Batopilas
Twelve of us, including Jean, Rod and Alain, piled into a large tour van after a delicious breakfast of huevos Mexicana and headed to Batopilas, a town isolated deep within the canyon approximately 150 km away.
Our drive took us through pine and juniper forests and past a pretty little lake tucked away in a basin of rock. As we headed deeper into the canyon, we began to see evidence of Tarahumara. They are an agricultural people who often enclose their land with low stone walls and live in small cabins of wood and stone. We were shocked to discover that some Tarahumara still chose to live in caves and under cliffs, a life which, despite drastic changes in the modern world, is not much different from that of their ancestors.
As we entered the first major decent into the canyon, the walls of the gorge fell away steeply only inches beyond the edge of the dirt road we travelled. I peered down thousands of feet below me, barely able to distinguish the river flowing below. The road was barely the width of a single vehicle with the occasional turn out. I had to restrain myself from looking for evidence of car wreckage down the cliff sides, thinking it might not help with my state of mind. The driver must have done this trip hundreds of times, or maybe it was simply false bravado, because he positively careened down the canyon wall through tight switchbacks and blind curves while whistling soundlessly to himself.
The views of the ochre cliffs and spires as we sped down into the abyss were sufficiently breathtaking to keep our minds off the fact that we’d entrusted a complete stranger with our lives. Near the very bottom of the gorge, we just barely made it across a rickety little bridge made of aged rail ties and a few rusty nails, followed by a somewhat longer, somewhat less rickety old bridge spanning the river below.
Along the way, we encountered Tarahumara Indians walking along the road we travelled. The woman wasn’t dressed much differently from those we’d seen in Creel, however the man wore a bright pink blouse and a short white skirt. Tire-soled rope sandals hugged their bare feet, which were exposed to the biting chill of the mountain air. The Tarahumara seemed to be adrift in this uninhabited wilderness, however with care, we were able to make out a cabin perched high above on a small plateau along the cliff face. The dwelling could not be accessed by road, nor was it buttressed by a neighbouring home. It stood silently alone within its patch of green field, clinging defiantly to the ocean of rock surrounding it.
Seeing distant paths crisscrossing the mountainside, we were reminded of the Tarahumara’s legendary ability for long distance running. Running is not only a necessity for a people so isolated from their neighbours; it is also an important part of their tradition. During festivities, the Tarahumara often participate in a competition known as Rarjíparo, which involves the kicking of a small wooden ball during a race lasting days.
The entire drive took 5 hours or so (note: 150 km in 5 hours, and that’s going like a madman around those tight curves) and ended in the town of Batopilas, a lovely little village built in the early 1500s. We visited the town square and headed to the mission church at Satevo, standing in splendid isolation in the canyon bottom 7 km away. It is unknown who built the mission or why it was constructed in such an odd location, isolated completely from civilisation. Unfortunately, the mission has been re-plastered in the last year, burying the handsome weathered stone construction and forever erasing its rustic beauty. This polished new mission contrasts awkwardly against the mountain backdrop and lost its romantic appeal.
After dinner, the driver took us to our hotel, the Copper Canyon Riverside Lodge, a restored 19th century hacienda we had been told was quite lovely. What we found, however, was nothing short of spectacular. For the cost of a nice dinner in Calgary, we were given a room the size of a Mexican home with vaulted ceilings and exposed wooden beams. The room was filled with what looked like priceless antique furniture and ornate oil lamps. The enormous bathroom was elaborately tiled with authentic blue, white and yellow hand painted tiles. Our room came complete with an original claw foot tub – the first bathtub we’d seen in Mexico. Standing on the walkway outside my room that night, I viewed the enormous cliff walls surrounding me and the starry sky high above. The breeze cooled my skin and the sound of cows echoed in the night air. I was at peace.
