking over the edge while we were crossing the bridges, was quite breathtaking.

It took us about six hours to get to our first stop, Barrancas. An hour or so before we got to Barrancas, we made another stop (it was either Temoris or Bahuichivo) where there were a half-dozen Tarahumara Indian ladies selling their wares to touristas hanging off the train cars. I felt like we were stupid, materialistic Americans until one tour guide told his people they were helping them to feed their families. This made me feel better and I, too, bought a small hand-woven basket and a beaded necklace.

Barrancas was cold. Really cold. I don’t know the elevation, but Creel (where we would go the next day and was only 40 kilometers away) is 8500 feet above sea level. The sky was promising rain and the wind carried the chill through our bones. We added layers of clothes and wrapped scarves around our necks.

Our hotel was called Hotel Mansion Tarahumara and it had two turrets that made it look like a castle. The owner, Maria (think Linda Hunt), also owned the Mirador Hotel. (Only it was closed off season.) The Mirador sat behind the castle, on top of the canyon with spectacular views. After checking into our rooms, we all took a walk up there, with their local dogs guiding us.

Yes, dogs again. There were three or four that seemed to belong to the hotel – or so the dogs thought, anyway. Every time we would go for a walk, one, two, or several of them would join us.

We had a great view of the multitude of canyons from our vantage point. We could see the Hotel Divisidero; a famous hotel that hosts the best views from its rooms and restaurant. It looked as if it was literally built into the canyon, hanging over the edge. I guess, maybe it is.

Our hotel reminded me of a Mexican ski lodge. Our rooms were simple, built from a combination of wood logs and stone. Once again, the décor was filled with bright colors. The restaurant was an extension of a lounge area where one could relax on couches. The main room had a beautiful, large fireplace on the second level, overlooking the dining tables. There were couches and chairs around the fireplace. On a third level is where the band played while we had dinner. Dinner was a set menu, and the only game in town, as it was off-season. The music was a father/son duo, playing guitars and sax. Jay requested “Europa” (Earth’s Cry, Heaven’s Laughter), a song made famous by both Carlos Santana on guitar and Gato Barbieri on sax. And they knew it!

Later, Jay met with the duo and explained how he produced and arranged Gato’s album and complimented them on how well they performed it.

It turned out to be a wonderful evening. Great music. Good food. No complaints.

We tucked in early, eager to see what the new day would bring us.

The above photo is of Hotel Posada del Hildago

January 22, 2015

DAY TWO

El Fuerte is a quiet Mexican village, established in 1563 and has a population of about 13,000. It sits in a fertile valley as it runs along the Rio El Fuerte. We had read about the infamous Hotel Posada del Hildago, home of the illusive Zorro, and so it is here we decided to stay.

The hotel is a massive structure, taking up an entire city block, with part of the building perched on a hill. As we walked up the steep, cave-like entrance, we noticed it was built with stone and brick. Inside/outside walkways were surrounded by gardens. Everywhere we looked, we were inundated with bright, vibrant colors, whether it was the flowers or décor. The reception area, complete with a bar and pool, lies atop of a hill and has an incredible view. There is a restaurant too. This hotel is lovely and not to be missed. (Besides, you might even get a visit from Zorro who dances with the ladies.)

We arose at dawn so we could take a short walk before breakfast. Everywhere there were dogs running free and we ran into a gang of dogs fighting over a bitch in heat. I think the dogs run this town.

Yesterday, we saw one back, fluffy, poodle-like mutt sitting in the middle of the street chewing on some piece of something he had found. Seriously, right in the middle of a busy street. And he wasn’t about to move. I guess the drivers understood this as they carefully maneuvered around him.

Again everywhere we turned, there were dogs. One mama was curled up against a tree with her pups. The tree had a low brick wall around it and someone had laid an open box down for her and she was snug with her pups nursing.

This morning, Jay and I walked up the hill to the Presidio, a beautiful reproduction of the real fort that used to be here, it is now a museum. We tried to sneak in, but got busted. The Presidio wouldn’t be open for another hour. Well, maybe another day.

We walked around back where there was a view of the Rio El Fuerte with mist overlying the water. The sun was rising in the background. The birds were busy singing and the roosters joined in, waking the neighborhood. We continued down the hill and walked into town, looking for a coffee shop, to no avail. Nothing was open at 6:30 in the morning so we went back to the hotel for a quick bite to eat and packed up to leave for the train station.

Photo Above – Outside Los Mochis Bus Station

January 21, 2015

DAY ONE

The six of us (Ed, Barb, Mary, Kirk, Jay and me) stood outside Hotel Marina El Cid at 0700 waiting for the “rojo truck” that we had arranged the previous night for an 0745 arrival at the Centro de Autobuses. We were to leave on the TAP bus at 0800 for a six-hour trip to Los Mochis. Then we would catch another ride – 90 minutes in a van to El Fuerte – where we would stay for the night.

At 0712, there was still no sign of the truck. Kirk was irritated, I was pacing, and Jay still had to stop at the ATM.

“Senor, donde esta rojo truck?”

“No say.”

Evidently there was a misunderstanding and although there was a note in the book that we needed a ride, no one called because when asked this morning, we said the arrangements had already been made. The Bell Captain makes the call and orders the truck.

0725. The tension is growing. We have to be at the bus station at 0745 and still no truck. Mary and I try to convince Jay that if we don’t have time to stop at an ATM…

“There must be one in El Fuerte.” I say.

“No!” Jay answers emphatically. “I’m not going without enough cash, Terri. Look. There is one here is this hotel and it doesn’t even work. What if they only have one and it is broken?”

A valid point.

Now Kirk is having words with the Bell Captain and I’m still pacing, saying, “Maybe we should get a cab.”

Just about then we see the red truck through the trees. We all breathe a sigh of relief.

It is 0728 and we board the truck, stop at an ATM, and arrive at the station just in time. It is 0745 exactly. Now we are all smiles.

The bus was very comfortable. Except for the television that was running constantly. During our six-hour trip they played Snow White (I can’t remember the correct name, but it was the new one with Charleze Theron.), Don Juan, Il Divo Live at The Greek (this was great), and cartoons, all in Spanish, of course.

But the strangest thing happened when we loaded into the bus and were waiting to leave the station. I was sitting by the window, watching as the bus next to us was getting ready to leave. There was a small door, just beside the luggage compartment. Just as I looked over, a man sat down backwards into the open compartment. (I don’t know if he had opened the door or if it had been left open for him.) He looked around and smiled sheepishly as he closed the door and locked himself in. The bus started and drove out of the station. With him in it!

What? Did I just see what I think I saw?

“Later, I leaned over to Mary and Kirk. “Help me make sense of what I saw.” I said, and proceeded to explain about the man.

“I saw him too!” Kirk said, excitedly. “He was a stowaway.”

“Right? Do you think he goes through the luggage?”

We pondered that thought for a few minutes.

“I hope there’s not one on our bus.” I said, wondering if someone was thrashing through our luggage as we spoke.

We were about two-thirds into our trip when the bus pulled over. It was a standard agricultural stop. They asked everyone but the very elderly and the children to get off the bus. The luggage compartment was open but it didn’t look like they were searching anything. Later, Mary told me a gentleman had gone onto the bus and searched everything we had left on the bus. We were only there for ten minutes or so and it really wasn’t a big deal.

Not five minutes after we left that stop, the bus pulled over again. This time it was the Federalies and they were searching for drugs. Everyone off the bus again. Except for the elderly. They searched our purses and backpacks, but again, didn’t search our luggage. Not sure what that was about.

While we were waiting to get back on the bus, I realized this was a great opportunity for a photo. I began digging frantically through my backpack and as I lifted it up and out of the bag, there was a collective intake of breath with an “…OOOOH!” sound.

What? Do they think I have a gun?

“No. I don’t think you should take a photo.” Someone said.

“You had better ask.” Kirk warned me.

Of course I would ask. I almost always remember to ask.

The crowd parted as I walked toward the armed officials standing behind the table searching backpacks. But before I could finish my request, “Por favor, senor, photo? Si or no?” All three shook their heads and one even raised his gun.

Feeling all eyes on me, I quickly retreated into the crowd and put my camera away.

Okay, so it wasn’t a very smart thing to do, and I did feel a little bit awkward. But it would have made for such a good photo, don’t you think?