Batopilas

Jan 31, 20183 min read

Batopilas is one of the Pueblos Magico and is nestled at the bottom of a deep, narrow canyon. Beautiful is the only word to describe it; the Mexico I’d been looking for. We drove with a guide on the 4-hour journey from Creel. Fran was debating taking the bike but we’d seen a satellite picture of the road. While the biker in him wanted the challenge, he wasn’t sure just how much of a toll it would take on Pferdinand. We left at a chilly 7 AM with two lovely ladies from Chihuahua and Jesus Elias Mendoza Mendoza, our soft spoken, steady driver.

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As the road descended deeper into the canyon, the switchbacks brought a breathtaking view with every turn and huge boulders scattered the roadside. Sometimes they blocked the road entirely, forcing us onto a semi-level piece of dirt hugging the edge. Down and down we went, for 1,800 meters, and the landscape changed from pine trees to lush, tropical foliage. The air grew hot and the green mountains with their dark crevices were like scenes from ‘The Land That Time Forgot’. I could visualize quite easily the tiny figures of an exploratory party, disappearing into a crack and being swallowed by the jungle. Mango trees shaded the banks of the river as well as passion fruit and love oranges (tiny oranges eaten whole, skin and all, sweet on the outside but bitter inside). These same fruits appeared later on our lunch table as dessert.

A Long Way from Werburgh Street

It was Dole day in Batopilas. The town was a bustling confusion of color when we arrived, filtered through clouds of smoke wafting from street vendor barbecues. It was a far cry from Fran's weekly visits to Dublin's Werburgh Street but there's been a lot of aqua under the puente since then. The Mexican government hands out the welfare pesos once every two months. How fortunate we were to have picked this day. The plaza was packed and women in pink, green and yellow full skirts lined-up in patient, orderly rows. Children played, dogs slithered by in packs and the men meandered in and out of the crowds. They were dressed like their ancestors, in short white skirts, leather sandals and billowing shirt sleeves in every color from the primary paintbox. They call themselves the Rarámuri, the famous long-distance runners of the Sierra Madre Occidental. In contrast to their wives, there was not an inch of fat on their bodies and their age could only be guessed at from the shoulders up. I itched to take close-up photos but couldn’t bring myself to invade their privacy. Besides, they were staring at us more than we were at them.

The after-lunch siesta hours were spent in the quiet of the Iglesias San Miguel de Satevo. The church sits alone in a valley surrounded by the green river and desert cacti. The ever-present local kids eyed us silently for potential sales while another kind of kid, guided by their Mammy goats, pick their way daintily along invisible mountain trails.

The Lost Mission

Back in Batopilus we visited a home where the two sons made their living panning silver from the river; a brutally hard way to put food on the table. This town was the first, after Mexico City, to have electricity. It was brought in by Alexander Shepherd, the American owner of the local silver mine, though not by any means out of the kindness of his heart. The ruins of his home and offices line the river bank, and from the other side, look a bit like a red Scottish castle. Trees growing out of empty windows and sprouting through old fireplaces gave the place the odd air of a haunted “Jungle Book”.

When we returned to the village for the evening, Jesus parked beside everyone else ‘in the river’. It seems a lot of towns use the flat river stones during the dry season as a parking lot. There was a trickle of water in the middle and someone was washing his truck. The Tarahumara were everywhere. Again, all eyes on us; again, the perfect photo op passed-up. The men grouped at the back of pickups drinking beer while the women chatted, sitting in groups on the stones. Their children carried on conversations on mobile phones while their younger siblings, exhausted from the day’s excitement, hung from their backs in shawls, little fat arms and feet spilling over the side. The air of a party dying down was confirmed later crossing the road. Two small trucks trundled passed, their open backs bursting at the seams with families. Brown faces above a melting pot of hot pink and turquoise flashed by before disappearing in a cloud of dust around the corner.